In the dim, fetid confines of their hidden lair—a forgotten crypt beneath an abandoned wing of the palace grounds—Zakri faced Tobias and Morwen. The air reeked of damp stone and the faint metallic tang of spilled blood from their last ritual. Flickering torches cast long, jagged shadows across the walls, illuminating Zakri's gaunt face, his yellowed teeth glinting as he spoke.
"Tonight will be the end for both of them," he rasped, voice like gravel scraping bone.
Tobias leaned forward, eyes alight with anticipation. Morwen, ever cautious, sipped from her goblet of fresh blood, the crimson liquid staining her lips.
"However," Zakri continued, "I will go back alone tonight. Not to endanger the both of you. The girl is powerful—more than you know."
Tobias laughed, triumphant. "It's already good news that you controlled her mind last night. Now we'll have her under our hand. She'll be our puppet."
"Don't rejoice yet, Tobias," Morwen warned, her voice sharp as a blade. "We will ambush with our wizard army around the palace walls tonight. When you succeed inside and get her to do what we want, signal us to attack. We take the palace by storm."
Zakri nodded, hiding his smirk in the shadows. Fools, he thought. They believed him their tool. But witches would rule—not these blood-sucking relics.
──
Midnight fell like a shroud.
Outside the palace walls, hidden in the treeline under a moonless sky thick with storm clouds, a hundred wizards crouched in silence. Robes black as pitch blended with the night, staves humming with pent-up spells, faces painted with runes of war. Morwen and Tobias waited at the rear, hearts pounding with equal parts excitement and dread. Their spy—a trembling servant girl planted months ago—huddled nearby, eyes wide.
"Any word?" Tobias hissed.
"Not yet," Morwen replied, fingers tight on her goblet. "But soon."
Inside, in the royal chambers, Hazel stirred.
"Hazel…"
The voice slithered into her mind, cold and commanding.
She rose from the bed like a puppet on strings, eyes blank white voids—no pupils, no life. The crescent-moon necklace at her throat pulsed faintly, but the potion's grip held firm—for now.
"Drink what is in the bottle, Hazel."
She obeyed. The violet liquid burned down her throat, sealing the trance. She walked—mechanical, lifeless—through silent corridors, past sleeping guards, drawn to the voice like a moth to flame.
The abandoned building loomed at the palace's edge—a forgotten storeroom, dust-choked and spiderwebbed. Inside, Zakri sat cross-legged amid glowing summon markings etched into the floor, runes pulsing with dark energy.
"Welcome, good girl," he crooned, rising.
Hazel stood statue-still.
"Take the knife, Hazel."
She did—a wicked dagger, blade etched with binding spells.
"You will go to Primus. Stab him seven times in the heart. Then curse him again, Hazel—or should I say, Ruelle?" Zakri threw back his head and laughed, a mad cackle echoing off the walls. "I can't wait for him to die a second time—by the same hand! And those two vampires waiting outside? Fools think I work for them. I'll rid myself of them soon. It's time for witches to rule. Your bloodline—the first witches, the earth goddess herself—we need you. I'll make you serve us. Now go, and return when it's done."
Hazel turned and walked.
The spy servant, hidden in the shadows, watched with a gleeful smile. She slipped out, racing to the walls.
In the royal bedchamber, Primus slept peacefully, chest rising and falling, face turned to the ceiling.
Hazel entered silently.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling him.
The dagger rose.
And plunged.
Once. Twice. Three times—straight into his heart, blood blooming dark on the sheets.
Primus's eyes snapped open, shock twisting his features. Blood bubbled from his lips. "Hazel…"
Four. Five. Six.
He coughed, crimson spraying. His hand reached weakly for hers.
Seven.
His body went limp.
The spy burst from hiding, grinning wildly. She fled to the walls, whispering to the nearest wizard.
Morwen and Tobias, who had never fully trusted Zakri, had instructed the spy to alert them directly.
"It's done," the servant gasped. "She stabbed him seven times. He's dead."
Tobias's eyes gleamed. "Attack the palace!"
The command rippled through the ranks.
A hundred wizards surged forward—robes flapping like raven wings, staves igniting with eldritch fire. Spells crackled in the air: bolts of shadow, chains of lightning, blasts of necrotic energy. They slammed against the palace gates, wood splintering, wards shattering in bursts of blue flame.
Guards on the walls screamed as the first wave hit—bodies hurled backward, limbs torn by invisible forces, blood misting the air.
But before the wizards could breach the inner courtyard—
A swirl of black smoke.
Primus materialized at the gates, Hazel at his side—eyes still blank white, dagger dripping in her hand.
The wizards froze.
Morwen's face paled. "Did you lie to us, servant?"
The girl trembled. "No, my lady! I saw her stab him seven times! He died—I swear!"
Primus smiled, slow and predatory. "Oh, dear aunt. You seem unhappy to see me alive. Did you plot my death centuries ago?"
Morwen's lips curled. "You beast—you deserve death. And that you shall get." She turned to her forces. "Attack! Make sure you kill the stupid wife of his!"
Chaos erupted.
Wizards charged, spells flying like a storm of death. Fireballs exploded against the walls, scorching stone and flesh alike. Shadow tendrils whipped out, wrapping guards and squeezing until bones cracked and blood sprayed in arcs. One wizard hurled a bolt of acid—melting a defender's armor and skin in a sizzling, screaming horror.
Morwen and Tobias backed toward Lucas, who chanted frantically, a portal ripping open in the air—swirling void edged in green flame.
Primus couldn't reach them—too many wizards in the way.
Lazarus appeared in a blur, sword drawn, fangs bared. He tore into the fray, claws rending throats, blood fountaining as he decapitated one wizard after another. Heads rolled, bodies slumped, guts spilling onto the ground in steaming piles.
A burly wizard lunged at Hazel—staff raised, spell on his lips.
She moved without thought—trance or instinct, it didn't matter.
Her hand shot out, fingers closing around his throat. She lifted him one-handed, feet dangling, face purpling. Blood erupted from his eyes, nose, mouth—thick crimson streams as veins burst under invisible pressure. He gurgled, thrashed, then went limp. She dropped him like refuse, neck snapped, blood pooling around his crumpled form.
Three more charged—spells weaving: fire, ice, shadow.
Bolts flew—flaming arrows, jagged shards, writhing darkness.
But the necklace flared—brilliant white light erupting like a shield. Spells shattered harmlessly against it, sparks flying, energy dissipating in harmless wisps.
Hazel raised her hand.
The three wizards ignited.
Flames burst from their skin—blue-hot, unnatural—consuming robes, flesh, hair in seconds. They screamed—high, piercing wails—as their bodies twisted, skin bubbling and blackening, blood boiling out in hissing steam. One clawed at his face, melting eyes dripping like wax; another rolled on the ground, flames spreading to nearby grass; the third staggered forward, arms outstretched, before collapsing into a charred, smoking husk.
Primus fought like a demon—sword a blur, cleaving limbs, spilling entrails in wet, looping arcs. Blood sprayed his face, his clothes; he laughed, dark and wild, as he impaled one wizard through the chest, twisting the blade until ribs cracked and blood frothed from the man's mouth.
He glanced at Hazel—surprise and fierce pride in his eyes.
"Take her back to the palace!" he roared to Lazarus. "I'll handle this. Don't let the guards out—they can't face wizards!"
Lazarus reached for her arm. "My lady—"
Hazel shook him off, eyes still white but voice her own—fierce, unyielding. "I shall fight with my husband!"
Primus smiled, genuine and sharp.
"Enough play," he said.
He flipped his fingers.
The remaining wizards—dozens still—combusted.
Bodies exploded in unison—flesh tearing, bones splintering, blood erupting in a gory rain. Limbs flew, guts splattered walls and ground, heads burst like overripe fruit. Screams cut short in wet gurgles as torsos shredded into tiny, quivering pieces of meat. The courtyard became a slaughterhouse—blood pooling in rivers, the air thick with the copper stench and the sizzle of charred remains.
Hazel stared, shock cutting through the haze. "How did you… Why fight if you could do that?"
Primus wiped blood from his blade, grinning. "Because I love to play a little."
She opened her mouth to argue—but her stomach heaved. She bent double, vomiting everything she'd eaten that night—bile and remnants spilling onto the gore-soaked ground.
Primus was at her side in an instant, lifting her bridal-style.
"Clean this mess," he ordered Lazarus. "Ensure nobody knows what happened here."
With a swirl of shadow, they vanished into his chambers.