The scrying pool shimmered gently. Within its surface, Slimey was stuck in a roadside ditch, arguing with a farmer about whether or not cows counted as “people-adjacent.” Siren was perched on a fencepost, practicing vocal warmups that were doing unspeakable things to the local wildlife. Lamia was nowhere to be seen, which almost certainly meant she was directly behind them, trying very hard to be invisible.
Sebastien pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his hood. Needless to say, this was not going as he'd imagined.
“…This is useless,” he muttered. “We have learned nothing of the hero’s combat style, magical aptitude, or even their general location.”
“They have not yet failed,” Warthag rumbled, arms crossed,feet tapping impatiently on the floor. “Nor have they succeeded. This is merely… a prolonged opening.”
Ariadne shifted in her web, several of her eyes tracking the pool while the rest stared thoughtfully into nothing. “They will blunder into something eventually,” she said. “Prey always does.”
Before Sebastien could respond, the surface of the pool rippled—not with the soft distortion of distant observation, but with a sharp, jagged crack, like glass under strain. Then it suddenly went dark. All three of them straightened, straining to take a closer look, plainly confused by what they were seeing.
“That was not interference,” Sebastien said slowly. “I warded against—”
A pulse of magic tore through the chamber. It was plainly not an attack, nor some kind of explosion, rather it felt more like... A warning? A cold chill passed through the room, though at first none of them could quite place why
Ariadne’s legs went rigid, for she noticed first out of all of them. “No,” she whispered. “That thread—”
The chamber doors slammed open. A lesser demon staggered inside, face pale, eyes unfocused, clutching at his chest as though trying to hold his soul in place. He dropped to one knee, gasping for air, as much from surprise as from exertion.
“My lords,” he croaked. “It’s… it’s the Incubus King.”
Even the ambient crackle of hellfire seemed to dim in anticipation. As though they already knew the news, but dreaded hearing it spoken aloud. The Lords themselves fell silent in disbelief. The Incubus King had been sent to suborn the Elves through his potent seductive magic. Entice and ensnare the loins of the passionate long lived glamour bound, bringing their might and their magic under the thrall of evil, with which they could have spread their influence like tendrils throughout the kingdom, bringing all to their knees in the event a show of force was insufficient.
“He has been defeated,” the messenger continued. “His citadel has fallen. His court is scattered. The hero’s party—”
Sebastien’s voice cut like a blade. “How?”
The demon swallowed. “We don’t know.”
Warthag’s fists clenched. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“There was no warning. No prolonged engagement. No recorded scrying signatures. His wards were intact one moment, gone the next. By the time reinforcements arrived, it was over.”
Ariadne slowly drew one of her legs inward, tightening her web. “So the hero has already struck,” she said. “And not where we were watching.”
Sebastien turned back to the darkened pool. The trio of idiots were still arguing in the ditch. All that preparation. All that careful planning. And the decisive blow had landed elsewhere. Mitros stepped forward at last, his presence smothering the room like a closing fist.
“So,” he said quietly. “The hero does not move as predicted. They did not seek out the Incubus King,” Mitros continued. “They did not announce themselves. They did not trigger our alarms, nor test our defenses.” He turned, glowing eyes sweeping over his generals. “They removed a pillar of our power,” he said, “And left us nothing but a corpse and questions.”
Warthag let out a slow breath. “This is no fledgling champion.”
“No,” Sebastien agreed. “This is someone who understands how we think.”
Ariadne’s voice was very soft. “With this move, he forges an alliance with the Elves, and cuts out a seat of power that we had meticulously built.”
Mitros looked once more at the scrying pool, at Slimey finally tumbling into the ditch headfirst.He drummed his fingers upon his armrest, while watching his Generals control their panic, formulating their plans. Developing countermeasures while chasing ghosts. This would not do. This could not do! To be left in disarray simply because one man, one hero, was able to stand up to the might of the Incubus King, overcome his devious switch puzzles and defeat him in single combat?
This would not do. It would not do at all! In such a situation there was only one thing for him to do!
The chamber was still reeling from the news when Mitros threw -his head back and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Ahahahahaha…!”
The generals froze. The laugh echoed far too long, bouncing off obsidian pillars and crawling into uncomfortable places. Sebastien exchanged a glance with Ariadne. Warthag frowned, as though unsure whether he was meant to kneel or draw his weapon.
“So,” Mitros said at last, spreading his arms wide, voice booming with theatrical delight, “the Incubus King has fallen.”
He turned slowly, cloak billowing though there was no wind. For maximum dramatic effect, you understand.
“Impressive. Truly impressive,” he continued. “To think that a mere hero—no, a novice hero—has already managed to topple one of my lieutenants.”
His glowing eyes flared, lighting all the shadows in the room at once. His determination, his might, were not to be questioned. Not to be doubted, not for even a moment!
“But let us not forget,” he said, pointing dramatically at nothing in particular, “that the Incubus King was but the weakest of my inner circle.”
Sebastien coughed. “My Lord, with respect, he was ranked fourth in—”
“—<b>The weakest!</b>,” Mitros repeated, louder this time, the word reverberating with dark magic.
Ariadne very deliberately did not correct him. If anything, she was trying her best to be present in the meeting, but also not noticed at the same time, lest she be called to answer for something or another.
“Yes,” Mitros went on, pacing. “I allowed him to fall. It is only natural that the hero should triumph in the early stages of their journey. One must build confidence, after all.”
Warthag blinked. “You… allowed it?”
“Of course!” Mitros snapped. “Did you think I would reveal my true power so soon? Hah! This was merely the opening act. A test. A tutorial, if you will.”
Sebastien pinched the bridge of his nose again. Mitros gestured sharply at the scrying pool, where Slimey was still upside-down in a ditch.
“Let them celebrate,” he declared. “Let them believe they have struck a meaningful blow. Soon enough, they will learn that the real trials lie ahead.” The mighty Mitros paused for a moment to adjust his cape, and to permit a moment for everyone to breathe. “…We are accelerating with contingency plans, though,” he added, more quietly.
“Yes, my Lord,” all three generals said at once.
Mitros straightened, composure fully restored, menace carefully reassembled. His menace pervaded the room, dominating over the minds of his Generals, as he continued to growl and grumble and do other... assorted Dark Lord mannerisms.
“Inform the remaining subordinates,” he commanded. “The hero has cleared the first dungeon.”
His eyes gleamed with anticipation. A renewed passion for what lay ahead! Oh, he could hardly wait - what would this hero be capable of? One day, their swords would clash in terrible combat that would split the heavens, crush the earth beneath their feet, and leave the entire kingdom with new tales to tell that would last generations!
“Now the real game begins.”
Behind him, the scrying pool fizzled softly as Slimey finally managed to swallow the ditch stone by accident. But at this point, nobody was paying them any such mind.
They probably ought to have recalled the trio to help establish their new contingencies, though. Come to think of it.
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