Leave Hope Behind

Interlude: The Archduke's Address

Written by Jeremy Foote, Creative Lead. Recorded version here

The shadow did not fall slowly on Valmont.

For weeks, governments across the continent had investigated the silent country. Independent parties were sent in to ascertain what had happened, why the Peerage in Vilvitres and the surrounding territories were cut off. What they had found was nothing less than a wall of fiendish power, a planar barrier made of the essence of the Lower Planes themselves. To say nothing of the strange and nefarious happenings in the outer settlements - such as Belseau, Oueltagne, and Septimanes - or the appearance of agents diabolic throughout the realm.

But panic didn’t ensue until the Hellstorm began to expand. By then, it was too late.

In less than a day, the barrier stretched across hundreds of miles of Valmontine land. What was at first a bubble enveloping the heartlands and the capital became a threshold of raw infernal might rippling up and out of sight, stopping precisely at the edge of Valmont’s legally recognized borders. Those fortunate adventurers located near the nation’s border escaped the shadow of the wall, fleeing into the forests of the Brokelian, the Greyvale Mountains, or northwest past the Highlands of Turonnes.

Others were not so lucky. They disappeared without a trace, swallowed whole by whatever pall had descended upon the now-damned nation.

A victorious coup, to be sure - but by whom, and for what purpose?

The states of Tor’anoth did not have to wait long for answers. Less than an hour after the wall’s movement, the rituals were completed. In hidden shrines, cultists and spies in Crownsgate, Thalassion, Caltheras, Heliotire, and countless other cities whispered words of power. Seven names were invoked, bled to the stone - the culmination of months and years of preparation. The ground shook, and the skies darkened.

Then a pale light appeared amidst the clouds, and a voice spoke. Deep and melodious, it rang across streets and squares, over hills and rivers, through woods and mountains.

“Greetings, fine people of Tor’anoth. Whether you reside in the vales of Westhaven, the forests of the Evergreen Valley, or the avenues of the Free Cities, it is my pleasure to address you all as inhabitants of the world. Thanks to our well-placed contacts, this message should be reaching every corner of the continent.”

The light coalesced into a silhouette, and the speaker appeared at last; a hundred projections of a massive winged figure, his shadow hovering above each city and settlement where a ritual had occurred. The speaker’s skin gleamed with some inner radiance, a lustrous metallic glow. The planes of his face were perfectly symmetrical like the cast of a cold statue, yet his eyes - molten, golden-red - danced with passion. His hair, raven-dark, tumbled in loose waves around his shoulders. The figure’s outstretched wings were dull, their feathers broken and frayed as though wounded in some past battle. He wore robes of snowy satin, embroidered at the seams with runes of gleaming thread. Finally, on his pale brow rested a solid iron circlet beset with six rubies.

“My name is Seraphon, and until today I was merely an ambassador, a Voice of the Underworld. But through patience, hard work, and negotiation, I have at last ascended to my rightful position.”

---

The Insatiable Gloom

Clink, clink, clink, went the coins.

The problem with building a new world order was that there were just so many investments. A massive fortified complex on Velmara Isle, to act as both prison and enforcement headquarters. New armies to be outfitted and shipped up to Septimanes - he had already signed paperwork with legal tender for ‘Gorgarath’, but the name change hadn’t been made official yet. Legions of spies and courtiers to be bought and installed in the right places in neighboring states.

Someone had to pay for it all. Thankfully, Lazaad knew a thing or two about procuring gold.

Clink, clink, clink.

Each mark fell through his gaunt fingers, tumbling to the floor of the vault below. He released them one at a time, waiting to hear the report of metal on stone before loosening his grip on the next.

A quick check of his timepiece told him that the client had arrived five minutes ago. Reluctantly, he let go of the last gold piece, passed back through his wards, and got back on the private lift up to his office. He rode up in silence, the arcane mechanism ascending smoothly with no stops along the way.

Surely, anyone else would have appreciated the view from the top of the Port Authority Complex. Through the great panes of glass was the picturesque vista of the entire city of Pelagion, from the high spires and wide boulevards, the bright colours of its endless markets all the way down to the historic docks, and of course the shimmering barrier of the Tidepeak Curtain beyond.

Lazaad’s grand marble desk faced inwards. The view was there purely to impress anyone sitting across from him, as happened to be the case today.

“Phelia Longprés?” The woman managed to tear her gaze away from the window long enough to shake his hand as they settled into their chairs. She was broad-shouldered with olive skin, and unless he was mistaken, those were elven ears beneath her tied-back ponytail.

His hand gripped hers tightly.

“Lazlow Marducius, First Chancellor of Commerce.”

“Yes sir, it’s an honour to meet you.” She dipped her head, looking away as they were both seated.

“I understand that you are the new regional branch manager for Bitam Allied Loans,” Lazaad rasped. “Congratulations on your promotion - and you have my condolences over the untimely passing of your predecessor. What brings you to Pelagion?”

He leaned across the desk, and she cleared her throat.

“Well sir, after what happened last time, I wanted to bring the shipments in person. To - to make sure that you knew there had been no complications.”

Lazaad pondered that for a moment, before reaching for a quill and parchment.

“That was probably wise. While you are here, I have several new insurance deals in the works, and wouldn’t mind a partner to underwrite them…”

---

“Over the past several weeks, many among you have fretted over the fate of your Valmontine brethren. Please allow me to dispel any lingering doubts: the people of that land are safer than ever. However, the stalled incumbent state no longer serves their best interests. The citizens of Valmont clamour for change, for prosperity, for bounty beyond measure.”

Seraphon paused for a moment, reaching into his robes to reveal a single bound scroll. He unclasped it, bilious smoke coiling out from its container.

“Thus its former Peers have, in the twilight of their wisdom, signed over all powers temporal and metaphysical to my new parliament.”

The scroll unfurled, signatures in fire and blood rippling out from its pages to taste the air surrounding it. A hundred echoes of an infernal contract; undeniable, inviolate, resolved.

“By majority vote, the Grand Republic of Valmont has been permanently dissolved. In its place will rise the Archduchy of Ichoria, the Tenth Circle of Hell!”

---

The Warden Immutable

Zarawl gripped the balcony as he oversaw the crews putting the last blocks of stone into place.

Obraskir Spire had been the first task for the workers; a home for his cadets in the newly formed Varkhast enforcement body. The plans had been finished for years, yet thankfully it had taken mere weeks for construction. The wonders of indentured labour - was there no problem that sufficient order could not fix?

He had arrived from the Pit last night to find progress right on schedule. With the Spire and curtain wall complete, the detainment staff could put the prisoners in temporary camps until Kharbrin Hold was finished. Security was paramount, of course - but then he’d chosen his left hand well.

“My Lord Minister,” murmured a voice from behind him. The sound of light footfalls, followed by the snapping together of heels and a smart salute.

“Warden,” Zarawl turned slightly to regard his second. To the untrained eye, Lector Valgarin appeared a sickly man in pale robes. He had no face for valour; a waxy, unfinished nose and hollow cheeks. But Zarawl knew better. Woe betide anyone who got to see under that mask.

“Were there any issues with the work while I was away?”

“None, my lord. Now that the Pact has been signed, our hamatula supervisors have a… freer reign over discipline and there have been no further attempts at escape.” Valgarin pointed to the outer gate, where four shapes hung from a gibbet that could barely pass for humans. He smiled. “We made it clear to all prison crews that any agitation would invite retaliation against their fellows at random.”

Zarawl ground his teeth. An effective deterrent, even if it hewed closer to chance than he cared for.

“You need to amplify your intake - now that the courts are up and running, the Archduke will be sending more dissidents from the mainland. You have my authorization to purchase more contracts to bolster our ranks, if need be.” Something for tomorrow’s agenda. He pressed on.

“What about Varkhast recruitment?”

His lieutenant paused, choosing his next words carefully. “We are slightly below our projected numbers, Immutable One. The incident with Cazren Dorn in Deepwatch -”

“I am well aware of his failings, Valgarin, for they are many. The cambion is already being reprimanded, but I did not expect it would have a major impact on our numbers.”

“Of course not, Minister.” The robed man bowed. “I would be happy to personally execute the induction process, at least until such a time as Dorn is ready to return to service.”

“No.” Zarawl growled. “I will do it myself.”

Then the two of them stood in silence, watching their architecture of terror rise brick by brick.

---

Seraphon held up a hand placatingly, as though to forestall a thousand silent objections. His mouth was downturned, eyes shining; suddenly a mask of overweening sympathy.

“No more will the citizens of this storied nation need to labour under the weight of its history. The so-called Chivalric Orders were heroes of the land, once. Sadly, they lost their way. Now, these outdated, dogmatic crusaders safeguard an age whose values are long extinct.”

Eventually - inevitably - the archdevil’s voice rose to a fervent pitch, full of promise. Of course he would save them, if they cleaved to his light. Was there ever any doubt?

“My first executive legislation as Archduke is to deconsecrate the old Orders and replace them with six Ducal Ministries, each helmed by an expert with centuries of job experience.”

Seraphon waved his free hand in a gesture of power, and suddenly he was no longer alone in the sky.

“Please, allow me to introduce the proud faces of Ichoria’s new governing council.”

---

The Nocent Nightmare

Who would he become today?

The incubus lord flew over the rooftops of the abandoned streets of Oueltagne, his shadow cast long over the slanted rooftops. From this height it appeared amorphous, some proto-thing not yet fixed in form.

The first of the hellfires had been lit in the empty square on the town’s western side. That meant they were ready for him. Tucking in his wings, the spymaster began to lazily descend, allowing the warm currents to waft through his fine clothes and carry him gently to the ground.

Midnight’s pall clung to him as he moved, his features never distinct. One moment, he was a meek milkmaid; another, a brave soldier. To blink at Istres was to behold two people at once. It was easy to become someone, once you ventured deep enough into the oceans of their nightly terrors.

And Istres loved to swim.

‘Please, don’t hurt me…’ The voice bubbled into his consciousness unbidden, some few hundred yards away. More followed. Evidently, there were still stragglers sleeping among the ruins, hoping the devils here would simply pass them by.

Unfortunately for them, his senses were more finely tuned than most.

The Risen Blades had been sent afield, so it was the other members of his Nightmare Court that greeted him: Siuna, Akumos, and Kozmar. The latter broke the silence, wasting no time with small talk.

“You were right, my lord - the last of the Brazen Blade is gone. Our diviners confirmed it. With enough feedings, all memories of the knights will disappear. Verdant Hood and Hollow Star are not far behind, though we tracked a few survivors heading northward into the mountains.”

When he’d first gotten his assignment from Seraphon - to discredit and dismantle the outlying Chivalric Orders - Istres honestly hadn’t been sure it would be achievable in the desired timeframe. But now, with a bit of help, he stood at the precipice of success.

Not for the first time, he found himself wondering how the old guard back home had never achieved this level of coordination. Was it truly so hard to believe that devils could work together?

“The Smile has a scheme in play in that theatre, so I’ll leave it to her and the Fury to clean them up. Pass on the files.” He inclined his head at Kozmar, but not so much as to be confused for a bow.

“Superb efforts, all. The Archduke will be pleased.” The slow smile that followed transcended form. Istres pointed his cane back towards the burnt-out corpse of a town.

“After all that, I think you’ve earned yourselves a proper meal, don’t you?”

---

Six images stood behind Seraphon, each one coming into focus as the illusion unfurled.

“Lazaad, Minister of Commerce.”

Long, spindly limbs joined a frame that could only pass for humanoid at a distance. Four insectile wings emerged from his shoulders. Lazaad’s eyes were sunken deep into his skull, unlike the teeth that protruded from his skull like needles of bone. His pallid skin gleamed with an oily sheen under the light shed by his master. A thin, serpentine tail coiled behind him, covered in barbs and spikes.

“Zarawl, Minister of the Interior.”

A towering figure with deep crimson features, an angular jawline, and eyes of incandescent blue flame. Two horns protruded from his head, curling backward in jagged, serrated spirals. Zarawl’s body was armored in a dark plate, adorned with runes that glowed faintly. In his left hand he wielded a massive warhammer, while his other bore a spiked gauntlet. Again, a barbed tail betrayed the devil’s true heritage.

“Istres, Minister of Information.”

Eggplant-purple hide replete with layers of quills and scales emerged from beneath a finely tailored three-piece suit. Delicate claws, wings, and tail were all tastefully matched to the accoutrements of a continental nobleman: an elaborately patterned vest, a set of tinted pince-nez glasses, and a sleek darkwood cane carried at his side. Istres’ too-large eyes flashed a bright argent green.

“Volganoth, Minister of Armed Forces.”

No politician, this, but a mountain of muscle. The valleys and ridges of Volganoth’s skin bore the rifts and scars of a thousand battles; within glowed hellfire, and the simmering promise of violence. Simple leathers bound together disparate pieces of ceremonial armour on his body, all with adornments of bones or skulls. Two coal-black tusks jutted from the cavern of his mouth, matching his horns above.

“Moranna, Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

A shapely, curvaceous woman with royal blue skin broken by sleek black fur around her claws and neck. Moranna’s head was that of a panther, with slitted golden pupils and the hint of ivory fangs in her smile. She wore a grand gown of lace and satin, open at the back with a daring neckline, and she positively dripped in gilt and gold. Rings and bracelets clicked together as she clasped her clawed fingers together.

“Obrox, Minister of Public Health.”

Multiple rows of jagged teeth hung from Obrox’s open maw. While as large in stature as some of his peers, his bulk was stout, verging on corpulent. The tattered ruins of a white suit lay stained beneath pools of liquid too dark to be mere blood. He was completely bald, the pate of his head pockmarked with sores. When he chuckled, a wet wheeze echoed from deep within his chest.

“Working together, each of these titans will usher in a bright new future for Ichoria, and for the world! Look past our countenances, friends, for we are not lawless beasts apt to break bond or covenant. This I vow freely before all: no citizen of the Tenth Circle will do harm unto any foreigner without due provocation.”

---

The Dauntless Fury

Under a burning sky, the cracked visage of Marserac was a silent witness to the swearing of new oaths.

“Let hate enshroud my soul, let it guide my wrath!”

Volganoth loomed at the top of the steps. Around him, the air shimmered and warped, leaves of grass on the nearby lawn fraying and blackening from the heat.

He paid it no mind. Septimanes was overdue for a transformation, and he was glad to have been called to do the breaking. When he was done, a few plants would be the least of the changes.

“Wherever I ride, I shall spread fear and despair into the hearts of all who witness me!”

He’d chosen this venue for a reason. The Order of the Violet Thorn had been the greatest martial force in northern Valmont, protectors of democracy and the people. Now, each of his aspirants had to look into the face of old chivalry and know it was dead forever.

It had been slain at Chateau Arnisse, along with Hector du Culain.

“Whether by sword, sorcery, or falsehood, I shall show no mercy to my enemies!”

A deep, graveling chuckle echoed from Volganoth’s throat. That had been a good duel. He had nothing kind to say for the late Valmontine champion, save that the man had faced his end on his feet with a weapon in hand. He’d died braver than most.

The flapping of wings was enough of a warning for the fiend to turn. His Furies - Maegala, Tizithone, Azekto - descended on Place Marserac, alighting in the volume of his shadow.

“Report.” Some devils treated their underlings like friends. But familiarity bred contempt. A general did not make pleasantries; he gave orders.

“Our imp scouts followed the tips from the Nightmare Court. There are shepherd paths in the Greyvales, we’ve dispatched reinforcements to map them out invisibly.” Maegala’s voice was the scraping of a hundred swords. “Soon, we’ll have this so-called ‘Shrubellion’ surrounded.”

He rumbled in satisfaction. The steps at his feet split open, plaster curling as it melted.

At his feet, the knights completed the rite. As one, their bodies began to transform, ripping and tearing. The Order of the Violet Thorn was gone, but the Order of the Fireheart would make for a fine replacement.

“Rise!” The reply was a ragged chorus of screams as his newest knights obeyed their first command, hauling themselves to their feet while the metamorphosis continued. The process of becoming a devil was never a painless one.

“Acquaint yourselves with your new powers. Soon, you will march north, and your blades will be drenched in the blood of the disloyal. For Ichoria! For Archduke Seraphon!”

How quickly, the general mused, screams could turn into cheers.

---

The contract already put back in its case, Seraphon widened his arms, a gesture of conciliation and magnanimity.

“As Archduke, it is my fondest hope for cordial relations with our neighbours. The sharing of culture and trade is something the sons and daughters of the Pit have been unable to truly enjoy. Yet we live here now, among you. We want only a place to call our own, a home for fiends on Tor’anoth. The laws of the Hells may apply, but all are welcome nonetheless.”

Seraphon shrugged ruefully at the last condition, as though to say ‘what can you do?’.

“Let Ichoria be a safe haven for those who hail from the Lower Planes. Better yet, join our ranks and earn a place of prestige in our shared sanctuary!”

Visible pride now, a beatific smile for his audience. As if it were a foregone conclusion that every such creature listening would immediately flock to the archduke’s banner.

---

The Silken Smile

Moranna put one more piece onto the board. The carved obsidian face winked up at her as she hummed to herself, clawed fingers still grasping the top of its head.

Yes, she thought to herself as she finally let go, four inheritors in Caltheras should be enough. The Primarch’s tastes could not be that diverse.

Perhaps she would send the Crimson Masque there next. The troupe had been complaining about the quality of their venues for months; their fateful performance in Belseau had just been the final straw. Though, given Gorathal’s frankly abysmal showing in the denouement of the Hollow Wedding, she was half tempted to send them all to play in Chantres.

A sojourn on a rainy islet of a few hundred miserable souls would be a stark reminder of her displeasure.

She glanced around at the interior of her carriage. Stately and opulent - as befitting a devil of her station - the lacquered wood, gold, and stained glass windows were enchanted to keep sound and sight in while allowing all occupants an unfettered view of their surroundings.

So Moranna looked out the window, basking in the glow of the horizon aflame. She let out a sigh of contentment; the Hellstorm wall was moving, which meant that Seraphon would soon be speaking.

At last, all of their hands would be untied. It had been easy enough for the others to wear their mortal faces in public; a spymaster, a knight, a banker. To play the dilettante, a socialite in the capital among the vapid cattle, beneath notice… patience came easily to her, but so did boredom.

She could only play the fool for so long.

Now, an entire landscape of deals and bargains lay before her. She had executive orders to open Ichorian embassies throughout the Free Cities and Westhaven - that meant furnishing, staffing, enchanting, and all manner of other logistics. Then there was maintaining contacts, communication and etiquette to observe.

But Moranna had been preparing for decades for this moment. Her followers were in place. She took one last look at the board, at each piece she’d laid, saw them in her mind’s eye.

Every one, an asset. Every one, an opportunity. They all had their assignments. And of course, the Archduchy of Ichoria had so much to gain from placing its devils outside its borders - not the least of which was the enticement of self-righteous actors. If her agents were successful, she would increase Ichoria’s influence and bring more assets over to their side of the fence. And if not?

Killing a sovereign citizen was a pretext for war.

Moranna hummed to herself as she pulled out a scroll with the latest intelligence on the surviving Chivalric fools and their plant protectors. The east could keep for now, she decided.

She had weeding to do.

---

Seraphon’s face grew grave, his voice lowered now in utter seriousness. His eyes focused on some point in the middle distance, no longer playing to an audience of countless thousands.

“Lastly, I speak to those poor expatriates that have fled the gentle hand of our governance. Live not your years in exile; as you left, you left Valmontine, but as you return, you return Ichorian! There will be no retribution; quite the opposite, in fact.”

Compassion and conviction warred for prominence in the archdevil’s gaze.

“You will be fêted for your bravery, I promise you. Take the first step, and you’ll see what we plan to show the world: that the Tenth Circle of Hell is here to stay, and our mission is one of peace and plenty for every soul.”

Seraphon held out one hand, palm open and facing the sky. An invitation.

“You have nothing to fear from us.”

When he smiled this time, the archdevil flashed his teeth: sharp, crooked, eager.

---

The Caustic Plague

“Increased lividity and temperature, rapid loss of weight, raised nodes around the neck and stomach. It must be the Wasting: the symptoms all match.”

The masked priest raised his hand, muttering a prayer to his deity. No doubt, he expected the divine power to restore the halfling woman lying on the table. Yet when the light faded, she was not cured.

“I don’t understand,” the priest cried, “Why isn’t it working?”

“That’s the ninth patient from the Imperium with the same profile in the past fortnight,” Obrox murmured to the assembly following in his wake. A crew of prominent merchants, local representatives, and wealthy family scions, he’d been leading them on a tour of the temple grounds for the past half hour, seeing such a scene several times.

With the collected Peers firmly in the grip of his master, this crowd was the closest thing Avisonne had to a surviving leadership.

“But I don’t understand,” spoke one of the merchants. Constance Rigal, he remembered. She and her people owned a stake in a number of construction projects across the city. “They didn’t start showing any signs until they were here in Valmont.”

“No,” Obrox continued airily, waving one of his hands towards the unfortunate, “but the illness might have been dormant. In all cases, we’ve seen a delay in the onset of the symptoms.”

That was true, in a manner of speaking. The Wasting Curse usually took a few days to fully manifest in its host. Of course, it was neither natural nor a disease. His people had been busy.

Obrox brought himself to the full extent of his human height, adjusting the lapels on his pressed white suit. “This is why I’ve convened you all. With no word from Vilvitres, my office is proposing the enactment of emergency powers, concentrated among us. All foreigners from Medea will require a two week quarantine, and we will recommend a travel ban to the public.”

A moment of susurration, but no disagreement.

“I’m truly sorry it has come to this - but we have few other choices. We cannot have Avisonne panicking. They need to see decisive action taken at this moment.” Obrox’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“Each of you are primed to take your people in hand, to guide them through this dark time. We are the last defence against anarchy. Our city needs brave leaders now - it needs you, my friends.”

A single manufactured crisis, and not one of them had the legal or moral confidence to speak up. They were too scared to go against him, or else already thinking of the upsides. They would go home to their families tonight, full of rationalizations and excuses.

One by one, members of the assembly began to nod, and he knew he had them.

“Where do we sign?”

---

The images of the devils at Seraphon’s side began to dissipate into cloudstuff. Each bowed to their master as they departed, six pairs of burning eyes turning into shadow. They had their orders; they all knew what was to come next.

“Thank you all for listening.”

The illusion of the winged fiend was already turning back into formless light. His message delivered, Seraphon waved goodbye to Tor’anoth - for now.

“My ministers will be in touch. Long live Ichoria!”

Then the archduke faded away, and the world was finally allowed to lose its mind.

Prologue

The Grand Republic of Valmont is no more! In its place has arisen Ichoria, the Tenth Circle of Hell, a fiendish realm here on the Material Plane. The veil has fallen, the thin mask of humanity cast aside. Corrupted from the inside out, the Peerage has disappeared, replaced by a parliament from the Pit. Thousands of devils now work at the behest of the Six from Shadow, an alliance of uniquely powerful and well-connected fiends:

• Istres, the Nocent Nightmare.
• Lazaad, the Insatiable Gloom.
• Moranna, the Silken Smile.
• Obrox, the Caustic Plague.
• Volganoth, the Dauntless Fury.
• Zarawl, the Warden Immutable.

Tor’anoth will know their names forever. As well as that of their master: Seraphon, Voice of the Underworld, Heavensbane, Archduke Ichoria.

In a grand speech to the entire continent, the Archduke has revealed the truth, inviting devils from across the planes to join his new fiendish nation-state. As Seraphon’s numbers grow, so does his gaze fall on his neighbours, as dark forces mass along the borders of the new hellscape.

Epilogue

Revelations have come to light about the details of the Pact Peerless signed between the members of the Six and the various Chancellors of the Peerage - copies of the original text have been disseminated around the continent. The Pact is revealed to be the literal foundation of Ichoria: if it is broken, Valmont will return fully to the mortal world, and the Pact only stands so long as the souls of its signatories remain in this realm. Invasion plans are drawn all across the continent to defeat Seraphon, the Six, and their faction permanently, and to restore Valmont by breaking the Pact.

Interlude: The Pact Peerless

Written by Jeremy Foote, Creative Lead.

‘Let it be known and bound by His Iron Word, writ in ink of oathblood and set upon the skin of the last free citizen:

We, the duly seated Peerage of the Grand Republic of Valmont, assembled in solemn conclave beneath Calescent’s gaze, do hereby forswear our state and abdicate the full rights of dominion, governance, and custodianship of the lands heretofore known as Valmont, in favor of the Sovereign Six of Shadow and their associated Ducal Ministries, listed hereof…’

---

The maul came down in a wide swing, crashing its weight into the golem’s center mass. He breathed out and Light exploded out of the impact site, tearing through the enchanted stone and reducing the guardian to so much rubble.

Durendal had practiced that move for years back when he was in the Scriptorium guard, but he’d never once thought he would be using it against an Archivist.

It was one of life’s little ironies that his latest mission was a homecoming.

The tiefling stood in a semicircle of now-lifeless rock, the remnants of the last three constructs landing up to ten paces away. Beneath his scarred plate, his arms and chest dripped with sweat, but there were no more obstacles in their path. He took off his left gauntlet, lowering his hand to sift through the wreckage.

His lavender-skinned fingers brushed up against something warm: the heartstone. He pulled it out, examining the intricate runic script around the gem encasement. Within, something still flickered.

“Blind Gods, man,” swore Marn. The dwarf warrior stood right behind Durendal’s shoulder, not having to worry as much about staying in close quarters. Unlike Quel, who had learned to keep a healthy distance after the second close call with the tiefling’s horns. “Save some for the rest of us.”

“These are all that remain of the original lorekeepers,” Durendal held up the heartstone by way of reply. “As their days dwindled, they swore oaths to the Scriptorium on behalf of the Order of the Argent Page.”

“And when they died,” murmured Elistan, “their essences were bound to these soul gems, to become immortal and watch over the stacks and vaults forevermore. A duty beyond death.”

The amulet the wizard still wore over his robes was the same once emblazoned on the seals of Durendal’s armor: a silver hand gripping a quill. He remembered the day he’d carved them away.

The tiefling collected the rest of the stones, handing them to Elistan for safekeeping. Behind them, their group spread out at the bottom of the stairwell. They had been eight when they’d arrived on the Île Calame to execute the mission, but the curses of this new abattoir had taken their toll.

The Howling Library had not been idly named. A part of Durendal - the selfish one, the wretch who had run that night - wished he could unsee what had become of the librarians who had surrendered when the devils broke in, rather than fight or flee.

But the deeper shadow - the one that whispered to him after the others had gone to bed - told him that this was a part of his penance.

Tyrannies, he thought, did not create kind men. Sometimes, you needed to swear new oaths.

“Very fascinating trivia, but how about we discuss it on the move?” chimed in Quel, pulling out the powders and glass that were the tools of her unsavory trade. Her elven features tightened as she inspected each step, working briskly but with a thoroughness that he reluctantly found impressive. Once she gave the all-clear, the adventurers began to ascend, taking the steps two at a time.

They alighted back in the vestibule that led out to the central stacks, and freedom. But unlike their first trip down into the deeper vaults, the chamber wasn’t empty.

“So,” the halfling Brenli whispered, “I think they know we’re here.”

A row of armored devils stood at the entranceway. Burning eyes glared through rage helms, pikes were braced in perfect formation, and hellfire flickered along the edges of their blades. Not rabble, Durendal observed, but a well-drilled force.

He grit his teeth when he recognized their armor and other trappings: folded Septimanes steel, pauldrons in the Avisonne style, cloaks and tabards with colours and heraldries from all manner of Peerage houses.

Their equipment could have been stolen from the dead, he knew. But Durendal wondered how many of them had ever been Valmontine in a past life, had sworn vows to the state or one of the Chivalric Orders. How many of them had chosen damnation, picked the easier road when the devils came calling?

Hopefully it was at least a few. It would make the next minutes all the sweeter.

“Go,” the tiefling growled at his companions. “I’ll cover you.” He spared Elistan a glance, a final nod that was gravely returned. There would be no need to ask any of them to wait for him.

Once more, the head of his maul began to glow with Light, and his lips curled back in a grim smile.

The gods had heard his prayers on those lonely nights after all. Today, Durendal would fulfil his oath.

---

Article I: Enshrinement of Dominion

Henceforth, the territories formerly held in the name of Valmont shall be reborn and reconstituted as the Archduchy of Ichoria, being the Tenth and Newest Circle of Hell. The archduchy shall remain sovereign from any other realm of Hell and superimposed upon the physical and metaphysical domain once held by Valmont, its planar essence stopping at the natural and cartographic borders thereof.

No entity may extend or contract the domain save by right of Infernal Law or decree of Archduke Seraphon, Voice of the Underworld and Heavensbane, whose throne is now secured…

---

“Farewell, brother,” Elistan whispered as he completed his latest working, a wall of translucent arcane force that cut off the corridor behind them.

It did nothing to stop the clamour of distant battle, the death-cries of devils, or the bursts of Light that tore through the air. Durendal was buying them the time they needed.

He may have ripped off his seals, but a knight he had remained.

“Hurry up!” Quel was already ferrying Brenli along, Tor staying at the back to fend off any stragglers that emerged from the side passages. The main stacks were behind them already, the worst of the fiends and magical wards that sealed off this district of the Scriptorium Silencieux.

The wizard refused to call it by any other name. He would not legitimize such écume by stooping to their nomenclature, no matter what atrocities had been committed to his home.

He ran behind the dwarf, the alarms slowly growing fainter in their wake. He ran faster than he’d ever done before, calling out directions to the others whenever they reached a junction. Growing up, he and the other acolytes in the cloister would make games of who could best navigate the maze of halls, get lost in the mountains of shelves under magelight.

Elistan hadn’t gotten lost here since he was ten years old.

Yet from every corner, another threat emerged. If it wasn’t more devils, it was Archivists, whisperflame elementals, or some other twisted horror made up by the library’s new keepers. It took every ounce of his learning and power to keep them away, incantations flying about him as he cast barrier after barrier to slow down and trip up their pursuers.

The minutes stretched on, endless. Already struggling to keep pace, Elistan began to slow. With every spell he cast, his breathing became more laboured, his vision grew darker.

If they found somewhere to hide, he was sure, the tomekeepers wouldn’t find them. The apprentices could always steal into the mess hall to get their supper from the cooks after everyone else had gone to bed. He let out an empty giggle.

But no, that wasn’t right. They needed to escape, didn’t they? And he hadn’t been an apprentice of the Argent Page in a long time…

Elistan felt a pressure on his chest, firm but gentle. He looked down, blinking away his reverie to see the round, warm eyes of Brenli looking up at him.

“It’s okay, Ellie. You’ve got this.” The halfling smiled, taking his hand in hers. Suddenly, he was filled with a warmth he couldn’t understand. For the barest of moments, he felt like… like somehow it was all going to be okay. She did not let go, not until the darkness receded and he could stand on his own two feet.

“See, I told you. Just one step at a time. You know the way forward.” Ellistan nodded mutely, finding his own voice a second too late.

“Yes, uh, of course. Thank you, Brenli.” The druid had never impressed him in combat, but there was something to be said about her healing and the usefulness of her transformations. She had been a steadfast ally from the beginning. The wizard realized he’d been staring too long, clearing his throat before striding after Tor and Quel.

Up ahead lay the last obstacle to freedom: the Oath Seal. Less a door than a gate, less a gate than a trap. Carved into the rock face was a circular portal that stood twice as tall as a man, forged of godsblood bronze and reinforced by eight steel pylons. They’d bypassed the Seal on the way by staying unseen, but that wasn’t going to be an option now.

“Blasted doors won’t open!” Tor shoved against one of the pylons uselessly, the dwarf putting a not-inconsiderable amount of force onto the hinge with his shoulder.

“They’re enchanted,” Elistan pointed to the runic glyphs at the joins of the metal. “Stand back, but be ready to run at my signal.”

To an intruder, unmaking a working of this magnitude would have been a monumental task - but to those initiated in the Scriptorium’s defenses, erasing the arcane script safeguards would turn the spell matrices back on themselves, thus overloading the ward all at once. It was also the last thing he would ever do: the resulting escapement would blow the doors open, but it would also vaporize everything nearby.

Elistan wasn’t about to tell his friends that last part. He just needed them clear of the blast zone.

“Wait, Ellie - ” With one hand, the abjurer threw up one more barrier: another wall of force, this time between him and the rest of the group. Quel didn’t even blink: she’d understood. Tor as well, the dwarf bracing himself to run. But Brenli… he couldn’t even look at her.

“We have to win,” he whispered. “You know what’s at stake. You know the way forward.”

Then Elistan closed his eyes, cast his final spell, and all he knew was sound and fury.

---

Article II: The Parliament Eternal

For the length of the Pact’s enforceability, an Eternal Parliament shall rule under the Archduke’s authority, formed of the following three bodies:

The Six from Shadow, as Ducal Ministers to oversee His works.

Any devil of the Fifth Rank and Concurrent Will within Ichoria’s dominion.

Mortal Peers who have ratified this Accord and sworn the Vow of Manifold Midnight.

This Parliament may not be resigned save by unanimous act of the Six or personal dissolution by Archduke Seraphon himself. Articles of resignation are as follows, as well as clauses for default penalties and replacement contingencies that would arise from such an act…

---

Tor Marn of the Evergreen Valley had faced all manner of dangers. Mountain drakes, the fae, swarms of undead - Blind Gods, the Siege of Crownsgate alone, where zombie wyrms tumbled from the clouds. He’d fought in seven pitched battles, in countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defenses, and bloody maneuvers of any kind. He’d fought and fled just about every violent act imaginable.

But he could safely say he’d never had to book it at full speed out of a cursed library with Hell at his heels.

At some point, he was sure he’d come to, back in Karrotin with his clan, a frosty pint of dark ale clutched in his fist, and his wolves Koli and Morri curled up at his feet. But with each step he took, his chest and feet continued to ache and the devils continued to gain on them.

This was no dream he would wake from.

“Go, go!” The dwarf hauled Brenli to her feet, all but tossing her in front of him as they emerged from the shadow of the building and onto the dirt road that would lead them down to the docks. The druid had used up much of her magic below to keep them out of sight and still standing, but it meant her energy was spent now when it counted.

Damned mages. What was the point of training your mind and soul to reshape reality if you could only call on the deep power a few times per day? Even Quel had gotten in on the magic. Though to be fair to the elf, she enjoyed stabbing a foe with steel almost as much as he did.

No spells for him, of course. There were better ways to gain glory on the battlefield. He pumped his arms and moved his legs until he had put his body squarely between the advancing devils and his friends. He was bleeding, already bleeding.

There was nothing like it in the world.

Tor roared wordlessly, the sinews of his arms rippling as he let go of the last vestiges of control. There was nothing to hold him back now. His breath quickened. His vision narrowed. His limbs shook.

An arrow struck his flank. No, barely a bug-bite. A secret language of the universe that told him where his next target was. How kind of his prey to tell him exactly where to leap next. In an instant Tor was among them, twin axes flashing out in a hurricane of cuts. He struck at exposed joints, slicing through armor and infernal flesh with each arc.

When an enemy pike came down upon him, he caught it in the grist of his shoulder before reaching out, snapping the attacker’s wrist, and returning the weapon to its wielder point-first. He laughed, red-mad.

His howls to the night sky were an offering to the wanton gods of war. The devils struck him, torching his skin, giving as good as they got. Hot blood splashed his wrists, his face, his chest. But he was Tor of the Valley, and they were not enough. He had taken Hell’s best soldiers and turned them into meat.

By the time he came back to his senses and blinked the gore away, Quel and Brenli had already made it thirty paces or more ahead. He watched the pair darting east, rising away from the dockward path and towards the upper ridgeline, the small canvas bag slung over his thieving friend’s shoulder.

In that bag was what the wizard had told them about. The prize they’d all come so far - had died - to steal. There would be no ship waiting for them now, he was sure. How were they planning to get away?

Behind him, horns sounded. More shapes were emerging onto the plain. Above, shadows glided towards the island, wings unfurled and glowing lights as though they’d flown down from the constellations themselves. The warrior knew they’d come from a very different place.

Whatever new route his friends were taking, they needed room to get away. But that’s what he was for.

“Come on then, pit-spawn!” Tor screamed at them all, brandishing his bloodstained axes. He felt tall then, towering over the trees and mountains. “Take your best swing! Saves me a return journey.”

He had to give the devils their due, for they did not lack valour; one by one, the shadows peeled off their pursuit, descending towards him. He grinned wide. Going out like this, with a beard of blood and a belly of spite - that alone was enough.

When Tor Marn finally fell upon the field, his last thoughts were of home.

---

Article III: Terms of Non-Interference

As indicated by powers outside the scope of this document, the Pact shall not be directly infringed by the intercession of extra-mortal entities, including but not limited to the following:

Gods, demi-gods, or beings of divinity that dwell in any Outer Sphere.

Magicks arising from primal, elemental, or druidic sources or entreaties.

Courts or agents of the fae, no matter the See or Season.

Provocations Draconic of any hue of Scale.

Enforcement of this article is at the discretion of Archduke Seraphon and agreements struck with the Nine Thrones of the Pit. Violation of the agreements renders the offending party or parties liable to punishments detailed in appendices VII through XVI…

---

There was only one way to run a proper shell game.

Quel had learned the rules young - a mere forty, a child by the standards of the homestead. The lanes outside the Merchants Guild Hall in Thalassion were full to bursting with every type of con, grift, and scam, but she’d always had a fondness for the men who plied their trade with a felt ball and a few cups. After a minute of legerdemain, strangers would try to guess which cup held the ball.

She’d picked up the trick from her cousin Clove. A simple enough game, on the right type of mark. The closer they looked, the easier it became.

As she sprinted past an outcropping, the adventurer reached deep into her bag; past the elbow, far beyond the fabric’s visible depth. From it, she brought out a slender scroll case, capped at both ends with a bronze seal. It reeked of abjurative sorcery, a ward against unwanted ingress.

Her own magic, this. Elistan had taught her the spell weeks ago, before they’d left Caltheras. He had added his own anti-divination ward, to prevent anyone else from scrying on the case.

Quel knew that if she ever tranced again, his face would join the gallery of everyone else she’d left behind. But there was no time to mourn fallen friends, not when they were so close.

Reaching back an arm, the elf threw the case as far as she could down the slope, away from their destination. It sailed away, bouncing off a rock and disappearing from sight.

“What are you doing?” Brenli wailed. The halfling girl was still at her heels, the two of them having trekked halfway across the grassy hills of Île Calame away from that damned library. They’d gotten a short reprieve from the shadows on their tails.

She tried not to think of Tor’s last battle cry, echoing out into the dark behind them.

“Don’t worry,” she called out to her last companion, flashing her a wink in the low-light, “I have a plan.”

Another fifty paces along the ridgeline, then Quel reached into her bag and pulled out the second scroll case. This time, she threw it in a different direction, down another slope and far away.

The docks had been their original escape plan - but the first lesson in the lanes was to always have a contingency. It had never been likely that they would make their rendezvous with the Ace High. That was why she’d only paid the captain until midnight to wait for them offshore.

Silencing Brenli’s questions as they ran, Quel produced and discarded two more identical scroll cases. They too vanished downhill, never to be seen again.

The terrain had grown rockier as they’d climbed, up and away from the lower-lying terrain of the island. Now they ran past cliff-faces on either side, jagged promontories of limestone and shale over the surging sea far, far below. One false step here, and they’d never find her body. Ahead, the grass gave way, a knife-like formation that ended at a point with only open air beyond.

The sound of wingbeats was her only warning to duck. Grabbing Brenli and hugging her close, Quel pushed herself to the ground to avoid a set of jagged talons. The figure soared past them, circling the cliff before eventually alighting on the grass behind them.

The devil that stood before them was no slavering beast. His cloth was fine, an embroidered vest and jacket. He brandished a cane in one hand. Yet even with his wings furled, there was no mistaking him for a man. For one, his skin was a deeply unpleasant shade of bruised eggplant. Where a man might have hair, this devil had wiry barbs. Behind pince-nez glasses, eyes of emerald cut through the night.

“That was quite rude, Miss Quelvale. Do you see me breaking into your place of business in the middle of the night to steal trinkets?” The devil’s voice was mild. He sounded more like a scribe than a monster.

Of course he knew her name. He might even well be listening to her thoughts. Devils were better than most at picking out falsehoods when they heard it; she would have to be perfect.

“Yeah, I’m not biting,” the elf replied. She was aware of Brenli at her back, still getting to her feet. Behind the halfling yawned the void and the shore below. “You’d never have come here yourself if it was just a scrap of occult lore I got my hands on, Minister.”

When the devil’s face froze in an expressionless mask, she knew she’d scored a point. That was the problem with perfect actors: they’d practiced pretending for so long that genuine surprise escaped them.

“Regardless, your little game ends here.” The fiend paused, head tilted. “Fake scrolls, is it? Irritating, but no matter. We will scour the island by hand if we have to. Tonight will have amounted to nothing at all.”

It was at that exact moment that Quel spun and kicked her last living friend off the cliff. Brenli’s mouth hung open in surprise as she dropped away, a quick yelp followed by silence and the whistling wind.

The rogue didn’t wait to hear a splash. Instead, she charged the devil with a knife.

There was really only one way to run a proper shell game.

---

Article IV: Terms of Persistence

The Archduchy of Ichoria, and its superimposition upon the world of mortals, shall persist in perfect perpetuity until one of the following conditions is met:

Fewer than 66% of the Pact’s aggregate signatories from origins both mortal and infernal remain within the planar borders of Ichoria.

In His capacity as witness, the Archduke nullifies the Pact by revoking the magic of His Iron Word and declares the Tenth Circle dissolved.

Should either of these conditions occur, all former articles cease to be enforceable; the dominion of Ichoria is immediately revoked, and the territories of Valmont shall be restored to their state at the junction of time immediately prior to the signing of this document.

---

The pilot whale broke the surface of the sea some hours later.

It had travelled the cooler currents beneath the undertow, following the coastline to the north-west. In the process, the whale had circumnavigated many shoals and other nocturnal predators, while staying deep enough to be invisible from above.

The trip had been borne of a cathedral-quiet, surrounded only by empty water and the beating rhythm of the faraway tides. But with the glare of dawn approaching, the whale had to breach to find its landing.

The ship was anchored in a sheltered bay off a nameless spit of rock. The whole formation was too small to bear trees, let alone a name, and a vessel low to the water with its sail taken in could masquerade as a single gnarled pine from a distance.

As the whale swam closer, it saw the coiled nets and harpoons gathered quite visibly on the decks. A tarnished brass plaque on the starboard-side bow revealed the name of the ship.

Ace High.

As Brenli approached the craft, she dismissed her primal transformation. The cetacean body vanished in a matter of moments, muscles and fat sloughing away and disappearing in the brine. There was no viscera left behind; by the time she reached the rope ladder, she was fully herself again.

“So you’ve got it, then?” Griswald, the orcish captain, stood at the helm. The crew was already weighing anchor. They’d given her biscuits and tea, and a warm blanket with which to dry off for the last leg of the voyage. Oakenrest was two days and nights by sail, if the weather held; he’d said there may be storms.

“I got it.” Brenli reached under her jacket to produce a small cloth bag. Quel’s extradimensional bag, which she’d shoved into Brenli’s chest up on that cliff, back when she’d pulled her down.

Had she known then, that Brenli still had enough magic left to transform? She must have. It was her friend’s final gambit, hoping to narrow the devil’s choices down to only the false cases.

It had worked, in the end. When a druid transformed, anything on their person was absorbed into the new body. She’d explained that to Quel when they back when they first teamed up. Brenli had carried the loot tucked into her whale body under the ocean, where even the devils wouldn’t chase her. At least, not when they had four other enchanted cases to track down within their grasp.

Quel. Tor. Ellie. Durendal. And all the others - the faces of the dead blurred together as the halfling rubbed away the tears. She felt the calloused hand of the captain come to rest silently on her shoulder, and allowed herself a moment to close her eyes. To remember all the people who had sacrificed themselves for this moment, on this deck.

It would all be worth it, she promised them.

Brenli pulled out the last case and laid it out on one of the ship’s crates. At a glance, there was no way to tell it apart from any of the others, save for a small ribbon of green fabric tied around the shaft. The binding came apart beneath her fingers.

What emerged from the container was nothing less than pure malice, a procession of cruelty disguised as the written word. It was all she could do not to recoil at the touch. Brenli knew as soon as she saw the document that what she held had not been written on animal hide. The stylized marks were written in the tongue of the Hells. Of course, Quel had stashed an infernal lexicon in the bag to help with that.

She recognized the main signatories first. Who didn’t know the Six from Shadow, after what they had done? To say nothing of their master, the dread Archduke himself.

But it was the other names she was interested in: Aveline Marceaux, Hadren Pracis, Thaleris du Septaine. Scores upon scores of Valmont’s own Peerage, intermingled with officials from the Pit. All of them damned, from the tips of their ink-stained fingers down to the depths of their very souls.

The druid smiled through fresh tears as she finished poring over the finer details of each article. They’d done it. They’d really done it: in her hands lay the Pact Peerless, the magical contract that had been the downfall of the Grand Republic. And in it, she saw at last the instrument of Ichoria’s ruin.

She would need to move fast. Now that the Pact had been taken from its warded case, she had perhaps a few hours before the Ichorians would come hunting it.

“Captain,” she called to Griswald. “I’ll need to borrow your cabin, a quill, and some parchment.”

---

The names scribed at bottom of the scroll are signed in ash and bile, in midnight ink and battle blood. Six signatures are prominent, standing proudly over the hundreds of devils and diplomats in their shadow.

Obrox. Moranna. Volganoth. Istres. Lazaad. Zarawl.

Yet one name above all remains, a witness.

Seraphon.

Prologue

The Archduchy of Ichoria stands ready to poison the continent. Its borders have yet to expand, but hosts of devils march against any society that stands up to oppose them. The Free Cities have been corrupted, several falling to the schemes of the Six from Shadow. With each day that passes, more infernal agents spread subtly across the land.

But hope rises anew in the discovery of the Pact Peerless! Copies of the original infernal contract between the Six from Shadow and the Peers of the Grand Republic have been sent out to every town and village from Crownsgate to the Ouremonos Range. In those pages, two key weaknesses are revealed: the fiendish planar state of Ichoria only persists as long as the souls of two-thirds of its signatories - exactly 66% - remain in the realm at the same time. What’s more, every Ichorian devil that is killed within the borders of the country will not respawn elsewhere: they will be dead for good.

Breaking the infernal contract is the sole, slender path to victory. And so with this news, recruitment has begun and forces are being dispatched to do the unthinkable: to march into the Tenth Circle of Hell to kill or otherwise dislodge all of the signatories of the Pact Peerless from this world.

Epilogue

The forces of the coalition army are surrounding and successfully besieging the Pit of Shards, the capital city of Ichoria. Although the planar rift that is Ichoria rests in place, the lands are well-patrolled and no infernal counterattack seems forthcoming. Seraphon and his most devoted followers - including the Six - lie in wait at the heart of the diabolic palace, the House of Counted Shadows.

All that remains now is one final push, an all-out assault on the palace! But Seraphon and his kin are a nest of cornered rattlesnakes now, and anyone willing to take the fight to an archdevil should be prepared for the inevitable bite that is to follow.

Interlude: Endings

Written by Jeremy Foote, Creative Lead.

There were all manner of deaths. Beheadings, dismemberments, and stabbings were popular, but that left out maulings, maimings, and mutilations. There were also the more exotic methods of murder: poison, immolation, being eaten alive, and so forth. And that was leaving out accidental demises. A human might walk out their front door, get struck by lightning, and never open their eyes again. Or perhaps he got trampled by livestock. Or slipped and broke his neck. Then, of course, who could forget age, that softest of departures? Gentle or otherwise, it was the nature of mortals to pass on.

Not that they all left the stage with grace. Countless thousands of souls in the Pit fell ultimately because they were too afraid to face the nearness of their own ending. Like drowning men clawing for anchor, those damned would say or sign anything to avoid their own demise.

As he stood on the parapet, watching the pale gleam approaching from the north, Seraphon wondered when he had begun to sympathize with them.

Had it been when the Pact Peerless was stolen from the Howling Library? When two of his Six - first Moranna, then Volganoth - had failed to wipe out the resistance enclaves in the Greyvales? When the coalition had been formed, armies massed on the Archduchy’s doorstep? Or had his sentiment grown, perhaps, with each defeat that followed? When League regiments broke the garrison at Korvith, followed swiftly by the new-raised tower of Sincrown, allowing foreign armies free run of the Val River? When heroes snuck into Obraskir Spire, slaying the warden Lector Valgarin and crippling the Varkhast? Or, most recently, with the dispersal of the Castellan spirit and the erosion of the fortifications surrounding the very capital, the seat of his power.

It had taken his general’s Furies and Firehearts near a fortnight just to stop the entire city from tearing itself apart. But it was, at best, a holding measure. Lazaad’s latest schemes in Volentice had been dashed - without fresh contracts bought in the Hells, Seraphon could not raise new armies of devils to repel his foes.

Ichoria had been his dream - been their dream - for centuries. And now, after a few short months, that dream was slipping through their fingers. There was not a single front in which their victory had endured. He and the Six had surpassed their zenith. Now, like snow melting under a summer sun, their prominence waned with each passing day.

Oh, the Pact Peerless survived. The archdevil’s agents had retrieved the artefact from the ship where it was hidden within a day, and the souls of the crew he had personally ripped from their flayed bodies. Twelve weeping lights now adorned his belt. They had disrespected his property - so property they had become. But the damage was done; with its text spread far and wide, Ichoria’s greatest weakness became common knowledge.

Such a secret, once divulged, could not be retracted.

Thus, with the soul of each signatory that passed from the Tenth Circle, the Pact dimmed. The decline had been gradual, at first: a lieutenant here, a scrivener there. Nothing so overt, the barest thinning of the magics that held the realm of Ichoria together. But compounded over weeks, as the enemy campaign forged ahead, Seraphon began to feel the infernal contract lessen, grow fragile.

When he had crafted the infernal document, he’d considered sixty-six percent of signatories a fair margin. It had been a worthy trade-off, for the scope and scale of other terms he’d been able to enforce. Now, with the day fast approaching that the red line of the Terms of Persistence would be crossed, Seraphon was forced to concede that he’d underestimated the mortals of Tor’anoth.

That they would fight to resist him and his kin, he had foreseen. But what surprised him was the sheer depth of their spite - just how much they were willing to give. The archdevil suspected that, if offered the choice, the heroes of this realm might just choose their own annihilation to deny him a foothold.

And so here he stood, contemplating endings.

The weight of his crown sat heavy on his brow, but Seraphon did not remove it. He could not forget the responsibilities of his covenant, even now. No matter the course he charted from the ebb of this wave, he dared not presume to act outside his rank. Wielding blade or poisoned words, an Archduke he remained. To try and resist the pull, remaining on this plane without a Pact, would be an exercise in futility.

Was he not the Lord of the Tenth Circle? And should that realm be no more, would he have standing here? No, he and his lieutenants would be called home. They would be ignominiously paraded through the Hells, then dragged in chains before the Nine Thrones. Seraphon glanced down at one of the lights blinking at his belt.

There were some fates worse than death.

Even now, he knew there was a passage out of that torment. A slender thread, the barest of chances. Yet he’d been watching the light grow to the north for near an hour now, searching for any other acceptable resolution. He did not hesitate because of the level of risk involved - Seraphon was no cowering imp, to flinch at long odds - but because of the means his escape would require.

What did it say about him, that he had searched this long for a way to stay his hand?

"My lord Archduke," came a voice from his left. One of his hamatula, dull, brassy skin and wicked spikes emerging from embossed plate armour. Jannan. A full complement made up his palace guard, yet Seraphon had taken the time to memorize their names. Promotions and demotions were common enough, but he’d learned long ago the value of knowing every person assigned to protect you.

The guard must have been standing at attention for some time, Seraphon realized. Jannan had phrased the address like a question. One did not summon an Archduke of Hell - they waited until he was ready to attend them. But the others had been waiting long enough.

Striding through the open stained glass doors, the archdevil folded his wings in his wake, the feathers melting into shadow before reforming into a trailing cloak of pitch and crimson. Devils were sin made flesh. His body, he’d learned long ago, was merely an extension of his own will.

The gallery was one of many in his House of Counted Shadows. When first shaping it, Seraphon had almost lost count of the number of quiet, cloistered spaces set aside for the old Peers to think and talk. It had been a relief, to bring some style up from Hell when he had redecorated. The place had been dreadfully boring, before. No longer.

This particular space - he’d simply called it "Recrimination" - featured the dozens of bills, memorandums, and resolutions passed by the Peerage in the sessions leading up to the fall of Valmont. In each case, the legislature had featured provisions snuck in by his partisans, the foundations of the legal framework he’d required to take the stage and call for that fateful vote. To the devils that worked in the House, a reminder of the virtues of patience and good planning. To everyone else, a crushing monument to Ichorian perfidy.

Countless panes of glass and amber greeted him, behind which the scrolls were kept preserved. But that wasn’t all: Six pairs of eyes watched him as he swept into the chamber. Each of the Ducal Ministers sat around a titanic obsidian table, perfectly smooth except where broken with veins of precious carnelian stone. Jannan joined the rest of his squad flanking the doors.

There was no fanfare at his arrival. In private, there was no need for any grand titles or announcements. They knew where they stood, relative to both him and each other.

"Now that all are present, we may begin," Seraphon said by way of greeting, taking a seat at the head of the table. With a wave of his hand, the table was covered with ornate goblets and plates of food. Several of the Six - Obrox and Volganoth - tucked in without another word, while others refrained in favour of politely sipping their wine. So it began.

"My lord Seraphon," Istres began. The former incubus had taken his defeat on the Île Calame poorly, and since resorted to base courtesy as a shield. "I was surprised to receive your summons back to the capital. Much of my Court is still scattered far afield. In your last missive, did you not ask me to call them to heel? I was under the impression that we need all the power we can get our hands on."

Seraphon inclined his head slowly, but did not deign to speak; why bother, when there was a schemer seated to his left who was so eager to fill the silence?

"Our lord Heavensbane has a new plan," Moranna exclaimed. "One in which all deployed assets beyond the capital are to be written off as collateral damage." It was sometimes helpful to have clever allies; she’d come to a conclusion on her own, without his confirmation. Her fangs gleamed in the firelight - too amused, too excited at the bleak implications that stemmed from the notion.

"It’s more than that," grumbled Volganoth between bites. The hulking general was still recovering from his many wounds taken in defence of the outer fortresses. There were not many weapons capable of felling his friend, but blessed blades given purpose by angels was sadly an exception. "The Archduke has ordered a fighting retreat all the way down here, to us. We’re giving up the city."

Surprise at this, and more than one inquisitive stare, though they knew better than to challenge him.

"Our Fury is correct. The House, and the House alone, will be garrisoned. We no longer have the numbers to withstand the breadth of the walls against heroic assault. Instead, we will concentrate our forces within, where we can dictate terms of engagement."

A wave of the hand, and rippling obsidian formed corridors and chambers in miniature, a map of all four floors of the palace complex.

"I will need time to complete my final preparations. To ensure I am not interrupted, you will each hold a wing of this structure armed with whatever forces you have remaining to you. The heroes are coming, my friends. But I, for one, will not slink back to the Hells without making them pay for every red yard of this place. Build of this House an abattoir."

Seraphon’s pitch rose as he spoke, letting fervour touch his speech.

They had never doubted he had a solution. And as he’d allowed them to see his confidence, it would never cross their mind to ask for specifics. But they would need an edge, to hold their own when the storm broke.

"Do not think I would let you face the might of these heroes alone." In a breath, a gargantuan chest of iron and gold sat at the end of the chamber. Another, and the lid flew open. A ghastly, pulsating glow filled the room, accompanied by a low droning indistinguishable from screams. The Six from Shadow stared at the power revealed, several standing in their seats.

"Are those…?" Lazaad whispered, the first to find his voice. Seraphon nodded carefully.

"Indeed, my slippery spider. When our guests arrive - and they will be here soon, of that I have no doubt - you will have free reign to use any means necessary." His crown felt heavier than he’d ever remembered.

"Let’s give them a warm welcome."