Chapter 1

Thirteen knights stood in a circle surrounding a large pool of inky black liquid that vibrated with commands from beyond their plane. The chants from The Ninth Order could barely be heard over crackling hellfire and the wailing of the damned.

Hadrian Kane—the captain of this small unit of Hell Knights—waited patiently to enter the portal into Creation. Each unit consisted of thirteen knights—never more, and never less. If a knight fell, they were to be replaced.

He eyed the ring of his fellow knights, glad to see they were able to contain themselves. His group had never been summoned to Creation, though they performed well for their prince in the Ascension Wars, they had never been to the realm of man. Surely these knights were eager. Yet, they stood still, in perfect formation, their black armor shimmering red from the embers beyond.

The chants from The Ninth Order grew louder, and the black liquid to the portal began to bubble and roil. It wouldn’t be much longer.

“Failure will not be tolerated,” a gravelly voice said.

Hadrian didn’t turn to acknowledge the presence of his master—Asmodeus, the Prince of Torment. He learned from years on the torture rack how little one had to do to earn the demon prince’s wrath. Instead, he stood straight, eyes locked forward.

Asmodeus circled the ring of Hell Knights, the ground shaking under his mass. He was three times the height of a man, long horns curling behind his shoulders with a row of spikes flowing from the base of his skull to the end of a long tail. It was not hard to tell if the prince was near. The air seemed to change by his mere presence. An oppression, thick like clouds seemed to follow him wherever he went.

He paused to examine the inky pool, directly in Hadrian’s line of sight. The demon’s potbelly opened like a cage, and limbs of tortured souls hung free, crying out in pain as they were consumed by the flames inside.

“For those of you who should fall, know that I myself will dole out the punishments. There is no room for failure this day. Our forces have been decimated by the humans and angelic hosts sent to purge us from man’s realm. If we fail here, it will be a long time before we can regain a foothold in Creation. And I promise you now, I fully intend to display my disappointment with the utmost ferocity.” His burning eyes locked on Hadrian.

The black liquid was now bubbling enough to splash free of the summoning pit, columns of water began to separate and reached for the sky.

“Hadrian,” Asmodeus said, “do you understand what is to be done? What your prince demands?”

Hadrian pulled his eyes from the pit to face the demon. “We are to liberate the Kezian Tower, find the witch, Lilith, and accompany her to Starfall, my prince.”

“Show them no mercy. I want blood and death to follow in your path. Show these humans what happens to those who choose to follow the lies of Heaven. Do not fail me in this.”

The chants echoed all around the chamber now, and the inky black liquid shot like a geyser, a crimson red film rising to the surface as it did.

“My prince,” Hadrian said, bowing in respect. “We will act as your blade, and guided by your hand, we shall wreak devastation across the land.” Hadrian wanted nothing more than to continue to prove his worth to Asmodeus. After years under the knife, Hadrian had learned firsthand it was better to be the butcher than the meat.

As Asmodeus turned to go, his footsteps shaking the ground, the souls still wailing within him; Hadrian took a breath and then stepped into the summoning pit.

The smell of sulfur and smoke faded away, replaced instead with the smell of blood as the room slowly came into focus. Hadrian stood in a chamber much like the one he had come from, only on this side he was met with the chanting occultists of The Ninth Order surrounded by piles of corpses. The sacrifices bled out into grooves in the stone floor that formed a summoning sigil in the center of the chamber. The room itself was circular with six pillars surrounding the summoning pit, reaching to the stone ceiling. Braziers burned low and incense smoked, smelling of tarragon and devilshade.

Hadrian glanced around the room taking in the new sensations of Creation. It had been centuries since he had stood foot in this realm. It felt different. The very air was freeing, though his physical body resisted it. The sight of the broken bodies sacrificed in order to summon him brought a sick feeling to his stomach, but he couldn’t place why. Hell was full of gruesome scenes—some caused by his own hand— and yet, this felt different. He must be experiencing a transitional period of his new body—a type of summoning sickness, perhaps.

The clink of plate behind him announced more of his knights arriving. The second through the portal was rightfully his second-in-command, Surien. The man carried his helm under one arm, revealing his half-burned visage and clean-shaven head. Hadrian could see where Surien could be a frightening sight to behold, but Hadrian did not fear a man he had defeated in combat multiple times. He had even tortured the man before Surien was promoted to Hell Knight.

“Finally,” a raspy voice sounded. An elderly man stepped forward donning the red and black robes of his order. Given the iron bracelets adorning his bare right arm, he must’ve been the Grand Master—a highly ranked master at that. Each band represented a dark art mastery, and his started at the wrist and nearly passed his elbow. “The blessed assault our gates and are nearly at our throats. Your cost had better be worth it. We had to all but empty the cells just to gather enough sacrifices.”

Hadrian ignored the man and counted his knights as the portal closed. All twelve knights were accounted for. That was a good start. He would need as many as The Ninth Order could summon. One never knew how these rituals would go.

“Well?” The man continued, irritation building in his tone. He was definitely used to his power. The occultists behind him had backed away considerably since the summoning. Very few met Hadrian’s gaze, but this man did not falter at his presence. “Go destroy the filth at our gates. You have your command, now get on with it!”

The roars of battle sounded just beyond the walls. The screams, the clatter of metal on metal… Hadrian could feel the excitement growing within him.

“Have we been summoned to the Kezian Tower?” Hadrian asked.

“Are you inept?” The old man asked with a scowl. “Your master has given you a command. You are not to ask questions; you are to do as told.”

An occultist with his face covered in wrappings stepped forward. “Yes, dark one,” he said quietly, apparently addressing Hadrian. After a glare from the Grand Master, he disappeared behind his peers.

Hadrian nodded, satisfied by the answer. They had been correctly summoned. “I only have one master,” Hadrian said.

The old man stepped toward Hadrian—who towered over him—to jam a finger into his chest plate. “You are to obey!” he yelled.

Hadrian cut the man off, grabbing his face with a gauntleted hand. The man’s shouts were cut short and muffled. As Hadrian applied pressure, the man began to struggle, flailing his arms wildly and beating on Hadrian’s vambrace. Hadrian squeezed harder and the man squealed.

The faces of the wailing souls adorning Hadrian’s armor glowed—breathing in the man’s agony and feeding Hadrian’s power. Like all Hell Knights under Torment’s Order, his strength grew from the pain of others.

Hadrian took in a deep breath, enjoying the rush of vitality. The pain was so raw here on Creation. It wasn’t the same in Hell. It was more present there, but not nearly as effective as the agony in Creation.

With a bit more pressure, the man’s skull cracked, and he squealed like a dying pig before his head erupted beneath Hadrian’s gauntlet.

Blood splattered onto the knight’s armor, and over a few of the occultists standing by. They cried out and fell to their knees.

Hadrian stood by, letting the tension in the room grow as he scanned the feeble occultists before him. They may be fighting for the same cause, but they were beneath his station.

“Your orders, Captain?” Surien asked from behind him.

“We do as commanded—clear the tower and find the witch,” Hadrian answered.

With help from a squeamish occultist named Brinley—the same man who spoke up before—the Hell Knights descended the rounding staircase of the Kezian Tower. The entrance opened up into a small courtyard surrounded by stone walls. Arrows shot from beyond the walls, but not in controlled waves, rather they flew sparsely, occasionally finding purchase in members of The Ninth Order. The occultists may have been loyal to the Prince of Torment. They may have even been versed in the dark arts, but it was evident they were untrained when it came to organized warfare. Many of them were armed with little else but daggers and their thin robes, but a small minority donned armor much like a Hell Knight’s, though less ornate and likely lacking the powers a Hell Knight’s armor offered.

The shouts of men cried out behind the wall as the front gate rocked from a ram. The wooden gate wouldn’t hold long; not if any sizable force was beyond the walls. Hadrian found himself thrilled by that prospect. He preferred to not sit out a siege. It had been too long since he had spilled blood in Creation.

“Ida,” Hadrian commanded.

A woman with white hair stepped forward, a single braid falling over her left eye. Her armor was thinner than the rest of the knights’—mainly made up of demon hide—and she wore a cowl instead of a helm. The black raven resting on her shoulders called out as she nodded at Hadrian and then headed toward the ramparts.

She slowed her pace only to dodge the occasional loose arrow, and after a few moments, she returned. “Around five-hundred men,” she announced. “They look to be militia, nothing to be concerned of, but they are led by a paladin.”

Five hundred men, Hadrian thought. Perhaps this would be easier than expected. Still, it was sizable enough force that Hadrian and his knights could test their skills in this realm.

The sound of splintering wood cracked over screams of both the army outside and the dying within the wall. A few armored occultists rushed to the entrance, trying to reinforce the gate, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“Captain?” Surien asked softly.

“Let it fall.”

And soon after, the gates did just that. With a splintering creak, the wooden bar supporting the gates split, and the doors pushed open. The armored occultists were quickly cut down from a rushing force. A paladin in bright white armor stood in the entrance, his hammer resting in two hands as he scanned the tower grounds.

Hadrian felt a thrill of excitement, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled.