Raven perched on the highest parapet of High Meadow’s outer wall. The wind clawed at their cloak and howled like a ghost that had been fired from haunting duty but refused to leave quietly. It would lament its exorcism. It would haunt still and forever. It would never leave.

  The city sprawled below.

  Ordinary people called it morning.

  Raven called it the hour when shadows lie.

  The sun rose like an assassin’s blade glinting above the rooftops, slicing through the mist and stabbing light where it was least welcome. High Meadow writhed awake beneath it. A living serpent beast of commerce, greed, petty dreams, and the kind of optimism that should have been illegal.

  Raven tightened their grip on the stone. The cold bit into their gloves. Perfect. Pain was honest. Pain never lied. Pain was a stalwart companion through even the bleakest and most despairing of times. Pain kept it all real. real.

  Two children ran through the street below, laughing and swinging wooden swords painted bright blue. Their joy rang out like bells. Raven heard only the shrieking of doomed souls. One child stumbled and fell. The other helped him up.

  Raven watched with narrowed eyes. In this cruel world even mercy had sharp edges.

  A merchant wagon rolled along the street. It carried bright fruits, fresh bread, and colorful festival ribbons. To Raven it might as well have been a procession of denial. Beneath every wholesome illusion lurked rot and moral decay. They saw it clearly. Mostly because one of the apples had a bruise the size of a silver coin. That apple held a rotten core and Raven most certainly did intend any pun to be thought of with that observation. It was super serious.

  Three adventurers strode toward the gate. Their armor shined. Their cloaks fluttered heroically. Their spirits were painfully high. The dwarf waved at a guard. The guard waved back. A king’s welcome for fools who had no idea they walked straight toward their graves.

  Raven exhaled softly through their mask. Hope remained the deadliest poison of all.

  Two matrons hung laundry on a line. They gossiped about the baker’s nephew and his unfortunate new haircut. The conversation sounded harmless to normal ears. Raven heard the muttering of conspirators hiding secrets that could topple kingdoms. Possibly involving dinner plans.

  A bard tuned his lute in the square. Each cheerful note glittered through the air like sunlight on water. To Raven the tune was a funeral dirge that had not yet realized it was mourning something.

  High Meadow breathed. High Meadow pulsed. High Meadow dripped with a thousand naive dreams that had no idea how fragile they truly were.

  A wooden sign jutted from a nearby stall. Its bright pink paint blared its message across the street.

  TODAY’S SPECIAL: MUFFINS.

  Raven’s eyes narrowed until only slivers of darkness peeked through the mask.

  The world mocked them with its sweetness. That delicious cloying sweetness that made the mouth of one Raven in particular water with anticipation. Swallow the spit. Resist the urge. All was black and doomed.

  They turned to descend the wall. Cloak whipping in the wind. Boots gripping stone that had seen too much sunshine and far too little tragedy.

  Their foot slipped for one horrifying moment.

  They caught themself instantly. Of course they did.

  No one saw. No one ever saw. Raven moved like a shadow that had given up on therapy long ago.

  And today that shadow would be tested.

  Something approached.

  Something inevitable.

  Something devastating.

  And Raven knew, without question, that everyone would look at them the moment it arrived.

  As if they, of all people, were the responsible one.

  - - -

  Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria stood in the inn’s tiny courtyard, hands folded neatly at her waist, pretending very hard that she was watching Cletus.

  She absolutely was.

  He stood near Kotetsu, sleeves rolled up, doing something deeply mundane to the truck’s engine that involved grease, muttering, and a wrench that looked older than several elven dynasties. His strange hat sat crooked. His shirt bore three slime stains. He had no posture, no poise, and no awareness whatsoever that he was being silently admired.

  Or silently judged.

  Or silently anything, because Cletus appeared immune to subtlety on a spiritual level.

  Liraelith’s eye twitched.

  She was royalty.

  She was graceful.

  She had put actual effort into brushing her hair this morning despite the traumatic slime incident.

  And what did she receive in return?

  A distracted, “Mornin’. Truck needs work.”

  He spoke of the monstrous metal beast the way poets spoke of their beloveds.

  She exhaled sharply, smoothing her gown even though it did not need smoothing. At least seven guild members had nearly walked into doorframes staring at her today. Normal men had the decency to swoon.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  But Cletus?

  Nothing.

  Not a flicker. Not a blush. Not a heartbeat out of place. He treated her like a perfectly ordinary, completely unremarkable woman who happened to be standing near him while he performed mechanical rituals.

  It was maddening.

  Liraelith dragged her gaze away before she did something embarrassing like sigh wistfully or adjust her hair for the 18th time.

  Movement caught her eye.

  Raven.

  The scout dropped from the parapet like a raven-shaped stone skipping down a cliff face. Cloak whipping. Boots silent. Mask unreadable. They landed in a crouch, rose without a sound, and stalked toward the square with the kind of grim determination normally reserved for assassins, tax collectors, and people who had witnessed Cletus reversing a truck through a marketplace.

  Liraelith’s shoulders slumped, a mix of admiration and confusion.

  Even the shadows seemed to avoid Raven out of politeness.

  She watched the strange figure disappear through the alley, then turned her gaze once more toward the oblivious human man half inside Kotetsu’s hood.

  she thought.

  Cletus cursed loudly as a wrench slipped and smashed his knuckles.

  She flinched. His vocabulary did not improve with proximity.

  She pressed a hand to her heart, cheeks warming despite herself.

  Cletus stared up at the sun for a brief moment and licked his lips. He could use a cold beer.

  The thought of a cold beer had barely finished drifting through Cletus’s brain when the sky decided to have a nervous breakdown.

  A single thunderclap tore across the heavens like a cosmic tree being ripped in half.

  Everyone in the courtyard froze.

  Liraelith’s ears shot straight up.

  Raven, halfway down an alley, stopped so abruptly they nearly folded in half.

  Kotetsu hummed. “Atmospheric anomaly detected. Probability of dramatic entrance: ninety-seven percent.”

  The clouds above High Meadow churned inward, spiraling like a divine toilet flush. Purple lightning flickered at the center; violent, theatrical, and astounding to most onlookers.

  Someone screamed in the street.

  Someone else fainted.

  A third person fainted because the second person fainted.

  The townsfolk scrambled back from the square as the clouds thickened into a dome of roiling shadow. The air crackled. The cobblestones trembled. The sky split open with a pillar of lightning so blinding that half the market briefly reconsidered their religions.

  And then—

  - - -

  FWOOM.

  A crater bloomed in the center of High Meadow’s square. Smoke spiraled. Thunder rattled the windows. The scent of obsidian, dread, and vaguely cinnamon wafted through the air.

  Standing in the smoking impact zone, his cloak billowing in slow, malicious ripples, was:

  Lord Vorgath the Desolate Flame, Sovereign of the Nightbound Citadel, He Who Devours Crowns, Breaker of Oaths, Harbinger of the Ever-Burning Eclipse.

  His shredded cloak fluttered dramatically.

  His armor glowed with inner fire.

  A single spark popped off his shoulder just to emphasize his arrival.

  Someone whispered:

  “…It’s him.”

  “…The Desolate Flame.”

  “…The Doom of Nine Kingdoms.”

  “…Oh gods, I left my laundry outside!”

  Then emerged Hank Underberry.

  Not calmly.

  Not bravely.

  Not wisely.

  But with furious bureaucratic purpose.

  The halfling stormed into the square holding a clipboard like a holy relic, flanked by his two half-orc bodyguards now armed with weapons that should have required municipal permits.

  Hank did not tremble.

  Hank did not falter.

  Hank was by the paperwork this moment was about to generate.

  He glared up at the Demon Lord as if he were merely another late appointment.

  “Name,” Hank barked.

  The Demon Lord blinked, slightly thrown off script.

  Then, smoothing his cloak and straightening to full terrifying height, he said with grave dignity:

  “Lord Henry Underberry. It has been too long.”

  Hank’s eye twitched. “I told you not to call me that.”

  Vorgath turned, flames flickering along his pauldrons. His burning gaze swept the courtyard until it landed upon Liraelith.

  He lifted a gauntleted hand in a perfectly executed villainous bow.

  “Princess Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria, First Daughter of the Silverwood, Bearer of the Moonpetal Crest, Heir to the Radiant Bough, and, of course, Voice of the Verdant Court. It has been far too long, my dear.”

  Liraelith froze like someone had unplugged her soul.

  He raised another hand, silencing her with graceful menace.

  Then he turned.

  And beheld Cletus.

  Cletus Hickenbottom.

  Standing beside a magical pickup truck with slime guts on the windshield, one scraped knuckle, and an expression halfway between confusion and hunger.

  The Demon Lord swept his cloak behind him in a slow arc of regal power.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he began, voice deepening, echoing, ancient power vibrating the air. “I am—”

  “Vorgath,” Cletus said without looking up from his wrench. “Everyone’s whisperin’ it. What c’n I do ya’ f’r?”

  Silence.

  A bird chirped once, then regretted it.

  Vorgath felt his left eyelid twitch again, that same warmth spread across his cheeks, and he felt his breath hitch in his chest. He stared at the others present, the people of this village, and they were watching him. For some reason, he regretted his choice to wear the shredded cape.

  “Ya’ know- “ Cletus pointed his wrench, concern furrowing his brows. “Yer cape is a little torn up. If you got a lil’ while I could sew that up f’r you. Jus’ let me finish cleanin’ my truck firs’ an’ I’ll get right on that.”

  Vorgath went perfectly still.

  Then, voice a low tremor, he asked, “Human… do you have any idea who I am?”

  Cletus blinked. “Yeah. Yer Vorgath. Was I wrong?”

  There it was.

  The warmth.

  That traitorous sensation rose beneath his helm. It that same awful, glowing pressure behind his cheeks that he absolutely refused to acknowledge in public. He felt his neck stiffen. His breath caught in his chest for a moment.

  “I am Vorgath the Desolate Flame, Sovereign of the Nightbound Citadel, He Who Devours Crowns, Breaker of Oaths, Harbinger of the Ever-Burning Eclipse, Doom of Nine Kingdoms, Architect of—”

  “So yeah,” Cletus interrupted. “Vorgath. I was right.”

  The warmth surged. His left eyelid fluttered and he felt a sharp sting of wetness begin to grow within the depths of his socket. A strange sensation that was entirely uncomfortable.

  Unacceptable.

  He snapped his hand toward the sky like slapping a god.

  Lightning detonated downward.

  KRRRA-KA-BOOOOOM.

  A section of High Meadow’s wall didn’t crumble. It ceased to ever have existed. Dust, ash, and three bewildered squirrels rained from the air.

  Screams exploded. People fled.

  Someone fainted onto someone who was already fainting.

  Kotetsu rumbled calmly. “Cletus. Observation: Vorgath is clearly the force of ultimate evil and is statistically preparing to challenge you. He may, in fact, view you as some sort of prophetic ‘hero’ from another world.”

  Cletus sighed. “Aw hell. So he’s here for me, then?”

  “Affirmative. He is performing the classical evil apex courtship display.”

  Cletus didn’t like the sound of that.

  Vorgath strode forward, every step rippling the air with hot, embarrassed fury.

  “CLETUS HICKENBOTTOM!”

  His voice cracked stone, rattled shingles, and ruined someone’s entire week.

  “I have come to destroy you! I shall crush your bones, rend your flesh, mount your skull upon my citadel gates, scatter your innards across the pyres of my legions, and—”

  He turned to Liraelith and bowed with devastating formality.

  “—I shall wed Princess Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria, First Daughter of the Silverwood, Bearer of the Moonpetal Crest, Heir to the Radiant Bough, Voice of the Verdant Court.”

  Liraelith made a noise that had no business coming from an elf.

  Cletus scratched his chin.

  “So you’re here to challenge me?”

  Vorgath inhaled, cape billowing.

  “I challenge you to ANY contest of your choosing, outworlder! Should you prevail — by some cosmic accident, by some miraculous event, by either hook or by even the most insidious of crooks— I shall depart High Meadow, leave your fragile settlement intact, and cease all pursuit of the princess!”

  Cletus nodded. “Any contest I choose.”

  “Yes,” Vorgath hissed. “Choose your doom.”

  The warmth flickered again — this time worse, spreading through his cheeks, his chest, down his neck — humiliation blooming like demonic rosacea.

  He hated it.

  Cletus stuck out his hand.

  “Deal. Loser pays.”

  Vorgath froze.

  The warmth turned to a full-body flare.