Souls of Demons

Prologue

Shadows consumed the world, igniting fear in the hearts of mortal and immortal alike. Beasts of land and sea and air trembled at the writhing masses of darkness. The gods vanished, abandoning their worshippers in their haste to escape the growing evil in their world.

"... and when darkness falls, all shall be lost. The world will be reborn in rotted blackness, in demonic shadow." Whispered words tripping through the air, landing heavy on the damp cobbled path.

The owner of the wounded words was on his knees, robes billowing around his straw body. His wrinkled brow creased further, eyes wide and shining the ghostly white of freshly fallen snow. A breath of salt brushed the breeze and the silver cloud of hair shifted on the ancient man's head. His gaze shot to the heavens, at the black, heavy clouds gathering in front of the iridescent silver coin that was the moon. The colour leeched from the world, draining into bleak greys and blacks and whites. Shades of the souls of demons.

At that moment, the world fell to its knees, trembling before the horrendous might of the darkness enveloping it. Nothing could save it now, nothing could halt the consuming shadows and draining demons. Demons whose names strike fear into the hearts of any who hear them. 

The old man staggered to his feet, the cobbled path beneath him shivering and writhing.

"I must..." he began, the words thrown haphazardly from between his teeth, from the tip of his tongue, "I must not speak the names. Must not - cannot - welcome any onto this plane of existence. They must stay on the other side of the mirror." 

Letters formed words, formed sentences. He spoke and spoke and spoke, breath becoming sound and sound becoming a current of blurted sentences, becoming paragraphs and stories. Each story carried with it an undertone of panic and disorder, consternation and chaos.  

"You," a gravelly voice scratched and clawed at the old man's retreating back, snagging at his heels, urging him to turn around, "are too late, revered one. We are already summoned beyond the Mirror."

The old priest pivoted, whirling back the way he had come. And there, a mere three feet away, obscured by the dense shadow of the night, was Azazel. Demon King, the Lord of Demons, the Dark Sun, he was... beyond the Mirror Realm, where demons, and their ilk are meant to remain. He was here. Gold eyes, charred skin, long, thin limbs. His teeth showed in a gruesome grin, sharp as any blade.

"What is it your kind plead here?" The demon's golden eyes narrowed in delicious thought, "Ah, yes. Father, please, forgive me, for I have sinned." His deep, throaty chuckle raked talons of iron down the holy man's bent spine, "How pathetic, how utterly spineless, cowardly." Venom were the words the demon spat, laced and filled and brimming with sickly sweet venom.

The old man watched, eyes wide and unable to move, as the demon gathered the shadows around him, a spider weaving his web. The shadows thinned, becoming long and sharpening to an abrupt point. Dozens upon dozens of shards of shadow pointed at the holy man, each pulsing with malice.

The old man painted the air in front of him with symbols of protection and good, good to defeat the evil looming before him.

Laughter, dark and gleeful, grated from Azazel's burned throat, out from between his cold, bloodless lips, "Old man, those symbols shall never help you again. Your faith has been rewarded with abandonment. Your gods are gone." With that, and a flick of his reedy wrist, the shadow-blades hurtled through the thick, icy air. Intent of evil collided with intent of pure, and gold and silver sparks flew, though only for a second, before silver protection gave way to empty air, and shadow tore through skin, flesh and bone. The air was slick with the coppery scent of fear, pain and with the sickening taste of pure, unmarred blood.

The shadows dissipated, however the wounds did not. The holy man remained upright, help up by a strength he did not know he possessed. Pain ricocheted throughout his whole body, the tears in his flesh oozing crimson rivers. His white robes were drowning, melting away into ruby red.