(Malveth POV)
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The moon hung low and blood-orange above the burning plains of Grathmoor. Once a prosperous trade post, now a den of corruption—where nobles auctioned off lives under the guise of "debt collection."
Slaves.
Children.
War orphans.
Malveth stood atop a jagged cliff with her cloak fluttering behind her, her silver eyes glowing like twin stars in the dark.
Below, a caravan of chained souls dragged their feet behind armored guards.
> "Do we kill them all?" asked Ashen One, his dagger already stained from earlier drills.
> "No," Malveth said calmly. "Only the wicked."
She raised her hand. The wind shifted.
> "Begin."
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The ambush was swift. Unseen. Unheard.
Flameborn children moved like shadows, their blades piercing through armored throats before the guards could even shout. They moved in squads—trained, precise.
Ashen One led the strike from the front, his eyes cold as frost despite the fire coating his sword.
One guard tried to beg.
"I have a family—"
"You sold someone else's," Ashen whispered before ending him.
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Malveth walked through the battlefield like a queen born of ruin, not lifting a single weapon—only watching, judging.
The slaves trembled before her, unsure whether to run or kneel.
Then she spoke.
> "You were abandoned by the light. I will not ask for your faith."
> "I will give you your vengeance."
She tossed down keys. One by one, chains fell.
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That night, word spread.
A black-cloaked woman had slaughtered a noble's men. Freed over sixty prisoners. Left no survivors—except the guilty tied upside down, their sins carved into their skin.
The church called it a demon's work.
But to those saved?
She was a savior.
> "The Demon Lord watches us."
"She punishes the rich."
"She protects the forgotten."
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In a quiet corner of the freed camp, Ashen One looked up at Malveth.
> "Are we really demons?" he asked.
> "No," she replied. "We are what the world made us."
> "But we'll be what ends it."
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