Dead…

The air in the cave was thick with smoke, the warm glow of fires casting flickering shadows across our faces. I knelt beside Viscoff, the warrior who had bravely defended the twins against the gorilla demon just an hour before. The rich, dark stone of our surroundings felt as oppressive as the looming despair that hung above us.

Dehya was at his side, Her eyes, usually filled with warmth, were now clouded with dread. "Zain, we can't lose him," she whispered, her voice trembling.

I felt her pain, her helplessness, as the fate of our friend slipped further from our grasp. With every passing second, it became clearer that we were losing him. He fought hard against the unrelenting horrors of this cursed land, in every sense of the word. And yet, no amount of healing spells, however potent, could save him right now.

Orion, my faithful spirit cat, perched atop my shoulder like a golden sentinel. I could sense his discomfort as the weight of our misfortune settled on the all of us. All his lively chatter and spirited bravado had been replaced with a solemn quiet. He nuzzled against my neck, a gesture meant to comfort but only reminding me that we were all facing an insurmountable loss.

Ben appeared at the cave's entrance, the fire illuminating the beast he had slain—a massive boar that seemed to reflect the ominous danger of this land. He dropped the carcass with a heavy thud, oblivious to the chaos surrounding us as he went to assist Dehya. Our eyes were glued to Viscoff, whose essence was fading like the last glow of a waning fire.

It was too late. Viscoff's body, once brimming with life, laughter and always had songs, lay still, the spark within extinguished. Dehya's eyes shimmered with tears of disbelief. I could feel her guilt pull at my heart like vines threatening to choke the very air from my lungs. "I should have done more... I could have saved him," she said, her breath hitching as tears streamed down her face.

And as we all wept, my sorrow morphing into a fierce rage against this cruel domain, each sob echoed in the cave like a fading heartbeat. Gimola and Gimli were kneeling with traditional stoic dignity, sharing a silent bond in their grief. their expressions displayed genuine sorrow etched with memories of camaraderie. Viscoff was like this because he stepped up and protected them.

What remained of us. gathered around the boar meat Dehya meticulously cooked, the aroma wafting through the cave, clashing with the acrid air of despair. Each bite tasted hollow, stripped of the joyous laughter we had shared mere days before. The silence was enveloping, desperate as we reminisced about Viscoff, weaving stories that lingered in the fabric of our hearts.

"I remember the time he toppled that boulder, thinking it was a lesser demon," Ben broke the silence, a smile gracing his lips despite the tears. As the memories flowed, so did the warmth that mingled with grief; despite being surrounded by the darkness of our hellish environment, those moments allowed flickers of light to seep through.

Dehya found strength in her guilt as she cooked for us, her eyes reflecting a mix of sorrow and determination. We were left with heavy hearts, bound together by the loss we faced. Together, we shared our memories of him, willing the darkness of our loot-strewn fate to be forged by the bonds we held dear.

In this broken world, we would carry Viscoff's spirit within us, a beacon amidst the chaos of this dark sky world. We would fight, for him and For us.

——

The late afternoon sun tuned the skies into a surreal palette of orange and crimson as Archebald, the first prince of the Windsor kingdom, gazed out from the ornate window of his father's chamber. He was a short man with a curly mustache, and his visage often left others chuckling, but there was nothing comical about the thoughts swirling within his mind or the dark presence sharing his body.

"Look at them," the voice of the demon king reverberated in his mind, low and resonant, like thunder hiding beneath still waters. "They stand oblivious. They'll worship you as their king soon enough."

The words sent a thrill through Archebald. Just moments ago, he had slipped the last vial of poison—dark, viscous, lethal—liquid into his father's cup. The king had been bedridden for months, each cough echoing through the castle like a death knell. Archebald had made it come to be; the burden of his father's ineptitude and kindness had always weighed heavy on his shoulders. He would never be that weak.

The demon king, residing within him, had whispered promises of power and dominion, igniting the malicious spark that had always flickered in Archebald's heart. Which made him end things quicker.

"Ah, the sweet scent of betrayal," the demon king continued, relishing the moment. "You have always been destined for greatness, my host."

"A greatness unachieved while he draws breath," Archebald muttered bitterly, fists clenching at his side. "This throne could be—should be—will be-mine!"

"Indeed, it's mine to give," the demon chuckled, the sound coiling around Archebald's thoughts like smoke. "You were a fitting choice. This kingdom has nurtured your darkness for too long. Together, we will shape it into a realm ruled by fear."

The prince closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the warmth of the entity coursing through him, reigniting his ambitions. They would take everything from him, just as his father had seized his childhood, molding the boy into an obedient shadow of nobility. No more.

With purposeful strides, Archebald made his way to the grand hall where the King's Committee awaited him, their faces eerie reflections of piety and allegiance. Servants moved like whispering shadows, hastily laying out scrolls and documents, unaware of the deadly machinations afoot. Each face seemed to be turned toward one another, murmuring discussions tinged with concern over the king's failing health. Little did they know the final act was about to unfold.

The room fell silent as Archebald cleared his throat dramatically. "Esteemed members of the King's Committee," he announced, his voice echoing against the stone walls. "It is with a heavy heart but a resolute spirit that I inform you, my father, our beloved king, has finally passed."

Gasps rippled through the assembled nobles, replacing their previous camaraderie with shock and unvoiced disbelief. Archebald continued, blood pounding in his ears, a twisted smile breaking across his face. "We must prepare for the crowning ceremony at once! I shall take my rightful place upon the throne of Windsor."

The committee's expressions shifted, huddled whispers filling the void. A lack of suspicion clouded their judgment, conveniently burying any thoughts of not questioning a prince who had long been groomed for the throne. No one dared consider the possibility of treachery hidden beneath his well-rehearsed facade, they all believed June Meadows was the one to poison and kill the king. Archebald framed her.

As night descended, the royal balcony was draped with magnificently embroidered tapestries, and torches flickered like eager souls straining for a glimpse of their new ruler. The citizens of Windsor gathered below, their anticipatory murmurs vibrating throughout the cobblestone square.

Archebald sat poised upon the imposing throne, his heart racing. An awaiting crown glimmered, an object wrought with history and blood, and his trusted advisor stepped forward bearing it with both reverence and ignorance of the depths of deception lying beneath the surface.

"Prince Archebald, heir to the throne of Windsor!" the advisor proclaimed with a flourish, placing the crown atop Archebald's head. The moment it settled into place, a flood of power surged through him, coursing in tandem with the lingering essence of the demon king. Archebald's eyes flickered momentarily from rich brown to a sinister purple, a manifestation of the dark forces now fully unshackled within him.

His expression twisted into an evil smile, both man and demon reveling in the triumph. The throng below erupted in applause, unaware of the darkness that had just swallowed their kingdom whole.

As Archebald lifted a hand to wave, shadows flickered at the edge of his vision, speaking of the miseries yet to come. The merging of his soul with the demon king's essence was an unbreakable bond, sealing a fate that would trap the Windsor kingdom in a storm of chaos and dread.

The first prince's laughter echoed against the castle walls, a harbinger of the nightmares he would unleash upon a kingdom too naïve to see the tempest brewing in their midst. The final act of betrayal had been set, and under the crown of shadows, Archebald the Horrid reigned supreme.

——

Viscoff stood at the foot of the enormous stone gate, its edges shimmering with an ethereal light. The steps before him, made entirely of clouds, seemed both solid and ephemeral—a contradiction he welcomed. The crisp air enveloped him like a comforting embrace as he trudged forward, his bare chest exposed to the elements, a testimony to his hard-fought battles. His leather pants molded tightly to his form, and with the weight of his axe resting against his shoulder, he felt the eager anticipation of what lay beyond the gates of Valhalla.

For a Viking warrior, dying in battle was not the end but a glorious beginning. Viscoff could hear the cries of his fallen comrades, urging him on, their voices merging into a symphony of valor. As he ascended the cloud staircase, his heart swelled with pride. He would soon join the ranks of the gods.

At the massive stone gates standing before him, twelve figures awaited his arrival. The Viking gods, grand and imposing, loomed like ancient mountains. In the center stood Odin, his one eye gleaming with wisdom, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Frigg, Loki, Thor, and the others flanked him, each embodying their own unique brand of divinity. Viscoff approached reverently, his spirit soaring.

"Odin," Viscoff called out, his voice echoing through the heavenly air, "I come to claim my place among you."

Odin raised his hand, silencing the murmurs of the gods. "Viscoff, warrior of the battlefield, you are indeed worthy. But I must tell you that your journey is not over. You are needed in the realm of the living."

Viscoff's heart sank. "But I have fallen gloriously! Is it not my time to rest?"

"It is not," Odin said, his voice steady. "Zain, Dehya, and your companions need your strength. A great darkness has descended upon the world—a demon king who seeks to enslave humanity and challenge the very essence of the gods."

"They need you, Viscoff," Loki interjected, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "Besides, it's dull there without you. You have a flair for chaos."

Viscoff swallowed hard, torn between desire and duty. The urge to fight alongside his comrades burned within him. "What must I do?"

Odin conjured a desk before them, gesturing for Viscoff to take a seat. As he settled into the celestial chair, a weight lifted off him. "Grow stronger," Odin instructed. "For your valor in the coming battles will unlock new transformations: the might of Loki, the power of Thor, and ultimately, the essence of myself."

Viscoff nodded, grasping the magnitude of the task laid before him. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins as Odin continued, "I granted you the ability to tap into my form for a single battle against that demon. It was a test—a chance to unleash the full fury of your inner warrior."

Before Viscoff could respond, Odin waved his hand, and the realm of Valhalla began to blur. The divine figures faded, their towering presences receding into the mist. He felt a pull in his being, a sensation both foreign and exhilarating, as he lost himself to the void.

With a jolt, Viscoff awoke back in his familiar world. The first sensation he noted was the cold air of the cave. Sitting up, he surveyed his surroundings. Instead of the glorious halls of Valhalla, he found himselfBack in the cave that's in hell, the fire in the middle, illuminating his newly transformed self. Rune tattoos, intricate and pulsating, snaked across his arms and torso, glowing with a fierce energy. His hair had grown, flowing golden locks framing his weathered face.

As he stood up, a familiar shape darted into his peripheral vision—an excited Orion, Zains black and gold spirit cat, materializing beside him.

"Viscoff!" Orion meowed, transforming into the golden earring that hung from the lobe of Zains ear. "You're back! The others thought you had been gone for good!"t

Viscoff smirked, touching the sleek earring. "Not yet. It seems I have more to do."

He felt a surge of strength flood his veins, intertwining with the knowledge imparted to him by Odin. With a renewed sense of purpose, he set his sights on finding Zain and the others. He could already hear the echoes of battle—a call that resonated with his soul.

"Let's go," Viscoff said, determination lighting his eyes. "The demon king has no idea what's coming for him. Not with the gods on my side."