That fateful night...

You spend a little more time with Donald and Jana, talking and drinking, before retiring to your own quarters.

The rest of the afternoon seems to creep along, as feelings of uneasiness and trepidation build in your gut. You loved your mother, or perhaps more accurately, felt a deep lust for her, in both your heart and loins, but you'd never entirely trusted her.

For all you knew, you could be walking into a trap. Her father might steal your form, as the demoness had done to Marissa Loon two decades ago. They might sacrifice you on some terrible stone altar, rip out your royal heart and devour it, warm and still beating, before your terrified, dying eyes.

But... part of you believed everything Marissa said. That there was more to it, that her father had some plan which, however insidious, could benefit you.

You throw yourself into some of your minor duties, reading official correspondence, breakdowns of various treaties and rulings your advisors want you to sign off on. You even take out the Retention Crystal Lady Alanna procured for you, dictating a few missives for Vanessa to write out later. She could be more than a pretty face and a hired cunt, at times.

Later, as you watch the sun sink beneath the horizon, you are alerted by a rap on your door.

“It's time, Edward.” comes a Marissa's voice. Trembling a little, you rise to your feet, following your mother out towards the stables. As Pierre's court, his knights and clerks ready for bed, or retire to their quarters to dine and drink, the corridors are mostly deserted. Whenever you hear the busy clattering of servant's footfalls approaching, Marissa guides you down a different path, or encourages you to hide. As a result, no one even sees you leave.

The courtyard adjoining the stables is all but abandoned. The only sign of activity is Donald and Kara, throwing war-axes at a straw target more traditionally used for archery practice, a bottle of drink resting on a crate near them. With no delicate Sinnabarrovian sensibilities to offend, Kara has swapped out her gown for more practical attire, a leather gambeson and trousers.

“Edward told me the happy news, sis.” Donald says, as he approaches the target, ripping out his axes.

“Aye? I'd ask if you approve, but that's really no business of yours, is it?” Kara chuckles. “What you should be focusin' on is your precision. You know, you're far more likely to hit your mark if you take a second to aim instead of jus' hefting it like a madman.”

“You're one to talk.” Donald ripostes. “I saw the way you were fighting in our last skirmish. If Jana's girls hadn't been there backing your lot up, the Morlandians would've routed you. Shockin'.”

As Donald raises his axe once again, he hesitates, deliberating for just a couple seconds, before hurling it. This time, he hits much closer to the mark.

“Ach, see? I told you, man.” Kara says, a note of satisfaction registering in her brogue. “And watch what you say. I may have tits inside me armour, but I'm as true a Beathan warrior as you, or anyone else. It'll take more than some soft Morlandian shithouses to finish me off.”

“Fair point.” the prince concedes. “Just remember, we won't always be fighting the Morlandians. You never went to war with Dean with Father and I. What those raiders are capable of... it's no' pretty.”

“War never is, Donald.” Kara says, prompting a nod from her brother.

“Still, I'm glad for you.” Donald admits. “Edward's a... decent man.”

Your mother nudges you in the back, distracting you from observing the Beathans. Staying low and moving quietly, you skirt around the edge of the courtyard, the shadows of the night concealing you as the royals share a drink and continue to practice.

Slipping into the stables, you lean against a fence, while Marissa saddles up one of the king's finest steeds, obviously rarely used by Pierre himself of late.

“Were those fucking barbarians discussing what I think they were?” Marissa asks. “My, my, it would seem you found yourself a wife in this palace regardless.”

“T-they were.” you admit. “You seem to know your way around a stable, mother.”

“Edward, I've been riding horses nearly as long as I've been riding men.” Marissa informs you. “One picks up a few things.”

Your horseflesh properly saddled up, Marissa blasts it with a quick charm, a jolt of magic intended to ensorcell the equine's simple mind, ensure it remained compliant.

“Come.” Marissa bids you, helping you up into the saddle, then nimbly swinging on behind you.

-

Marissa guides the stallion out of the palace, deftly slipping by guards. You find it a little unnerving how good the demoness is at stealth and concealment. At least, you assure yourself, she's your mother. She's had eighteen long years to creep into your chambers and put a knife in your ear. Hell, there were plenty of nights when no creeping would have been required.

She rides out of Copieux, the prosperous city quickly giving way to farmland and country lanes. Though it's nearly pitch black out, little moonlight to ride by, Marissa is confident in where she guides your steed. Demonic eyes worked far more effectively than human ones. For your part, you'd always had uncommonly good eyesight. Something unambiguously positive your mother had passed down, you supposed.

“Just a quick detour, then we'll make for the Devil's Throne.” Marissa notes, veering off to the left, stopping in a deserted field, hitching the horse to a dead oak tree.

“Should be right here...” Marissa mutters to herself, dismounting and helping you down. After a few seconds of searching, a great gout of purple flame in her hand to light the way, Marissa finds a patch of disturbed earth.

“W-what's going on?” You start, staring as Marissa crouches and begins clawing away at the dirt below.

“Our... attire for the evening.” the demoness notes, bringing up a nondescript wooden chest. It's sizeable enough that you imagine even Donald or Kara would've struggled with it. Your mother hefts it free as if it weighs nothing.

Inside are a pair of black robes, hooded, cloaked. If anything, you would say they were rather clichéd, definitely the sort of thing one would wear to a secret communion with the true demonic ruler of Motania.

“Change, quickly.” Marissa tells you, shamelessly beginning to undress herself. The second she's out of her gown, folding and stowing it in the horse's saddlebags to prevent it getting dirty, she drops her glamour, bearing her true form to the world.

It must be the first time you've seen her true demonic countenance revealed in the open. Something about the way the moonlight hits her naked body makes her even more alluring than usual.

“Edward, stop staring and start changing.” Marissa scolds you again, managing to sound somewhat motherly despite the situation.

“Yes, mother.” You slur.

“Need any help?” Marissa asks, covering her seductive form with the black robe.

“I'm a grown man.” You say, pulling on the rather sinister black vestment. Regardless, Marissa comes forward, straightening it out and pulling your hood up for you.

“Ah, and the finishing touch.” Marissa purrs, reaching into the chest once more, a smile gracing her demonic features. She produces two gleaming silver masks.

The first, a fearsome rendering of a mantis' head, she affixes over her own face. It fits in such a way that her purple skin and horns are well... masked, the only indication of her true nature being the glow of her eyes through pinprick eye slits.

“And yours, Edward.” Marissa notes, passing you the other mask. This one, on the other hand, bears the image of a lion, dangerous and regal.

“You should be flattered.” Marissa says smarmily. “Father could've very well made you a mouse or a worm.”

“The king of beasts.” You concede.

Coming closer, Marissa helps affix the lion over your face. You try to avoid staring at her mantid face covering. Part of you finds the triangular visage as disturbing as a common person would the visage that lurked beneath.

“H-hang on...” you say, concern mounting. “What do we need these masks for?”

“To protect ourselves.” your mother responds. “You... aren't going to be the only... human there tonight.”

“W-what?!” you sputter. Marissa had never mentioned anything of the sort until now. Her father and sisters, yes, other humans, no. If even one fellow mortal learned your secret, it could spell the end of everything.

“I neglected to mention it.” Marissa admits. “Because I thought you'd never have the nerve otherwise.”

“You thought right.” You slur.

“Edward...” Marissa begins, caressing your robed chest. “There won't be many there tonight. Still a secret reunion, of course. And they're your cousins! And just as importantly, about as eager to be tied to a stake and lit ablaze by fanatics as you are.”

“My... cousins?” You begin. With King Bryce the last of the royal line, your mother had been the only family you had ever known.

Well, with the exception of your “half-brother” back in Luxem. The child of the true Marissa Loon and her husband Lamar. But politics, as well as the fact he was only your brother in the public eye, not through actual blood, meant you had only met the man once or twice.

Something about the idea of encountering actual blood relatives, not to mention people who shared your experience, born from demon and human unions, intrigued you somewhat.

“Fine, let's go.” You concede. You can almost feel the demoness' smile beneath her mask.

“It's not far. You'll see Edward, you should find tonight rather... enjoyable.” Marissa says, helping you once more into the saddle.

-

You ride for another hour or two, farmland and field giving way to dense, dark woodland. There's a palpable sense of the world not being quite right as you draw closer to the Devil's Throne.

Marissa takes the horse up a thin, winding trail, illuminating the woodland with another torch of her purple flame.

“This is the place.” Marissa says assuredly, snuffing out her fire. Slowing to a walk, Marissa guides the horse forward.

Suddenly, you hear the tension of a bowstring being drawn.

“Hold.” Comes a voice. You struggle to ascertain from where at first, until you realise it's coming from above you.

You crane your head back. Through the eye slits in your mask, you can just about make out a figure, crouched on a tree branch, an arrow nocked in their bow, levelled directly at you and your mother.

With considerable acrobatic skill, the figure moves forward, sailing through the air. They manage to hook their leg on a lower branch as they do, both righting themselves and slowing their fall in mid-air, so they land gracefully in a standing position, just ahead of you. All the while, their arrow has never left their bow, and it has never left its trajectory towards your chest.

It's an impressive display, the kind of dexterity you've never witnessed from a human. You still may not have, you muse.

The figure is robed and hooded just as you and Marissa. They wear leather armour beneath it, of sufficient bulk that you can't easily tell if they're male or female beneath the robe. A longsword dangles from a sword belt on their hip.

Covering their face is a silver mask, this one a rather unsettling rendering of a spider's head, replete with wicked chelicerae and multiple eyes.

“What brings you to the Throne?” The Spider asks, their voice terse and strangely muffled. “Identify yourselves.”