War-Planning and a Misinterpretation

High above the masses of the Demon Army training for future conflicts was a massive stone room. And within, lit solely by flickering candles guttered in iron scones strewn across the black cobble walls was the war room of the Demon Lord’s castle.

A grand obsidian table stood at the center, flanked by two large chairs. Huge maps were stretched across it adorned with glowing markers showing the position of enemy outposts, supply lines, and strategic points across the continent.

Scouring over every detail before him with a scowl over his scarred and chiseled face was Zarek, the First General of the Demon Lord’s Army. Bringing a gnarled finger to his chin, he mused carefully as he moved some pieces over the map, judging the outcome of war games in his head.

Reaching into his commander’s uniform, he pulled his pocket watch from its resting place. Flicking it open he checked the ticking time. The flickering torchlight glinting off his cracked horns and brass decorated chest, he raised his eyes up once more.

Positioned above the planning table in the center of it all was a grand throne seat furnished with deep purple satin. Behind it was the Royal Seal of the Demon Lord draped grandly across the wall.

The throne itself was empty.

Clenching his jagged jawline filled with fangs poking through the sides of his mouth, Zarek returned his enormous clawed fists to their clasps position tightly behind his back. His crimson eyes narrowed into razor slits.

“… Where is Lady Morrigan?” the massive demon snorted in mild confusion.

It wasn’t like her majesty to skip strategy meetings. She loved them after all. Half of the time, she would throw out incredibly complex ideas that even impressed the battle hardened strategist.

And yet here he was.

Alone.

Unblinking.

After thirty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds (not that Zarek was counting), a loud groan emanated from his side with all the fanfare of a dying accordion.

Zarek turned his head a fraction of an inch–an earthquake of movement in his normal attention stance–towards Veyla Noctis, Second-in-Command and longtime pain in his horns, yawning as she leaned forward over the map. Her eyes were dropping and her head bobbing as she struggled to stay awake. Unlike her usual bombastic self on the battlefield–where she screamed war cries like a crazed fury–today she simply slouched forward, knocking carefully placed markers away with no regard. Between her fingers she was lazily spinning a dagger.

“She’s not coming, you know, right?” Veyla rolled her head back with another yawn. She normally did not give strategy meetings their due respect, but this was a new level that caused a vein in Zarek’s brow to bulge.

Zarek’s eye twitched, but he remained otherwise motionless. “Lady Morrigan is never late.”

Veyla snorted a laugh, “Oh yeah? And she is currently…?”

Zarek snapped his neck back forward. “…37 minutes and 54 seconds late.”

“Exactly,” Veal chuckled as Zarek stiffened further.

“Lady Morrigan would never abandon her post for no reason. She has important duties after all.

“She’s got a reason,” Veyla smirked, catching her blade and focusing it towards the upright Demon, “She’s out.”

His neck cracked loudly as he turned his head to better glare at his fellow Demon, “Out?”

“Yeah, out out.”

“You seem to know more than you are letting on,” The mountain of a Demon marched towards Veyla with thunderous steps, “Now spill.”

The smaller Demon sighed, rested her head on her hand and returned to twirling her dagger. “Date night.”

Zarek froze. Any sudden movements and he might have shattered into a million pieces.

The words hung above him like a guillotine blade.

“… Date?” his voice rasped.

She lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug to reply, “Yeah. You know, with that one human. The one with the face. And the hair! Dick Dix-somethingoranother?”

“… Dick?” Zarek could only blink.

Another long, heavy silence followed.

Zarek’s brain, battle hardened and tempered through countless wars, ground to a full, sputtering halt. The shutdown jingle echoed out of his ears.

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened once again.

“I–I don’t understand. Lady Morrigan… on a date? With a human?” he asked, as if the words themselves might conjure a terror beyond comprehension. “Named Dick!?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Taking a deep breath Zarek tried to calm his raging nerves. His eyes drifted over the war papers covering the planning table. Slowly he raised his hand to his chin, a sign his mind was deep in contemplation.

A date? With a human?

It felt like someone had pulled a rug out from under him. But he fought to regain his footing.

What is this human, this dick’s, intentions? Could this be a ploy in order to lure Her Majesty into an ambush?

Never! She is far too smart to fall for something so obvious and simple as a trap laid by humans. And even if she was cornered, she could conquer one of their armies with a flick of her wrist.

But what is she doing there with a human on a date…?

“Unacceptable!” Zarek clenched his teeth and pounded a fist on the table, an array of cracks spiraling out from the impact.

“Whatever,” Veyla yawned once more, “It’s not like they are gonna do it. Probably just holding hands under a tree or whatever…”

Zarek’s eyes flung open wide. With that snide comment it all came together. Something stabbed deep into his chest, something he would never, under threat of execution, admit had feelings attached to it.

“She is trying to bring forth the Hero!”

“Uh, yeah, she said that’s her pla-”

“Think, you fool!” Zarek’s voice boomed, nearly knocking Veyla out of her seat. “If the Hero, then she will be slain!”

“Yeah, she knows. That she’s-”

“I must prevent her from bringing forth her own doom!”

With earth-shattering force, Zarek stormed out of the room, leaving Veyla dumbfounded and wide-eyed as her blade fell from her hand, landing into the stone point down.

There was still time. He just had to be fast and calculated.

If he moved swiftly, if he struck from the shadows, he could prevent this disaster before it could take root.

He had faced armies. He had stormed castles alone. He had even, once, defeated an entire battalion using only a chair and a stale baguette. A story for another time to be sure.

But a simple human date? Child’s play.

He made his way into the private quarters with heavy deliberate strides of a war machine winding up for annihilation.

In the far corner of his quarters sat a large wooden chest. His tools of war. Opening it and confirming it was all accounted for, he locked it back up and slung it over his shoulder.

“You’re not gonna start another war over this, are you? “Veyla called for Zarek as he reentered the war room moving to the large window on the far side, “Because I am not sitting through another thirty-seven-hour strategy meeting because of this.”

Zarek ignored her gibbering. He was deep in terrifyingly serious thoughts.

Battle formations. Interception routes. Infiltration plans. Tactical diversions. Endgame in sight.

His mind painted scenarios as vividly as an artist struck by the muses.

He would be a ghost in the human’s path. A shadow that whispered a derailed fate to him.

In the end, Zarek only saw glory as he unfurled his black wings (not even wide enough to poke out past his broad shoulders) and hurled himself out into the daylight. Warmed by the sun on his black wings, he felt a surging chord playing around him. Knowing just how just and righteous his plans were, he hummed the tune out.

“Dun dun dun DUN DUN DUN dun dun dun~!”

A vaguely, but still copyright friendly, version of a famous spy thriller’s theme. Somewhere in his mind, the entire soundtrack was playing, urging him, Zarek the hero of this tale, onward.

Watching the scene unfold before her, Veyla only slumped back into her seat. She had no desire to stop him, let alone watch to see the results of his plans. “Meeting adjourned, I guess…”