The Chronicles of Onyx Book Two - Fight of a Hero

Chapter Twenty

Demeter March through the snow alongside her Faithfull army. They had proven their worth, following her blindly and not hesitating to commit to even the gravest acts, such as killing their own commander, for her cause alone. They followed every command, their allegiance unwavering as they now marched towards the Northern territories, following Sith's path north. Leading away from where she assumed Dezenym had scrambled his mind, toying with it as he had been known to do.

It was with a sense of grim satisfaction that Demeter envisioned the pleasure she would gain from hunting him down, killing him, and reclaiming her prize—Onyx. Yet her hope could only rest on the possibility that he had not revealed to Onyx, the extent of the powers to which she could summon. She could only wish that Onyx remained oblivious to the elements that she could wield with nothing but her mind.

She had been witness to the act of Necromancy, a beautiful and terrifying element. That could manipulate not only the living—but the dead. A force so powerful, it was almost otherworldly. Some even thought this power to be but a myth, a story told only meant to strike fear into any soul who heard it. But for her, it was more than just a desire to have it at her reach. But to bind it to her will. To use that power to gain back what she felt was rightfully hers. Her throne, her true throne. To rule amongst the Dragons.

Onyx was the key to this impossible lock.

Yet as Demeter's violet eyes scanned the horizon, her gaze fell upon the setting sun. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the frozen landscape, Demeter felt a shiver crawl up her spine. The cold gnawed at her.

Shifted her obsidian wings, she wrapped them around her body so that the cold could penetrate her no more. Her mind drifted to her marching army, gazing into each one of the Orc's weary eyes. Their muscular frames shivering from the instance cold. Tired from what seemed to be an endless march.

"Why am I being so pathetic? They are only Orcs" Demeter scolded herself. Yet in the depths of her thoughts, a lingering guilt nagged at the edges of her consciousness.

She squared her shoulders, a section of her exposed, obsidian armor, glimmered from beneath her cloak in the fading light. Her voice, commanding and unwavering, cut through the biting wind, "We make camp here for the night."