Shadow Bands

XXXIV. Apollune

Standing atop a tall building during sunset, Draven couldn't help but look at all the chaos unraveling below him. The human city that bordered the Underworld was the Grand Prexy's next target. But it wasn't to expand her domain. She didn't bother to explain her plan to him. He just needed to be there to assist the twelfth demon general, Barron.

A pretty demon with a deep purple complexion, signifying his pure demon bloodline and aristocracy. His hair was white as snow, but his eyes were dark as coal. Black markings dripped from the top of his hairline, going down through his eyes, then ending at his jawline. His ears were tall and adorned with black gauges. He wore something similar to a vestment—all black and draped—not looking like a priest at all.

In his arm, he hugged a grimoire that was ancient, judging by the fraying spine and fading edges. His fragile fingers guarded the book as if it were sacrilege to lose it, making it obvious to Draven that he was a warlock.

All warlocks are different when it comes to demons. They don't have a powerful enough Source to conjure any unique magic. Moslerigier changed that by writing grimoires for these demons. It didn't take long for these grimoires to be abused, and eventually, powerful ones were created. Barron had made it his life's goal to acquire all existing grimoires.

Warlocks, now, are all but scarce. Barron was one of the few with exceptional talent.

"What are we doing here?" Draven pondered out loud, hoping he would hear.

At first, there was a silence, then Barron spoke in reverie. "Stoking the fire, grows the flame."

Draven sighed at his constant cryptic language, trying to make sense of anything he has spoken since they met. "Just explain it. I feel like I'm wasting my time here."

"One tactic of war is to attack many times with the intention of not winning; to draw the energy and resources from your enemy while not wasting much of yours."

"And what does attacking the largest city do for us?"

Barron flicked his hands out, leaving his sleeves somewhat up his arm. He held the grimoire open in one hand as he stared into the horizon. "Enough questions. We must ensure the Grand Prexy's vision comes to fruition."

His other arm extended out, his fingers spread wide from each other. Barron chanted. Words that Draven couldn't understand. A wide ring formed around the building as he continued to cast.

Draven couldn't bear the process, using his magic to open a rift elsewhere. He found himself on top of a tall building just outside the cathedral, just enough to be out of sight in the shadows. His eyes flickered as he saw Lyra enter the holy building.

The cathedral was long, and attached to the back was a courtyard; fenced by thick shrubbery. From what Draven could see, there was a fountain, and benches sat all around a garden.

Without wasting a second, he rifted on to a building next to one of the cathedral's tall windows. He could feel the hallowed ground nibble at his skin the closer he got, but he could see inside. He saw Lyra trying to help the wounded, alongside who he would assume to be her friends.

A feeling in his chest wrenched at his heart, causing an ache he had completely forgotten. His head rang, making him collapse. His body curled as the pain threatened to explode his head.

He remembered who his fealty belonged to, and the pain subsided.

Her presence was unexpected to him. If anything, the reinforcements should take longer than a day to arrive. His mind couldn't help but question how she got to this city so fast.

Before his heart could feel something again, he opened a rift. As he stepped in, he couldn't help but take one last glance at her.

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