The Daemon-Lord’s Chamber

It feels wrong the moment that the stone doors slam shut behind her, blocking out any trace of the noises of battle in the Fleshworks.

Where the bastion - particularly the Fleshworks - was hot, this area is cold, almost clammy. A narrow flight of stairs takes her down and down, till she reaches a floor of immaculately polished black stone. She can see her own reflection below her: her small pale face looking stricken with a terror that she knows isn’t really there.

No matter what I feel inside.

Her heels scuff on the stone as she moves forward, leather and metal creaking and clanking. It is deathly quiet here, save for the ambient ringing of magical energy, buzzing behind her ears like tinnitus. She hurries down the corridor, to the only other exit, another smooth stone door. She notices, with a sense of foreboding, that the ceiling and doors here are far taller than the rest of the bastion, close to seven foot.

Pressing her hand to the door, it does not budge. She uses both palms, pushing as hard as she can, then nearly breaking her fingernails in the slim seam of its opening.

Open damn you! Not when I’m so close!

She pulls her Holy Icon from her neck, snapping the thin leather strap that holds it there, and clutches it tight, pressing it to the door.

With a terrible groaning, the stone slides back, granting her entrance.

She steps onto more of the same polished stone, but this is lit with the baleful light of a shimmering bluish-purple portal that takes up fully half of the room. The other half is dominated by trophies, skulls, weapons, and against the far right wall: a grand bed.

Upon which lies the naked, sprawled form of Melira.

Lavorra gasps, rooted to the spot for a moment. After all this time and horrors she’s been through, at long last seeing her friend so close leaves her shaken. She approaches, slowly, eyes roving over the expanse of Melira’s smooth grey skin. Her is a curvy figure - even moreso that Lavorra’s - perfectly proportioned on a taller frame. She looks perfect, untouched and unblemished, her silver hair falling like water over her shoulders.

How can that be?

She reaches the bed, leaning a knee on the edge, hesitating. Melira stirs at the shift in pressure, and looks up over her shoulder, hair shimmering in the eerie Daemon-light.

“Oh Gods below Lavorra, darling, you came.” Melira’s violet eyes brim instantly with tears as she takes in the sight of her friend, and her carefully curated illusion shatters.