A USURPER SAT THE FAE THRONE.
His dark name—which all mortals should fear to utter—Mephistopheles. His royal title: His Majesty, First of His Name, Lord of the Nine Realms, [god of deception] and Keeper of the Eternal Flame, King Thebault de Vries. He was newly ascended into the seventh Infernal Ring after the fall of the Apollyon at his hand.
And Mephistopheles didn't hesitate to brag about it to any who would lend an ear, be it hell nobility or mortal slave.
Upon his head a silver crown had been placed, above his six already existing black horns, and the seventh which sprouted at his leveling up. The new King of Eldoria was a demon, he wore a lavish tiara upon his seven horns, and he was coronated in the raised pillars of the destroyed throne room.
It was an ostentatious ceremony and full of utter debauchery—mostly the Hellions present making the servile humans feel worse than piles of horseshit. Nobility were paraded in circles for the horned minions who had taken hold of their grand estates. Demons sat in beds, fed their concubines Florentine jewels of the bourgeoisie, and made the gold ingots drip in a flourish from their claws.
"Hold the cup higher, wench!"
"More wine for the flagon, turd!"
"Oi, get me a flask to piss in!"
Women were openly fondled by paws of Hellbabies and Maulers alike. These once noble ladies could do nothing but cringe at the jostling massages of the demons, which sent many crying to the loo.
The number of rape rumors since the fall of the Capitol was uncountable—and even at that, greatly understated. As for their Lord husbands, spectacles of the Nobles were made as they were surrended under the grinning faces of demons to the Hangman's noose, the Executioner's merciless axe, or a [Tormentor]'s scorpion whips.
In those days following the arrival of the Fallen, the cobbled streets of Eldoria ran red; blood in the gutters, blood in the air, blood in the fucking skies.
To survive worse fates, at the slightest glance of a demon parading the ruins, the nearby noble woman reduced to a serving wench bent over the nearest well steeple and hiked up her skirt. Less than a whore she became, and if she was lucky the demon lasted all of ten seconds in her. If she wasn't, her head was ripped off post-coitus.
Or she found herself steeling her body to the terror of being mounted by a [Bonereaver], some of which had terribly poled penises.
Many noblewomen surrendered themselves into the cold, black waves of the sea, jumping off cliffs in the dead of night while their demon masters snored on. Most of them did this right after they'd find a swelling in their bellies: pregnancy. It was too much humiliation for a Fae Lady to bear in her the unwanted spawn of a Hellion, forced into her womb by aggravated pounding of a horned sire.
Many even had been forced to watch the maimings of their husbands. In the final moments of their death, the Ladies did reckon,
"At least the Cold Sea wouldn't fuck me in the arse."
"Where is my nephew, Mephistopheles?"
The clear rage in Lilith's voice was unmasked.
"It's—KING Thebault to you, dear," the gray haired monarch stressed. "And as for the Apollyon, I do not know his whereabouts. Last I left him, he was—"
A great [Divine] fire entered Lilith's iris. It burned out the sides of her very pretty face. Thebault stood off the throne and shifted to the side. He knew all too well this woman's fury. He raised his hands, as if to placate.
"I told you, VERY PLAINLY not to kill him." Lilith followed his backward moves, step for step. "WHERE IS ISRAFEL?"
Invisible hands took hold of Thebault's throat. He felt himself begin to choke as severe purple radiated off Lilith's frown. She was still smashingly gorgeous. Lightning whipped into the throne room from an open window.
"Relax, my love," a new voice said.
It was hushed. Unafraid. It came from behind.
Lilith and Thebault turned to the shadows at the same time. Her bright eyes dulled and the Usurper stopped choking. Out from the mild darkness, a man too tall to be mortal, stepped forward. His polished shoes were soundless on the decorated stone floors. He crept with the umbras. His face was celestial pale.
His hair, blackest night. In a formal ponytail, he wore the long waves.
"Lord Morningstar." Thebault bowed this time.
Lilith was only half calm. Mephistopheles could be a kiss-ass all he wanted.
"Lucifer, why the interruption? Do you know where OUR nephew is. I shouldn't have to stress Israfel's importance to—"
Lucifer in a moment, stood before her upon the dais. She was tall. But he was taller. He placed a death cold pale hand over her chest. "Like I said before, relax Lili. Israfel isn't dead, try as this fool might." He frowned at Thebault.
"Hell's Apollyon yet draws breath. I can feel his Mana Core. He is injured, but alive. Little Lord Bloodthirsty is still with us."
Lilith oomphed. "Then where the fuck is he?"