The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 234: Castle Stone.

Chapter 234: Castle Stone.

Castle Stone, Saint Witch Island

A giant collapsed in the great throne hall of Castle Stone, beside the Fountain of Spells, where a shimmering globe hovered midair, its blue hue pulsing like the heart of a dying star.

Blood streaked across the black stone floor, giving the cold, dull surface an eerie gleam.

Phoria stood with two other High Sorcerers, circling the dying vampire as he crumbled before them. His skin, once taut and pale, now turned to ash, flaking off in thin, ghostly layers. Smoke coiled from his mouth, his breath rasping like wind through a cracked tomb.

"The demon prince... he is alive... They’ve called for a meeting... full moon... Crystal Mountain... Qowen... Lords and Sorcerers..."

He coughed, but no blood came...only ash, drifting like burnt parchment. His body dimmed to a lifeless gray, collapsing in a heap of dust. Then, with a sudden grotesque swell, he burst, his corpse erupting into a spray of ash, blood, and sinew.

The sorcerers were splattered. Phoria closed her eyes, jaw clenched, her fury as palpable as the magic that simmered in the air.

"That bitch brought her husband back," she hissed between her teeth.

Lifting a hand, she muttered a cleansing spell. Gore peeled from her robe and face, congealed in the air, and with a flick of her finger, the filth splashed across the ground.

"Vassals!" she barked.

Goblin servants scrambled into the hall, their hunched forms scurrying in fear.

"Clean this mess."

In the dim silence of her private chamber, Phoria scribbled a few sharp words onto a slip of parchment and tossed it into the fire. The flames devoured the message instantly, sending curling embers into the smoky air.

"I’ve summoned the Lord Vampires," she said coldly, her voice brittle with restrained rage. "If that demon has truly returned, we must seize the chance to kill him. He offered the meeting."

The eldest sorcerer, Daron Craftneck, narrowed his eyes. His expression was carved from stone, stern, unreadable, but heavy with judgment. Phoria, he feared her the most, was teetering at the edge of madness. Her obsession with resurrecting Nimoieth– to serve her as an apprentice– had blinded her completely.

"He’s the son of a demon," Daron said flatly, "and now he has a dragon rider at his side. How exactly do you think we’re going to defeat that?"

Phoria slammed her palm against the table, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. "Why do you keep underestimating us?" she shouted. "The demon is weak now, and so is his wife. This is the best moment to strike. To take her. I want her body."

Until now, Renar Wheels, the second High Sorcerer, had remained quiet, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of composure. He stepped forward, placing a firm but gentle hand on Phoria’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

"Calm yourself," he said softly. "If the ambush failed, it wasn’t your fault. The Lords faltered the moment they heard Luther was dead. They gave up too easily."

Just then, the heavy door burst open with a violent clang. Victor stormed in, eyes wide with urgency.

"The giant, he’s dead?" he asked, inspecting their faces for confirmation.

"Yes. And that hell-prince has returned," said Wizard Daron Craftneck, his voice low and grim.

"What do you mean? How could they have saved him?" Victor snarled, his fangs elongating, eyes burning with disbelief.

"It was his wife," Renar replied coolly, without hesitation. "You don’t even have to ask. She was always searching."

Thunder growled outside the castle walls, shaking the stone bones of the fortress. A jagged flash of lightning lit the room in stark silver, just as a black bird hurled through an open window and crashed onto the floor.

A crow, wounded and bleeding.

"My crow!" Daron whispered.

Victor’s gaze fell on it, and he licked his lips. Blood, even in drops, held a pull on his senses. But human blood... that was an entirely different craving.

Wizard Daron stepped forward, his expression indistinct. He bent down, lifting the trembling bird and gently wrapping it in the folds of his long sleeve. Then, placing a steady palm upon its small, blood-slicked head, he closed his eyes and began to chant.

Power stirred in the air.

In the vision conjured through the dying crow’s eyes, he saw the earth, a jagged rift. From it, the great black griffin emerged, wings outstretched, carrying the demon prince and his wife upon its back.

But there was something more, something far worse.

Another presence moved near the rift: The Demon God.

Daron gasped, jolting as the god’s fierce gaze turned, straight at him. Though it was only a memory, the god smirked, as if he could see through time, through space, through the spell itself, like a reflection in a mirror.

The Demon God raised his arm. From his palm surged a torrent of blackened energy, flooding into the rift. Then, a blinding wave of golden light burst from within, colliding with the darkness.

As the light faded, the rift vanished without a trace. And where chaos had been, now there was only snow. A pristine, white silence settled over the land.

The wizard opened his eyes, a cold shiver of dread crawling beneath his skin.

"The Demon God aided them," he murmured, voice tight with disbelief. "He closed the rift to the Gods’ Prison... He let his own son die."

His brow furrowed deeply. Without Luther, the Vampire Lords would unravel. Their strength was already splintering. Daron could feel it, the island teetering on the edge of collapse. He wasn’t ready to let Saint Witch Island fall into ruin, buried in blood alongside Phoria’s madness and the vampires’ pride. This would bring them to their extinction.

Five Lords and the Vampire King were already dead. Only seven Lords remained.

An hour passed. The storm still whispered through the castle walls as the surviving sorcerers and vampire lord gathered in the ancient dining hall. The heavy doors groaned open, and the remaining Vampire Lords entered, their cloaks slick with rain, boots echoing against the stone floor.

Phoria lowered her spoon and wiped her mouth with slow, gracefully. Her eyes sharpened like blades.

"You lost the battle in the North," she said flatly.

Acelieth strode forward, removing his leather mask. Beneath it, his face was pale and sharp, eyes simmering with accusation.

"And one of you betrayed us," he said darkly.

Victor rose to his feet with a nervous laugh, raising his hands in a show of calm. "Let’s not turn on each other. We need unity now, not suspicion. See they killed Oka, and we might run out of supplies."

Acelieth’s gaze locked onto him, cold and piercing. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring its prey.

"You never fight at the front," he said. "And now five Lord Vampires are dead. If the sorcerers want to remain part of this, they must act."

Wizard Daron stood, his chair scraping back as he stepped away from the table.

"We will act," he declared. "The Demon Prince has demanded a meeting, on the Crystal Mountain of Qowen. We have time until the full moon to prepare."

His voice carried strength, the kind that settled storms.

"We will execute the Demon Killer Formation. With the gods’ lightning, we’ll destroy him and capture his wife. The Lords will strike down anyone who stands in our way. The dragon must die. But the griffin... the griffin may serve a purpose." He finished.

The Vampire Lords exchanged tense glances.

"You’ve never mentioned a Demon Killer Formation," Acelieth said, his tone suspicious.

Victor chuckled, lifting his hand. In it appeared a worn, ancient notebook with a cracked leather cover, the edges stained with age.

"Because we didn’t have one, until now," he replied. "Nimoieth was always researching. She left behind three diaries. Phoria found the second one. I realized the first is still hidden... in Thegara. And the third one, I don’t know where it is."

One of the masked Lords stepped forward, his movements swift and deliberate. Without a word, he snatched the diary from Victor’s grasp and began flipping through its brittle pages.

"It’s real," he said after a moment. "I can read it."

Victor blinked in surprise, his brow arching. He had never seen this Lord’s face, never even heard his voice until today. He didn’t know which realm he hailed from, unlike the others, who had once been human knights.

"How can you read it?" Phoria asked, her voice low and drawn, more intrigued than suspicious now.

"My mother taught me," the masked vampire replied.

"And who is your mother?" she pressed, her curiosity flaring.

"That’s not your concern," he snapped, without looking up. "I’ll keep this."

Phoria shrugged, a sharp smirk tugging at her lips. "As you wish," she said coolly. "I already have it all, right here." She tapped her temple. Nimoieth’s spirit helped her expose the content of this diary, and she didn’t hesitate to read it all. Every word, every symbol from that diary, she had memorized it. That was how she’d forged the gem, the wasted one that used to teleport the berserk giant.

The masked vampire returned to Acelieth and said with quiet fury,

"We must meet them. But King Benkin, he’s mine. I will kill him with my own hands for what he had done to Luther."

Phoria let out a wild, almost hysterical laugh.

"Very interesting," she said, eyes gleaming. "Each of you carries a story. I’m eager to hear them all."

The Lords ignored her and pivoted as one. Acelieth’s cold gaze fixed on Victor.

"It’s time to prove your loyalty to the Vampire King," he said sharply. "We serve only him, not even this crafty witch."

Without waiting for a reply, he strode away, leaving the others behind. Victor sighed and followed silently, unwilling to linger with the sorcerers.

As the doors shut behind them, the two wizards exchanged a loaded glance.

Perhaps Sigaros had been right. This moment might be their only chance, to forge a fragile peace with the outside world.

Phoria and Lutherieth had failed to bring Nimoieth back. And what, truly, could Nimoieth offer them that they could not claim on their own?

What if the mad Saint only sought to drain their strength to fuel her own terrible power? Doubt crept like a shadow through their hearts.

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