Consolidation Hellforged Ascendance - Darkholme Stirs

[Damian M. LeBlanc]

Damian sat upon his blackened throne, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest. The reports had been coming in steadily, painting a picture of growing unrest. The Night Court was moving. Marcus Aumont was preparing for something—whether it was war or mere posturing, Damian would not wait to find out. He would act first. He would win first.

His empire, Darkholme, needed to be strengthened. Its foundations were already formidable, but if the Abhartach were truly shifting gears, he would meet their momentum with overwhelming force.

“Summon the Generals,” he commanded, his voice smooth but firm.

The shadows at the edges of the throne room stirred as messengers moved swiftly to carry out his orders. Damian exhaled slowly, forcing composure, but the whisper in the back of his mind had grown louder.

“Rip. Tear. Maim. Murder Everyone.”

He clenched his jaw, steadying himself against the primal urge slithering through his thoughts. It was getting worse. It always got worse when a challenge was at hand. The thought of Marcus Aumont—of his pale, insufferable face, of the arrogance that clung to him like a second skin—sent a slow ripple of heat down Damian’s spine.

“You should kill him. No. Not just him. All of them.”

A slow, wicked smile curled at the edges of his lips.

Yes, he would kill Marcus. But not yet. First, he would watch him suffer. First, he would break him.

The doors to the throne room opened, and his generals filed in—figures of war, discipline, and bloodstained loyalty. They knelt before him, waiting.

Damian leaned forward, his voice deceptively calm. “We begin immediate conscription. Every town, every city under my domain will contribute to the might of Darkholme. I want soldiers trained, weapons forged, defenses reinforced. The Night Court believes they can stir from their slumber and stretch their claws?”

He rose from his throne, his presence suffocating in its intensity.

“Then we will show them what it means to wake a demon.”

The gathered generals nodded, some grinning, others solemn. They knew what was coming.

“War. Death. Blood. So much blood.”

Damian turned away, his gaze fixed on the moonlit glass ceiling above. He could almost see the future playing out in crimson hues. His patience would last only so long.

And when it snapped?

There would be no mercy.

 

[Damian M. LeBlanc]

The next weeks passed in a blur of preparation. Darkholme stirred with purpose, its cities humming with the relentless march of industry and war. The forges burned bright, crafting weapons meant to carve through flesh and bone. The training grounds echoed with the cries of fresh recruits, drilled into disciplined soldiers fit to serve their king. Walls were reinforced, watchtowers raised, and the kingdom’s borders tightened like a steel trap.

Yet, amid the calculated growth, Damian felt it festering beneath his skin. The madness.

“Rip. Tear. Maim. Murder Everyone.”

He stood on the balcony of his keep, overlooking the expanse of his empire. The wind carried the scent of burning metal and sweat, a promise of war to come. His fingers curled around the cold stone railing, knuckles turning white.

He should have felt satisfied. His power grew with each passing day. His armies swelled, his enemies were kept at bay, and his Kingsmen worked in the shadows, striking at the Abhartach like daggers in the dark.

And yet—

“Not enough. Never enough.”

A growl rumbled in his throat, low and bestial. His mind burned with intrusive thoughts of destruction, of his own hands coated in gore, of cities reduced to smoldering ruins. He imagined the screams of his enemies, the sound of bones shattering beneath his grip. The taste of their final breaths on his tongue.

He could see it. He could smell it.

Then—

A voice.

“My King?”

Damian stiffened. His head snapped to the side, eyes narrowing on the figure standing at the edge of the balcony. Eira. The Nedemoth woman regarded him with quiet patience, her massive form unshaken by the storm brewing behind his eyes.

She knows.

Of course she did. Eira had always been perceptive. Wise. She had been with him long enough to recognize the signs—the way his composure frayed at the edges, the way his temper grew shorter, his appetite for violence insatiable.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low. Measured.

“The preparations are progressing ahead of schedule,” she said. “Our forces grow stronger by the day. But I must ask—” Her piercing gaze met his. “Will it be enough?”

A simple question. A dangerous one.

Damian exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his dark hair. “For now.”

A lie.

It would never be enough. Not until Marcus Aumont was dead. Not until the Night Court was reduced to ash.

Not until the madness was fed.

Eira watched him for a long moment before speaking again. “You should rest, my King.”

Damian let out a quiet chuckle. “Rest?” He turned back to the view of his empire, his grip tightening on the railing. “There will be time for rest when Marcus Aumont is nothing more than a stain on my boots.”

Eira did not respond. She didn’t have to.

She knew the truth.

And so did he.

The war was inevitable. But it was not just a war against the Abhartach.

It was a war against himself.

 

[Damian M. LeBlanc]

The nights grew longer.

Damian found himself pacing the halls of his fortress more often than sitting upon his throne. Sleep eluded him. When it came, it was brief and violent—filled with visions of war, of blood running in rivers, of Marcus Aumont’s throat crushed between his fingers. He would wake in a cold sweat, breath heaving, his hands aching with the phantom sensation of killing.

“Rip. Tear. Maim. Murder Everyone.”

He knew the madness was growing. He could feel it creeping in, coiling around his thoughts like a viper. Each day, it whispered more insistently. The careful control he prided himself on was beginning to erode.

And yet, his empire thrived.

The Kingsmen worked tirelessly in the shadows. Reports of their successes reached him daily. Supply lines sabotaged. Couriers slain before messages could be delivered. Small garrisons ambushed and slaughtered, their bodies left as a grim warning to any who would dare oppose Darkholme.

The message was clear.

The Abhartach were stirring. But so was he.

Darkholme was ready.

Damian sat upon his throne, fingers steepled as he listened to the latest reports. His generals stood before him, delivering updates on recruitment efforts and supply stocks. His army had grown vast—thousands of foot soldiers, cavalry, siege engineers, and spellcasters at his command. The war machine was in motion, and all that remained was the final push.

But still—not enough.

His patience, razor-thin, was reaching its limit.

“My King,” Eira’s deep voice broke through his thoughts, steady as ever. “The Kingsmen have returned.”

Damian’s lips curled. “Send them in.”

The great doors of the throne room swung open, and the six figures strode inside. Each bore the marks of their latest missions—dirt, blood, and the lingering scent of death clung to them like second skins.

They knelt before him in unison.

“Report,” he commanded.

Pyra spoke first. “The fires spread well enough. Several of their storehouses have been reduced to ash. Their supply lines will be disrupted for weeks.”

Lysander smirked, brushing soot from his pristine attire. “Their noble houses are beginning to suspect treachery among their own. The rumors we seeded are taking root.”

Thalia’s wings fluttered as she gave a curt nod. “We mapped their outer defenses. Weak points have been identified. When the time comes, we will strike with precision.”

Draven cracked his knuckles. “Scouts sent to investigate the disappearances never returned. Their forces are afraid. They whisper of demons in the dark.”

Eira, ever composed, folded her arms. “We are ahead of schedule, my King. When you give the order, we will push forward.”

Zephyr grinned, his fanged smile sharp and predatory. “They are unraveling. The fear is sinking in.”

Damian leaned forward, resting his chin upon his hand. His mind raced. The Kingsmen had performed flawlessly. The Night Court was unraveling.

The moment was approaching.

And yet—

“Not enough. Not yet.”

He exhaled slowly, forcing his hunger for carnage to simmer beneath the surface. “You have done well.” His gaze swept over them, lingering on each in turn. “But I require more. We will not simply weaken them. We will make them despair.”

His smile was sharp as a dagger.

“Marcus Aumont believes himself untouchable in his precious Night Court.” He sat back, fingers drumming against the armrest. “Let’s prove him wrong.”

A flicker of something dark passed through his gaze. A promise of the storm yet to come.

“Prepare yourselves, Kingsmen. We are going to war.”

 

[Damian M. LeBlanc]

The weight of his own mind was becoming unbearable.

Damian had ruled for decades. He had waged wars, crushed enemies, and built Darkholme into the formidable empire it was today. He had mastered the art of restraint, of cold calculation. Yet, as the war against the Abhartach loomed ever closer, his control was slipping.

The voices had never been this loud before.

“Rip. Tear. Maim. Murder Everyone.”

It was getting harder to think, harder to breathe. Even in his moments of stillness, his mind felt like a battlefield. The hunger, the need for violence clawed at him, whispering in his ear with every passing second.

And so, for the first time in years, he made a choice.

A sabbatical. A brief retreat from Darkholme, from his war council, from the ever-growing machine of conquest. He would return soon enough—stronger, clearer.

Or so he hoped.

—

Damian stood at the edge of a darkened lake, the waters stretching endlessly before him. The air was thick with fog, and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. This place was untouched by war, by politics, by the weight of his throne.

It was silent.

He exhaled, his breath curling in the cool air. He had discarded his heavy finery, dressed in simpler attire—dark robes, a cloak that bore no sigil. He was not King Leblanc here. Just Damian.

And yet, even here, the madness followed him.

“They will betray you. They will fail you. They will die screaming.”

His jaw clenched. He had come here to silence the voices. To reclaim the peace he once knew.

Dropping to his knees at the water’s edge, he dipped his fingers into the cold depths, watching the ripples spread. He closed his eyes. He breathed.

Stillness.

For a moment, there was nothing. No hunger. No whispers. Just the slow, steady rhythm of the lake.

Then—

A voice.

Not the madness. Not the insatiable hunger for blood. But something else. Deeper. Older.

“Damian.”

His eyes snapped open, and the reflection staring back at him was not his own.

It was him, and yet not him. A twisted, feral version of himself, skin ashen, eyes burning red, lips curled into a knowing grin.

“You cannot run from me.”

The hallucination—no, the thing in the water—tilted its head.

“You know what you are. What we are. You were made for this.”

Damian’s fingers twitched, gripping the damp earth beneath him. “No,” he murmured.

“Deny it all you want. But we both know how this ends.”

The reflection shifted, warping like ink in water. Images flooded his mind. Visions of cities burning, of bodies stacked high, of Marcus Aumont gasping his last breath beneath Damian’s boot.

His destiny.

He jerked back from the water, breath unsteady, heart pounding.

The lake was still once more. His reflection was his own.

Damian sat there for a long time, the weight of his thoughts heavier than ever.

He had come here to silence the voices.

Instead, he had been reminded of a simple, undeniable truth.

There was no peace for a man like him.

There never had been.

And there never would be.