Duchess Dungeon Eater - Complete Story - Chapter 40 – The Nightmares of War (1 of 2)

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The world fell away.

Tobias felt his body slump in the physical chamber, but his spirit surged upward like a drawn blade. The crowns screamed behind him… nine jagged, corrupted voices tearing at reality, but the ethereal plane swallowed the sound, replacing it with a vast, cold silence.

Then the silence cracked like an iceberg giving its final groan before splitting apart.

A battlefield unfolded beneath him, an ocean of grey mist stretching into a horizon of fractured starlight. Tobias still saw the Summit chamber, but muted … distant … as if viewed through frosted glass. None of the crush of soldiers or civilians were around him. Only the corrupted glows of the nine rulers flickered in front of him, their spirits looking around in confusion at the plane he had dragged them into.

A plane of existence he’d visited since childhood.

The ground was made of a citadel’s long memory — broken oaths, ancient wars, the dust of forgotten kings. And standing upon it, rising like a mountain carved from wrath itself, was High King Ghondrakken.

The Siege‑breaker grinned at his descendant with eagerness and excitement. He was the last true warrior‑king, and he was truly in his element once again.

“Forlorn hungers,” he said, hefting his double‑bladed axe. “Let’s feed her.”

Tobias stepped beside him, Ashenbringer humming with soul‑fire, its hovering disc of holy radiance a fragment of a sun’s blessing upon his blade. The spectral army temporarily bound to him — Shinenoor’s Wrathful Dead — rose behind them in a tidal wave of ghostly warriors. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Every last one answering Isenwrath’s call through him.

They too hungered. The nine spirits held a lot of soul‑fire to feast upon and the undead eyed them for that feast.  If anyone understood a chimeramancer’s hunger, it was the undead because they too were always hungry for more.

Across the battlefield, the nine corrupted crown‑spirits had manifested in their full empowered horror.

They were monstrous things comprising of the twisted rulers’ silhouettes that they’d usurped, each one tethered by a pulsing vein of soul‑energy stretching upward into the void. The tether throbbed with sickly red light, feeding them endlessly the power from one master crown.

The Grey Stalker — a spectral predator forged from the souls of a hundred slain monsters, clutching a blackened eldritch bow while a hellhound slavered at its side awaiting its commands eagerly.

Aurelios the Dawn Shard — a fragment of a fallen sun‑spirit, once radiant, now cracked and screaming in incandescent rage. Its flaming wings stretched like solar flares.

Gravemolt Ember Father — a molten dwarf ancestor who believed strength was proven through conquest and justified the hoarding of wealth obtained through endless war.

The Arcanoth Mind Weaver — a disembodied arcane intelligence, once a magister, now a floating arcane latticework of thought. Its form twisted in ever‑shifting patterns of light, screaming because even it could not comprehend what it beheld.

Vyrmathrax the First Brood — a draconic echo, prideful, cunning, hungry for dominion. A red dragon ancestor who refused to pass into eternity because it hated all living things that didn’t have scales and wings.

The Thorn Warden of the Deepshade — a forest spirit twisted by centuries of resentment. A dryad queen turned hag, worse than both, an irony wrapped in an enigma.

Gor’Mhaz the Iron Howl — a war spirit forged from the rage of a thousand battlefields. The personification of Orcish warmongering, wielding a black battlehammer that burned with every soul it’d torn apart.

Urskath the Winter Father — a massive spirit of winter, endurance, and dominance. An Ursine Frost Giant Jarl towering above everything, roaring down at those who dared stand against his cold purpose.

Seraphiel the Broken Virtue — a fallen celestial whose virtue had curdled into zealotry. She floated apart from the others; her power rooted in her followers — none of whom had joined her here.

Just as Tobias and Ghondrakken had feared, these nine were not going to be easy to subdue even if they were outnumbered… by A LOT.

Tobias lowered Ashenbringer into a ready stance. “My High King, do you see the tether? We believe that it’s a corruption being poured into them like blood into open mouths.  It’s going to sustain them, keeping them in existence no matter what we do.”

Ghondrakken spat, gripping Forlorn tighter. “Parasites. I hate parasites. Worse than lawyers and tax collectors.”

A pulse from the tether jolted those nine hateful spirits.  It was obvious that they’d just gotten their orders.

The nine spirits surged forward, dragging the souls of their living rulers with them. Their forms warped — claws, wings, tendrils of shadow, eldritch energies crackling along their bodies — each one a nightmare given shape. Their voices were a chorus of agony and hunger.  Their shouts echoed across the Plane of Neither Here Nor There.

Tobias raised Ashenbringer overhead. “In Isenwrath’s name… Wrathful Dead… lock them down!”

The ghost‑army charged with Tobias and Ghondrakken, slamming into the corrupted spirits with the force of a collapsing star. The impact shook the ethereal plane creating huge waves among the oceans of grey mist. Soul‑fire clashed with corruption. Memory clashed with nightmare. The nine spirits staggered but did not fall.

They couldn’t fall. Not while the succubus tether fed them.  Not while it healed any damage they took.

Ghondrakken roared and swung Forlorn, cleaving through one spirit’s torso. It screamed, split apart, then reformed instantly, corruption knitting itself back together, proving Forlorn’s soul‑rending power useless against an enemy being force‑fed endless soul‑energy.

“Stalemate!” Tobias shouted. “We planned for this!”

He leapt to help drag down the fallen celestial. She screamed in terror under the press of undead bodies. Her soul‑blasts tore holes through the Wrathful Dead, but the spectral army simply refilled the gaps.

Ghondrakken grinned wider, still hacking into the massive Jarl pinned beneath dozens of ghosts. “I know! I was there!”

The Wrathful Dead swarmed the nine spirits, binding them, dragging them down, forcing them into a grinding, brutal deadlock. Every blow Tobias struck was answered by a surge of soul‑energy from the tether. Every wound Ghondrakken carved was healed by the parasite’s endless hunger.

The spectral army bit, clawed, cleaved, and wrenched at the nine yet they too could not eliminate them. Only hold them. Only stall them. Only keep them from clawing their way back into the material plane.

The ethereal plane trembled under the strain.

Tobias felt sweat — or something like sweat — drip down his spirit‑form. “We can’t kill them. Not while Richard’s parasite feeds them!”

Ghondrakken slammed Forlorn into the ground, sending a shockwave through the battlefield. “Then someone needs to cut the tether!”

Tobias looked up again. The tether stretched into the void like a vein into a beating heart.

A heart that belonged to Richard Forthington. A heart that belonged to the succubus spirit. A heart Diegan was walking toward.

Tobias exhaled once, steady and sure. “We’ve already sent our finest after that bastard. Until then, we hold them in stalemate no matter the cost.”

Ghondrakken laughed with a booming, joyous sound that shook the plane. “Now that’s a king’s order!”

The Wrathful Dead surged again.

The nine corrupted spirits screamed in useless rage, blasting the spectral army apart, but unable to overcome the sheer numbers. The tether pulsed.

And the ethereal war locked into a brutal, grinding stalemate… a perfect stalling tactic Tobias was determined to uphold, giving his newly found Dark Elf friend all the time he needed to cut the bloodline off at the source.

 

--- Earlier in the King’s Summit Chamber ---

Diegan didn’t wait for the crowns to finish screaming.

The moment Tobias’s body slumped and his sister the queen gave him the order; Diegan was already moving.  He deftly slipped past the crush of soldiers, slipped past Ursletta’s lightning, past Sophitia’s flaming staff, past all of the chaos erupting in the Summit chamber. He moved like a shadow with purpose, The Crescent Blade humming at his hip, its edge already tasting the corruption in the air.  He held it tightly and it’d shared its invisibility with him. 

That special invisibility also gave him some special sight to work with. In this mission, he didn’t need directions.

His sight had picked up on the red ley line like tethers the moment he shifted into this semi-ethereal state.  Thus, he followed the tethers from those abominable crowns like a kid following string to get home.

Those tethers pulsed through the Citadel like a vein of living rot, a sickly red thread only a soul‑hunter could sense. It tugged at his instincts, pulling him toward the depths beneath the Summit chamber and toward the Citadel’s heart.  They may have flowed through walls, floors, and ceilings, but that didn’t stop Diegan from finding them again and determining where to go next. 

The soldiers couldn’t see him, so they weren’t an obstacle.  The alarm runes and spell created traps didn’t slow Diegan down much either because he’d been trained to avoid those since he was very little.  He circumvented them with almost no thought these days and today, he barely even acknowledged that they were even there.

Thus he stayed the course.

Toward Richard.

Toward the parasite.

Towards the head of the snake that had taken the Dark Elves’ reunification with the above ground world and ruined it.  Diegan had made that mission personal because Isenwrath had given them a great gift because of her compassionate heart.  It was also personal because this one bastard had ruined celebrating her for it.  Diegan gripped the Crescent Blade tighter in order to regain his cold composure.  He couldn’t afford to lose his concentration to anger, not now.

It was the Nexus Hall that he was heading towards, Diegan was certain now.  He’d seen it detailed within Maddock’s schematics of the Summit Citadel the night prior.  It made sense because that the arcana power source of the entire citadel was the likeliest spot that a powerful devil would target simply because it was nearly unlimited for the time being.  The devil would use all that stored arcana power as a power to keep its minions under control, its hold firm onto all of the people that it’d corrupted today and probably make it easy to corrupt so many more in the foreseeable future too.

Diegan was a military tactician too and soaking up detailed schematics of a hostile location was also second nature to him as well.  Maddock had earned his respect over and over again.  Letting Diegan in on everything was just another reason to push for reunification.  It would deeply honor such a man who trusted his betrothed enough to give his trust to Diegan because of her.

The corridors changed as he descended … the Citadel’s pristine marble gave way to stone veined with red light.  This slowed him down further because he didn’t remember any notes detailing these changes.  He had to proceed with more caution or else he risked failure.  For Ursletta and Isenwrath, that was simply unacceptable.

The defensive spell-wards flickered, not quite sensing him enough to trigger unless he made a mistake.

Something changed, however.  That was evidenced when the torches guttered unexpectedly, leaving him in the pitch black.  He was a Dark Elf, so that kind of darkness was a friend of his.  His eyes adjusted and began to read the heat of the surrounding walls.  In some ways, the darkness provided him a view as if the whole place lit up for him instead of blinding him.

Whispers crawled along the walls like insects.  Something else had noticed his progress somehow.  The sword was great at masking, but nothing was ever foolproof.  Then it happened.  The succubus spirit had awoken, and it knew he was coming.  The sharp whisper loud enough to be understood announced that sad fact when it simply said, “Enter and die.”

Diegan only smiled at such a paltry threat.  That thing would have to be much more creative to earn Diegan’s respect as an actual threat.

The first guards appeared at the threshold of the lower halls.  Diegan had gone still to study Richard’s elite guards.  Or at least elite to the young thrall of the succubus.  He studied their eyes glowing with incubus‑taint, veins darkened with infusions of corrupted blood, and their movements too smooth to be human. They were indeed the spawns of a succubus, a dangerous outer-planar creature that fed on the desires of anyone it came in contact with. 

Maddock had said that the artificer had named it, Zhaerith.  That name had been used to bind it to Richard’s crown to do Richard’s bidding.  Diegan grimaced because it was plain evident that the chronicles were true.  Even if trapped into servitude, those creatures still gained power… still won the battle of wills.  Those poor soldiers had been pulled into that nightmare truth and were going to die because of someone else’s misplaced arrogance.  If they were to face anyone else but Diegan that night.

Diegan moved out into the light of the arcana stone wall sconces.  The succubus knew he was there, so there was no further use in hiding the fact that he was about to put his blade through the thing’s essence… severing it forever from existence.  He still moved silently when he closed the distance without so much as a warning shout of intent.  Such a foolish thing to do anyway.  Kill them all and be quick about it.  That was his guiding motto.  Except tonight, he didn’t actually have to kill them.  He just needed to cut off the succubus’s lifeline of control.  That was almost as quick.

They didn’t shout. They didn’t warn. They simply attacked.  Diegan gave them only one notch of respect for that.  He’d still cut them down because they were in his way.

Diegan engaged the damned guards with the expertise of an Under Marshall, an elite soldier above all others in his command.  The Crescent Blade cut through their armor like cloth, severing the parasite’s influence with every strike. The guards collapsed in confused heaps.  They’d been freed, lay gasping, clutching their heads as the corruption evaporated from their souls.  They weren’t in Diegan’s way anymore, so he kept moving.

Through the sword, Diegan sensed the tether when it pulsed again, stronger now, vibrating through the floor like a heartbeat.  Beyond the first gate, he found what that tether pulse actually meant.  The Succubus had gained control not only of some minions, but of the space itself where it was housed.  It was taking over, actually infecting this small part of reality with its own perverted version.  Diegan had told Maddock he disliked Necromancers, but he didn’t mention how much he hated the outer planar-beings that his people dealt with on a regular basis for such evil trespass as this.

When he reached the second defensive measure, Diegan shook his head sadly.  He’d read about this particular masterwork of manipulation before.  This was because Dark Elves documented everything because they were ever determined to guard against either repeating or falling for the same mistakes or traps.  Isenwrath wasn’t the only one who’d beaten every trap they’d come in contact with.

This particular hall of mirrors only boosted Diegan’s confidence because it meant that the succubus didn’t have much imagination.  Diegan continued forward, barely paying attention to the mirrors that lined the walls, each one reflecting a different version of him:

Diegan as a monster, something worse than anything he’d fought so far.

Diegan as a coward running from the battlefield instead of fighting alongside his dead sister against the Sahuagin.

Diegan as a murderer completely unashamed at gutting Maddock, his guts and blood splattering the floor and walls.

Diegan as a broken man holding Ursletta’s corpse with a smile on his face as he cried tears of madness.

Diegan kneeling before Richard, becoming just another thrall.

Diegan wearing a crown made of bones as he sat upon the throne that rightfully belonged to Ursletta.

The parasite whispered awful things through every reflection.  Each one a masterwork of manipulation that would drive most anyone else to their knees.

He ignored them all because they were all utter nonsense.

Diegan searched for the source of it all.  These kinds of mind traps always had one flaw that would reveal where to strike to destroy the trap.  It was within one of the last mirrors that Diegan saw it from his periphery.  He was making love to Isenwrath within his own room, claiming her as his wife and queen and … it disgusted him.  Yet, it was in that vision that he saw that his wall of swords which had three blades out of order. 

The Crescent Blade hummed, its edge glowing with Severance of the Unholy. He swung once — a clean, perfect arc — to slice the vision of himself as he rose up in ecstasy.  The trap’s tether was no more, and every illusion shattered like glass, the whispers cut off mid‑sentence, then it all faded away into the nonsense it’d been born from.  He had no desire for Isenwrath.  Besides, he knew who he wanted and Marinsalla would approve of his pick, he was sure of it.  So would Isenwrath.  But that was for later after this particular nuisance of a snake was eliminated.

He kept moving. Quietly.  Efficiently.  With the grace of silent death itself.

This time, the third barrier was alive.  This time, Diegan sighed audibly in disappointment.

A nightmare construct crawled out of the darkness.  It was a creature shaped from Richard’s fears and desires, all teeth and shadow and writhing limbs. It didn’t roar. It didn’t threaten. It simply blocked the hall, its body pulsing with the same red light as the tether that controlled it.

Diegan exhaled once. “Move.”

It didn’t.

So, he did.

The Crescent Blade sliced through the creature’s core, severing the parasite’s anchor. The construct dissolved into smoke and ash, its death‑cry echoing down the corridor like a collapsing dream. 

“I told you to move,” Diegan said with quiet dismissiveness at the rapidly decaying shadow thing.

He kept moving instead, leaving that travesty behind without a backwards glance.

The tether had grown as its hold over the space firmed.  Now it was a roar upon Diegan’s whole body and soul … a pounding, throbbing pulse that filled the air, the walls, and his bones. The Citadel’s architecture bent around it, warping into a spiraling descent that led to a single massive door carved with ancient runes.

The Nexus Hall’s entrance loomed ahead at the end of an opulently appointed hallway full of golden skinned statuary, deep red carpets, and polished deep brown wooden walls lined with priceless landscape paintings.

This was the heart of the Summit Citadel.  Unfortunately, it was also the heart of the tether.  The heart of Richard’s corruption.

Diegan placed his hand on one of the double doors to sense for what might be ahead.

It was warm. It was breathing. It whispered his name. It turned Diegan’s stomach at how badly this infection had gotten in so little time.  His only wish was that Isenwrath was here with him so they could sneer at this crap together and laugh loudly about it later.

He didn’t sense anything that was useful, so he pushed it open. Finally, he stepped into the darkness where Richard Forthington waited… surrounded by thralls, illusions, corruption, and a beautiful warrior woman, also half‑claimed by the parasite’s mark on her bared breasts standing out of a see-through filmy blue robe..

The hunt was over.  Diegan rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, narrowed his eyes, then readied his blade while the overconfident devil smiled at his intrusion as if Diegan wasn’t the threat that he actually was.

Richard slowly held up a hand and waved his fingers at him.  “You came alone.  Pity.  I was rather hoping you’d have brought more for me to play with.  Oh well, I can wait for more. I’m patient.

“So am I.  However, mine’s run out because of sheer boredom.”

Richard jolted up from the bed, impulsive outrage mangling his face into a beast’s hateful visage.  “Kill him!” he commanded to the eight other soul-thrall possessed humans and Nivorathians around the bed. 

Diegan stepped forward, ready for them.  They all growled low in their throats.  They wore demon-infused red padded armor, held long knives gleaming with green poison, and seemed to be competent this time.  The other woman in the bed held glowing green eyes as well as a glowing ball of green fel energy in her hand.  Soldiers and a caster.  Peachy.

Diegan dared to glance at the would-be emperor again and pitied him.  He stood on a black silken bed in the middle of this legendary hall of power wearing the black leather harness of a male harlot, looking utterly ridiculous even with his outstretched black wings, long horns, and lashing tail. 

Diegan sighed heavily once, then Misty-Stepped forward into the fray to teach them all a lesson in humility.  They probably wouldn’t be very bright students.  Pity.

Enough musing, the severing had begun.

The eight thralls lunged first in predictable, sloppy, telegraphed attacks that would embarrass a half-drunk inn brawler. Diegan didn’t even bother to raise the Crescent Blade at first. He simply stepped sideways, letting the first knife pass through the space where his ribs had been a heartbeat earlier.

The second thrall came in low. Diegan’s knee met his jaw. Bone cracked. The man dropped without a sound.

The Crescent Blade hummed, eager and hungry, but Diegan kept it restrained. Killing these thralls was pointless. Severing their corruption was faster, much more efficient.

The third thrall slashed at his throat. Diegan caught the wrist, twisted, and used the man’s own momentum to flip him over his shoulder. The Crescent Blade flicked once, a whisper of steel through the air and the parasite’s tether between its heart and mind and the devil upon the bed was gone. The thrall collapsed, gasping, freed.  Diegan’s blade could cut flesh or the soul or both, all at his command.  So far, he was only interested in souls.  Each one gone was less that fed the incubus on the bed, glaring at him with glowing hateful eyes and snarling teeth.

The remaining five circled Diegan, knives slickened with green poison.

Diegan sighed. “You’re all wasting my time.”

They rushed him together.

He moved like the flashing wispy shadows of his homeland.  A blur of dark‑elf grace, misty‑stepping precision, and lethal economy.  Small teleports were easy, quick, and very hard to defend against if you didn’t know how.  These fools definitely didn’t know how and their bodies hitting the floor proved it.

One thrall’s knife met the Crescent Blade, and the blade didn’t just parry; it cut the corruption out of the weapon itself, leaving the metal dull and harmless. The thrall stared at his suddenly mundane knife in confusion.

Diegan kicked him in the chest. He flew backward into a pillar hitting it with a crack of his back and the wind leaving his lungs.

Another thrall tried to flank him. Diegan pivoted, grabbed the man’s wrist, and used him as a shield against the necrotic bolt the woman hurled across the room.

The bolt struck the thrall’s back, and Diegan felt the parasite’s tether snap instantly. The man collapsed, freed by accident.

“That didn’t help, Paulina!” yelled Richard at her incompetence.  “The Dark Elf must die!  You must actually hit him to do that!”

Paulina hissed. Her blue see‑through robe fluttered around her like corrupted silk when she stood up, hefting another ball of soul shattering death in her hand. Her eyes glowed green. Her lips were parted in a snarl that wasn’t hers.

“Dark Elf trash…” she whispered harshly, voice layered with the parasite’s tone. “You should’ve just joined us and found glory at his feet.”

Another necrotic fel orb formed in her other palm … swirling, pulsing, hungry.  She reared them both back, readying to launch them when the remaining thralls closed in.

Diegan didn’t look at her yet. He couldn’t. Not until the thralls were down.

The last three attacked in a coordinated strike where the parasite’s influence, giving them unnatural timing.

Diegan Misty‑Stepped again. One heartbeat he was between them. The next he was behind them.

Three clean arcs of the Crescent Blade with each one severing a tether, not flesh, and the thralls dropped like puppets with cut strings.  They lay gasping and groaning along with the others and Diegan stood there with the Crescent Blade in front of him, as if readying it to salute.

Only the woman sorceress thrall remained in his way now.

She floated slightly above the bed, robe shimmering with fel‑light, her black hair drifting as if underwater. The succubus mark on her breast glowed like a brand. 

The human and Nivorathian guards almost literally scrabbled out of the room on hands and knees, desperate to save themselves.  Diegan let them go because he was there for Richard the snake only.

Paulina hurled her necrotic orbs. 

Diegan didn’t dodge them as they expected.  Instead, he stepped into them.

The Crescent Blade carved through the spells mid‑air … slicing the corruptions apart. The orbs shattered into harmless green sparks that drifted across the floor like dying green embers.

Paulina’s eyes widened. The parasite inside her screamed in terror.

Diegan finally looked at her from the side of the bed where he’d closed the distance, then up at the Incubus who’d not yet acted, as if it were either afraid of something or was waiting for something.  Diegan couldn’t figure out which it was yet.

“Paulina the Thrall,” he said softly to the woman. “You’re not going to die today.”

She shrieked with a sound that was hers and not hers both then launched three more necrotic bombs in rapid succession.

Diegan moved through them like a dancer through falling flower petals.

One bolt sliced past his cheek. One grazed his shoulder. One he caught on the flat of the Crescent Blade, letting the spell dissolve against the steel.

He still advanced.

Paulina floated away, her feet never touching the floor, her robe swirling around her like a storm cloud.

“Stay back!” she cried but the parasite twisted the words from her throat into a command, not a plea.

Diegan stepped closer, ignoring her shouts.

She hurled another necrotic orb blast.

He severed it easily once more.

She screamed in frustration.

He reached her on the far side of the room when she bumped into the wall and had nowhere else to go.

And with one clean, perfect motion, a motion that was neither violent nor cruel, he placed the Crescent Blade against the glowing mark on her breast.

The sword hummed loudly in the air with the air shimmering like a blast of heat rising.

The Crescent Blade had released its Severance of the Unholy ability and didn’t just severe a succubus’s tether, but the other corrupted holds that’d been placed on her from that foul device called the Sinseer itself.  The succubus parasite shrieked, a sound that shook the Nexus Hall as Diegan sliced downward, not through flesh, but through the tether binding Paulina’s soul.

Light exploded. Green corruption evaporated. The mark burned away. Paulina collapsed into his arms, unconscious but free.  Diegan set her gently on the floor.

Then he turned to Richard who still hadn’t moved from his soft high ground.

The would‑be emperor stood trembling, wings flared, tail lashing, horns glowing with fel‑light but his eyes were wide with sudden, dawning fear.

Diegan raised the Crescent Blade.

“Now,” he said, voice as cold as the void itself, “we finish this.”

“NO!  ZHAERITH!  SUCK HIM DRY!”

Diegan Misty-Stepped once more and barely in time to avoid the blast from that crown upon Richard’s head which blew a hole in the wall.

“Such a virile Dark Elf.  Your essence will feed us well tonight.”

Diegan stared with narrowed, angry eyes at the Incubus that laughed at him and at the Succubus spirit that had been conjured by the crown to kill him.  Both were readying much deadlier spell-power than what the unconscious woman had brought to bear.  Richard threw black slimy tendrils from his hands that tried to grab Diegan. 

He sliced them up while dancing through their attempts to trip and make him fumble.  More came but also blasts from the spirit.  Those dreadful tendrils… slick, black, writhing ropes of soul‑rot and blasts from the spirit, each one a shrieking bolt of fel‑green light that cracked the air like lightning. Diegan gracefully sliced the tendrils apart mid‑air, letting the blasts pass through the space where he had been a heartbeat earlier.  The sickening explosions across the Nexus Hall as they blew up so much history and spell wrought conduits both.

Zhaerith’s voice rose from the crown, layered over Richard’s own. “Hold still, little hunter. Let me taste you.”

Richard hurled another volley of tendrils, his wings beating furiously, his horns glowing brighter with every pulse of corruption. The succubus spirit manifested behind as a towering red translucent silhouette woman with large claws, wings, and hunger … her form flickering like a nightmare trying to become real.

Diegan Misty‑Stepped again, appearing behind Richard just as a blast tore through the floor where he had stood. Stone exploded. Shards flew. The air filled with sparkle dust and fel‑light.

Richard spun, tail whipping, claws slashing. Zhaerith shrieked at him. “FEED ME HIS SOUL!”

Diegan parried the claws with the Crescent Blade, sparks of holy radiance scattering across the corrupted chamber. Now he was in a fight, and he grunted in effort to throw off the inhumanly strong Incubus.  Diegan stepped inside Richard’s reach, elbowed him in the throat, then kicked him backward into the succubus’s half‑formed body.

The spirit caught him, wings folding around him like a lover’s embrace.

Diegan’s eyes narrowed and his voice was cold disgust. “Pathetic.”

Zhaerith lunged at him, trying to rake into his soul and flesh both.

Her claws came down like scythes, each one dripping with soul‑venom. Diegan raised the Crescent Blade and met her strike head‑on. The impact shook the Nexus Hall, sending ripples of corrupted energy across the walls.

The Crescent Blade hummed with righteous purpose.  Diegan released its Severance of the Unholy ability once again. Zhaerith recoiled, shrieking as the blade’s radiance burned through her claws. Her form flickered, destabilizing her awful essence.

Richard screamed. “NO! SHE’S MINE!”

Diegan stepped forward, slicing through another volley of tendrils. “You’re wrong. She was never yours.  You were hers and death is the only way to rid yourself of her.”

Zhaerith’s wings unfurled, filling the chamber with shadow. She hurled a blast of fel‑energy that tore through the ceiling, sending debris raining down.

Diegan Misty‑Stepped again… appearing directly beneath her.

One upward slash zinged through the air.

The Crescent Blade carved through her wing… not flesh, but the corruption binding her to Richard. The wing dissolved into smoke that quickly dissipated.

Zhaerith screamed so loud that it sounded like it rattled the bones of the Citadel itself.

Richard staggered, clutching his head and the crown that glowed brightly. “STOP! STOP! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

Diegan advanced.  That was the whole point.