Tower of Sundown

Turve turned around, a grim expression painting his sharp features. "Stay inside." He said lowly, "I can't gauge their strength at this distance." 

"You're not going outside, are you?" Sod rose from her chair, a voice laced with worry escaping the prison her mask created. 

"I need to," Turve answered, turning around again. More tremors ran through the ground, his mind pacing, thinking about the best course of action. "If the Witchlight goes dark and I've yet to return, take the horses and aim for the Tower of Sundown. Alert the Grand Magus and seek shelter, they will help you." 

With those words said, Turve walked through the wall of the dome as if it wasn't there, leaving his disciple and Azriel in the dim light. 

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Turve strolled away from the dome, listening to the tremors running through the ground and following them to the epicentre. 

A stretch of distance away, a group of seven demons weaved in and out of the forest with swift and easy movements: clearly those of seasoned warriors. From their heads protruded two horns each, with one of them carrying three. Dark red skin dressed all seven bare chests, evident and trained muscles shining softly in the radiance of night. Nails as long and dark as obsidian knifes ran out from the tips of their four fingered hands, each clasped down upon a brutally long cleaver with jagged edges. 

Simple pants covered their lower parts, some brown, some black and some grey. Nothing protected their feet as they pushed through the layers of snow hindering their pacey marsh. 

Exiting the dense forest, the group of demons entered a small clearing, the moonlight shining unobstructed up above. Coming to a screeching halt, the demons stopped, white puffs of air rising through the cold winter air as they observed in silence, heat rising off of their bodies.

Before them, a human in brown stood as still as a statue. A simple yet intricately carved wooden mask covered the parts of the human's face that weren't shadowed by the low-hanging hood. 

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Turve watched as the demons ran out into the clearing he had prepared, watched as their dirty, filthy, beings skidded to a stop right on top of his trap. Watched as the heat radiating from their bodies made the air dance. Each one of them towered high with the three horned demon reaching a massive height of four meters. But Turve didn't bother, no, he stayed silent with hands behind his back and just observed. 

He had put on his mask, which he had neglected for many years due to his status, and it felt good, really good. Finally, he could let loose a little and toy with the unsuspecting prey before him. Him, an Advanced Magi? He only bore that title as a punishment, oh he was so, so much more. And those political bastards daring to put him here, in this barren land, as a "reward" for his services in the war? Oh they would soon sit back and watch as he turned his newly found lion cub into a force with which he would rule the world. 

And for the demons encroaching upon his territory? How foolish. How utterly, ridiculously, foolish. Just because they had won the most they actually dared to greed for more? Pure, raw insanity, they would soon meet their maker.

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Hidden by the dome, Azriel lay in silence on top of his frozen solid mattress. He could not fathom how Turve and Sod could find the hardness comfortable. It was unbearing and painful. The Witchlight had reached the quarter to none mark, the light still allowing for the two to see each other. 

"Get up. We're leaving." 

Azriel shot up from his mattress and looked at Turve walking through the dome, which in fact was crumbling down around them, returning to the ground it was built from. 

"But, what about the demons?" He asked nervously. 

"Dead. Now scurry, dawn has arrived and we need to be at the tower by midday." Turve said grumpily as he wiped his gloves clean from the thick, black blood drenching them. Tossing the napkin Sod had given him, he stepped out towards the horses and began to unbind them from the tree they were tied to. 

When Azriel walked out of the domes previous area, Turve sat saddled and ready on top of his prideful horse with Sod, who had packed faster than him besides on her own horse. Quickly tying his loaned bag to the back end of the saddle, he swung himself up behind Turve and gave both of them a nod. 

This time, they raced forwards, letting the horses gallop freely. Paying close attention to the road, Azriel noticed how caverns and oddities in the path was continuously fixed or filled and his admiration for the stoic man in front grew. 

The sun slowly rose from behind the trees, the beams of light shattering against the snow-clad canopy. Riding a ridge covered by the dense forest, Azriel and his company paced through the myriad of roots and stumps, illuminated by the divided rays of sunlight. 

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At the base of a tall mountain stood a tall, dark tower, its crown raised high above the ground, looking out over the dense forest surrounding it. This was the Tower of Sundown, the last line of defence between the human lands and the demonic. Governing this barren place was Grand Magus Sanguinus, a blood weaver who came to power through eternal bloodshed during the war of gods. 

Thankfully, the Tower had the mountain to its back shielding it from the lurking onslaught of demonic powers, though that inspires the question: how could the group of demons attempt an ambush so deep into the lands of Sundown? And it was exactly that a furious Turve thought about when he rode through the opened gates of the Tower's outer wall. 

Dismounting from his horse, Turve almost ran towards the Tower in the centre, pushing approaching stable boys aside to ease his way to the door leading up. Left behind, Sod and Azriel dismounted as well, letting the younger boys take care of the horses and their saddles, Azriel carrying his pack in his hand. 

"Follow me, we will wait for Master in his chamber," Sod said softly, beckoning Azriel to follow her lead. Noticing how completely lost in amazement the boy was, she sighed and tugged his sleeve. 

"What? Sorry, not now Malu," he mumbled, still in admiration of the architecture of the Tower. Chuckling slightly and rolling her eyes behind her mask, Sod gently shoved him, pointing towards the still open door to the Tower. 

Turning, Azriel was about to open his mouth and reprimand his brother when he remembered where he was and who stood before him, "sorry, Sod, yes of course, lead the way." 

Releasing a breath of relief, she began walking towards the door but not before long, she noticed how Azriel, yet again, had lost himself to the architecture. Laughing in defeat, she mumbled a spell and shouted: "Azriel!" 

Shaking under his feet, the stoned yard made Azriel lose his balance and he fell flat on his bum. Feeling the wetness of snow seep through his cloak, he shot up as fast as lightning and began to jog in the direction of Sod with an embarrassed expression on his face. But he didn't make it far as he slipped on the frozen ground and ended up on his bum, again. 

Laughing uproariously at the sight of the boy's clumsiness, Sod heaved for air when Azriel slowed down in front of her, patting his damp backside and wiping patches of snow off of his coat. 

"Should've listened the first time!" Sod said proudly before starting the climb up through the winding staircase, which Azriel soon noticed had unusually large steps. 

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Up on the highest floor of the Tower, Turve stood in silent seething in front of a beautiful wooden desk. Behind it sat an elderly man, face filled with wrinkles of aging yet his red eyes shone with surprising vigour. In contrast, Turve's brown eyes radiated an aura of murder, as if he was willing to clasp down upon the throat of the man before him and strangle him till his skin shone in blue and red. 

"How come there is a band of Demons, with a Demon Count in the lead, ravaging your lands and threatening the life of my disciple and the soon to be tested boy?" He barked angrily, the very foundation of the Tower shaking with every word. 

"Seems like you still have that rashness in you. Good. Very good, the young ones should not falter so soon." The elderly man avoided the question shamelessly. With a slight wave of his hand, a chair popped out from nowhere and another, downward wave of his hand had him gesturing for Turve to sit. 

Involuntarily doing as the man insisted, his life being threatened at all times by the power of a blood weaver, Turve sat, though his mood didn't change at all. If it were any other person than Sanguinus sitting before him, he might've already committed murder. 

"Do you want a cup of tea, young man?" Sanguinus asked, his elderly voice slow and filled with ancient wisdom. 

"Don't think that your generosity will have me neglect this misstep. The Archwitch will hear about this." Turve responded angrily. 

"No need for you to go that far. She has already been informed. In fact, a squadron of Intermediate Mages was chasing that ragtag group of Demons. They were lead by, if I remember correctly, your good friend Advanced Magi Fumus." Sanguinus laughed happily, as if two lives had not been endangered at all. 

Turve's murderous aura seemed to enter new depths at the word Fumus, his expression becoming the depiction of stone-cold. It was almost as if he was prepared to commit genocide. 

"Don't. Mention. Him." He spat, his hands opening and closing repeatedly. 

"Now, now. Let us calm down a little. What makes that little rascal of a boy so important that they had to send the infamous Butcher to my lands?" 

"Never say that name again. Ever." A suffocating aura exploded from within Turve's body, drenching the room in a heavy, bloodthirsty and violent feeling. Rising from his chair, Turve towered over the sitting man. He walked up behind Sanguinus desk, stopping at the big window to the back of the Grand Magus' chair. 

Looking down at the stoned yard, he watched as Azriel slipped and fell and then how his disciple laughed at the happening. Taking deep breaths, he quelled the roaring in his ears and slowly reeled in the draping aura.

Silence reigned for a while, Sanguinus enjoying a cup of tea behind him. After some time, the aura had been completely reeled in, and Turve returned to the chair in front of the Grand Magus' desk.

Sitting down, he took a hold of the cup of tea Sanguinus had poured at some unknown point, as if he had anticipated Turve of wanting it. After taking a big mouthful, Turve spoke again: "He's the son of that man." 

Sanguinus' eyes widened slightly. "So it is like that. How interesting." 

Turve emptied the cup, slamming it against the wooden desk. "If that's all, I'll take my leave," he uttered before standing up and leaving the room. 

Sanguinus showed no emotion at the lack of courtesy, as if he had anticipated that too. Turning his chair, he looked out of the window, at the passing clouds and the bright blue sky. He voiced a raspy, deep laugh. 

"Oh how very interesting. Those bastards who once condemned us better be on the lookout. This one lion cub might very well become a soaring dragon, especially under the guidance of the Butcher."