The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 156: Volume 2: House of Fire and Wings

Chapter 156: Volume 2: House of Fire and Wings

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What is happening on the other side of the world?

In the Castle Stone- now named Saint Witch Island remembrance of Nimoieth.

On this island, Azrael could only inspect the city of witches and their temples. But there was one place that would never permit his entry, and he avoided it without question. Castle Stone. A place embraced with the high sorcerer’s barrier to distinguish every holy existence. Even the death Saint.

This is an ancient fortress swallowed by ceaseless storms, it stood in a land where the sun was a rare stranger. This island lay on the western edge of the Ice Land, far beyond where any sane seafarer would dare to sail, not even the arrogant fools who chased mermaid myths and drunken legends.

The castle itself crouched like a beast atop the mountain’s jagged peak, dark and weathered as if carved from shadow. Three stone bridges, narrow and treacherous, connected it to the cliffs from three opposing directions.

And why had this place been forsaken? Because of the storms? The wrathful, ravenous waves?

No.

Once, this place had been the stronghold of a legendary sea monster tamer, the first human king to pledge allegiance to Nimoieth. But after his death, his heirs waged bloody battles for power, slaughtering one another in their greed. In their madness, they lost control of their beasts, and with them, the kingdom crumbled.

Seizing the opportunity, sorcerers and pirates formed a dark alliance. Together, they stormed the island, claimed it, and turned it into their colony.

In time, they renamed it Saint Witch Island, branding it with fear so no soul would dare set foot near its cursed shores unless invited.

Those hungry for forbidden magic and the depths of dark witchcraft traveled here to be trained in secret. Because magical elixirs and dark spells always sell well. This was the only territory the King of Alvonia could not conquer, not with the witches’ barrier encircling it like a ring of fire. And beyond that, the King would never gamble Sunkiath’s life for such a doomed ambition.

After the war with the witches, King Benkin’s great-father forged a fragile treaty with the surviving sorcerers: they would never cross into lands ruled by men. If any of them were caught practicing magic within human territories, imprisonment would not be the fate for breaking that oath, but a burning fire.

Now, in a vast strategy chamber deep within the castle’s bones, four high sorcerers stood gathered around a long table. A map, weathered and stained by time, lay stretched across the cold, dark stone.

Lightning forked across the sky outside, its flash spilling a harsh, blue light through the tall window, momentarily painting their faces in ghostly hues.

"Where is His Highness?" asked a tall witch with striking blue hair. She appeared to be in her middle years, nothing like the hideous hags whispered of in human folklore. She was breathtaking, with eyes that glowed a vivid green, casting an otherworldly light beneath her long lashes.

In her hand, she gripped a staff carved from Zicon wood, a rare timber harvested from the underworld itself, pulsing with immense magical power. Embedded at its crown was a crimson crystal, one drawn from the molten depths of Fison Volcano, deep in the underworld where the wicked dragon Adoninath reigned.

Adoninath, that black beast, with leathery, bat-like wings and breath tainted by darkness, was said to burn men to ash with a single glance from its blood-red eyes. The staff she wielded had been forged to command storm winds, a relic of both beauty and dread. To earn this staff, she had won against many sorcerers, significantly its last bearer who was a pile of bones now.

Outside the castle, on slick, wet plains veiled in moss and shadow, a portal began to form, its edges crackling with spectral light. The sorcerers turned as one.

A figure cloaked in darkness, his face hidden behind a silver-black, eyeless mask, spoke calmly, answering her question.

"They are here, Phoria."

The masked man in the silver robe strode toward the balcony. The wind lashed at his raven-black hair, and the red staff in his hand struck the floor with a sharp click at every step.

"He’s brought all his Lords," he said, his voice colored with mischievous amusement.

Within seconds, twelve figures emerged from the portal, darted to the castle, and materialized in the meeting hall, each of them carrying the unmistakable weight of power.

The Lord vampires had grown faster, alarmingly so. And only one thing could explain such a surge in stamina.

"I see the Blood of Virgins potion worked on you like an essence of life," Phoria quipped, her voice snapping through the air as a wicked grin curled across her lips.

"You’ve gotten even chattier," Victor Keleemont, the blond royal vampire, shot back with a smirk. "Are you drinking some kind of potion for that too?"

Acelieth stepped toward the hearth and snapped his fingers. The flames vanished with a sharp gust of wind, and a chilling cold seeped into the room, swallowing its warmth.

Their presence alone chilled the air, but without the fire, the atmosphere turned glacial.

The remaining nine vampires stood in utter silence, statues of shadow and ice.

Phoria exhaled a weary snort, her gaze drifting toward the calm giant among them. That one, usually a berserker, had been subdued by sorcerer magic. Temporary, perhaps, but effective enough for now.

"They’ve been using this on our hordes," said one of the Lord vampires, stepping closer to the map-strewn table. He was lean, sharp-featured, and eerily silent, his short hair still damp from travel. His figure cast no shadow.

None of the vampire Lords did.

"An alchemist dares target us?" the masked sorcerer asked, his voice low and edged.

"Maybe. Renar Wheels," the brown-eyed vampire Lord replied, pouting as if the name tasted foul. "I couldn’t touch it, the contents scorched like hellfire. It kills our mutated hordes."

Phoria raised a hand with practiced grace. The vial floated into the air, hovered a moment, then settled gently in her palm. She uncorked it and sniffed, her expression curving into a smile.

"A strong tang of pure silver," she murmured before her smile faltered. "But the rest... the ingredients don’t speak to me. My nose doesn’t recognize them."

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