Demons

Morgana awoke to the rustle of canvas and the faint smell of roasted meat. For a moment she forgot she was in demon territory. Until her eyes opened and landed on a ceiling embroidered with black and crimson thread, a design of jagged runes she couldn’t read.

Right... I did stayed the night in this demon camp. It is surprising to see that they had such a luxurious tent prepared...

“Lady Morgana,” came a soft voice.

The demon girl she had freed from Avric’s group stood at the entrance of the tent, bowing her head low. A tray balanced in her hands carried bread, dried fruit, and strips of some smoky meat.

Morgana pushed herself up, stretching. “You know,” she muttered with a crooked grin, “this is a step up from stale bread and watered-down ale. If I’d known demons had room service, I would’ve moved in sooner.”

Serika blinked. “Room… service?” she echoed uncertainly, then shook her head and set the tray down on a low table. “It is my honor. General Kaelith assigned me to attend you.”

“Assigned, huh? Like a personal maid?” Morgana tore off a piece of meat and chewed, savoring the spice. “Not bad. Better than the crap I usually get at the guild tavern.”

The girl hesitated, then lowered herself onto one knee, bowing her head. “Forgive me. I have not yet given my name. I am Serika.”

Morgana raised an eyebrow. “Serika. Good. Calling you ‘hey you’ was going to get awkward fast.”

For the faintest moment, Serika’s lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. She quickly masked it, but Morgana caught it anyway.

After finishing her breakfast, Morgana dusted her hands and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “Alright, Serika. Show me around. Teach me the ways of my oh-so-mysterious people. Pretend I’m the clueless foreign cousin who just showed up at the family reunion.”

Serika tilted her head. “Foreign… cousin? Family… reunion?” She frowned, confused, but managed a quiet, “I will… try.”

Together they stepped out into the camp, where the morning air carried the smells of ash, iron, and the faint tang of blood. Demons bustled everywhere. Sharpening weapons, chanting low over dark runes, hauling crates of supplies...

As they walked, Morgana leaned closer, her voice lowered. “So, here’s the thing. I’m new to all this. If I’m going to survive playing the part of a demon among demons, I need to know the basics. Who’s who, how this hierarchy thing works… y’know, the gossip.”

Serika gave her a curious look, then nodded. “Very well. I will explain.”

She gestured toward a group of squat, brutish demons lugging crates. Their jaws jutted, horns twisted, skin mottled with dark scales. 

“Those are lowborn. Their power burns inside them, but they cannot control it. The chaos twists their flesh, marks them as lesser. Strong, yes, but reckless.”

Morgana tilted her head. “So the uglier you look, the lower you rank?”

Serika faltered at the bluntness, then inclined her head slightly. “In crude terms… yes. Control is strength. The more one can master the chaos within, the more human one’s form becomes. That is why those of higher blood look closer to human shape. They can channel their power without losing themselves to it.”

Morgana’s grin widened. “So basically, the prettier the demon, the scarier they are.”

That earned her a sidelong glance, almost wary. “Yes. And few are as… seamless as you.”

Morgana waved her off with mock modesty. “What can I say? I’m fabulous.”

They continued through the camp, Serika pointing out different groups. The middle ranks, more humanlike but still marked by curling horns, clawed fingers, patches of scaled skin. 

The highborn, striding with cloaks and weapons that glowed faintly with enchantment, their appearances eerily close to humans aside from their wings or eyes.

“And above them all,” Serika murmured, lowering her voice, “are the true highborn. The generals, the nobles of the old houses. Their bloodlines trace back to the first lords who led us. To stand in their presence is to feel the weight of centuries of power.”

Morgana thought back to Kaelith, looming over the war map like a mountain of muscle and menace. She remembered how she hadn’t felt fear, only certainty that she was stronger.

She chewed on that thought as Serika continued.

“Most demons can only master one aspect of their chaos. Fire, shadow, blood. But the highborn—” she glanced at Morgana, hesitating, “—they say the highborn can command it all. Or… shape themselves however they wish.”

Morgana smirked. “Like shapeshifting?”

Serika blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yes. Only the most disciplined can do such a thing.”

Morgana stuffed her hands into her cloak, hiding her amusement. 

Great. So every time I use my disguise around them, I’m basically waving a giant neon sign that says, ‘Super scary highborn, don’t mess with me.’ Noted.

They passed a training yard where lowborn sparred, their snarls sharp and guttural. Serika guided her toward the edge, where black banners hung over a row of larger tents.

“This is where the high officers dwell,” she explained softly. “You must be cautious. They will sense your strength. Some will defer to you, others may challenge you.”

Morgana raised a brow. “Challenge me? Sounds like fun.”

Serika’s lips parted, then shut again. She shook her head, lowering her gaze. “You are not afraid?”

“Afraid?” Morgana laughed, loud enough to draw a few stares. She waved at the gawkers with a lazy grin. “Sweetheart, they are the ones who should be afraid. Even your dear general could not say no to me. If anyone here wants to test me, I say let them. Gives me a chance to stretch.”

Serika stared at her like she couldn’t decide whether Morgana was insane or terrifying.

Morgana just winked.

Serika guided Morgana down a row of tents. The air smelled heavier here, like incense mingled with blood. 

Lowborn demons bowed their heads as they passed, while the higher ranks gave respectful nods. Hesitant, uncertain, as though they couldn’t quite place her but instinctively knew not to provoke her.

Morgana kept her grin small, whispering sideways to Serika. “They’re all looking at me like I’m walking around naked. Should I wave or blow them a kiss?”

Serika’s lips twitched again. “They… sense you are higher. They do not know your rank, so they treat you as one above theirs. It is safer that way.”

Morgana chuckled. “Safer for them, you mean. Got it.”

They stopped before a tent larger than most, banners hanging like curtains. From inside came the steady drone of chanting. Morgana tilted her head, listening.

“What’s with the choir?” she asked.

“Worship,” Serika said softly. Her expression shifted, solemn now. “They pray to the Great One. The god who shaped our kind from chaos itself.”

Morgana raised a brow. “Oh, you’ve got a god too? I thought demons were all claws, fire, and no bedtime prayers.”

Serika shook her head. “All demons worship Him. His name has been lost to time, but His presence endures. The seers are proof.”

“Seers,” Morgana repeated. “Yeah, Kaelith mentioned those guys. Sounded like a headache.”

“They guide us,” Serika continued, lowering her voice. “Since the fall of the last Demon Lord, there has been no one upon the throne. Many have tried... Nobles, generals, even highborn with ancient blood. All failed. Because the final test requires more than power.” She hesitated. 

“It requires His blessing, delivered through the seers. Without it, no one can rule.”

Morgana tapped her chin. “So let me get this straight. Big scary demons, all muscle and fire, but no one can be king or queen unless a bunch of creepy fortune-tellers say their god gives a thumbs-up?”

Serika winced at the bluntness but nodded. “Yes. The seers hear His will. The more they sacrifice, the clearer the visions become.”

“Sacrifice, huh?” Morgana arched a brow. “Let me guess; blood, fire, the occasional screaming volunteer?”

Serika’s gaze flickered away. “…Yes.”

Morgana gave a low whistle. “Damn. And I thought church in Althwyn was bad. At least the humans just ask for coin and bread.”

They walked further, passing another group of demons sharpening jagged weapons while muttering prayers under their breath. Morgana noted the reverence in their eyes, the way they bowed their heads when the chanting rose louder from the priestly tent.

“So no king, no queen,” Morgana mused. “Who’s steering the ship, then? The seers?”

Serika nodded. “They lead by vision. The generals follow their commands, and the hosts march as one. It is not… stable, but none dare oppose their word.”

Morgana rubbed the back of her neck. “Sounds like a nightmare board meeting. No wonder things are a mess out here.”

Serika blinked, brow furrowed. “…Board… meeting?”

“Yeah, like… when too many people argue about what to do, and nothing actually gets done.” Morgana waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

Serika looked at her oddly but nodded slowly.

“I’m just saying. Back home, humans argue about taxes and grain. You lot argue about whose god-whisperer is the loudest.” She smirked. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Serika murmured, though her voice was tight, still a little lost.

Morgana slowed her pace, eyes sweeping the bustling camp, the smoke rising in threads into the morning sky. “So, to sum it up: ugly means reckless, pretty means powerful, and the ones with visions are in charge because your god says so. And until someone impresses said god enough, the throne’s empty.”

“…That is correct,” Serika admitted.

Morgana gave a mock sigh. “Great. Just great. That clears everything up. Totally not confusing at all.”

She clasped her hands behind her back, smirking at Serika’s baffled look. Inside though, her thoughts spun.

So that’s the game. No wonder Kaelith looked like he was treating me with kid gloves. If even the generals bend knee to some cosmic approval rating, then someone like me waltzing in with wings, horns, and a perfect disguise must look like a wild card. 

They don’t know what I am, so they assume I’m someone who could pass their stupid test.