Heavy, labored footfalls cracked against the stones that paved the city’s streets. Sparks scattered behind the staggering mass of blackened steel, a limp arm grasping at a spear he couldn’t hold up. The blade carved deep grooves in his wake and effortlessly spread the stones below. The city was quiet, fairer folk than him resigning themselves to rest. The lower rungs of society spared him no mind, for their lives wouldn’t change regardless of their intervention.

A thick dissociation haunted the marching soul, the world around him seeming nothing more than a cavern of fog pierced by the faintest glimmer of candlelight. It didn’t take long for the guard to respond, for he stood out. He was unlike warriors of Ascadia, he bore not the fine steels of Gaelia, the artisanal plates of Corbaglian design. He was clad in dark steel, wicked with sin and suffused with chaos. The guard came in a trickle, unskilled men given sticks and chain discarded in swift, calculated strokes of the figure’s glaive. He bared his teeth behind his masked helm, snarling like a beast as he parted chain and plate like a scythe through wheat. These men were beneath him, undeserving of a steady mind’s rational retort.

They faced a beast which bore man’s skin.

A dozen men haphazardly dressed in whatever could be scrounged from the barracks stood at the head of a large double door. They shouted amongst each other, their voices melding as they crashed shoulder to shoulder, spears driven ahead. Two men stood crouched beneath the line of spears bearing heavy blades which demanded both hands. These conscripts knew formation, but formation alone could not spare them the coming fate. A broad stroke, his spear dropping to his left side before being ripped skywards to his right. The hafts of several pikes torn to splinters, the leftmost swordsman’s head rendered to a fine mist. They broke, scattering to either side of him as he pushed through the manor’s doors. He was nearing his prey.

He broke into a sprint, echoes of his footfalls cracking through the fortification. He was huffing loudly in his pursuit, sharp breaths punctuating his long strides. Torches surged in his wake; their flames choked by his advance. The halls fell dark as he made his way, his shoulder pivoted ahead. He crashed through the door and leapt; unnatural smoke creeping from the gaps in his armor as he carved his path. He neared the bed knees-ahead as he ripped into its occupant’s chest. A gross cackle pushed through his helmet, drowning out the budding scream that was quickly extinguished by his fist. Splinters of bone scattered as he landed that single strike, withdrawing moments later to flee the scene.

He fell like a stone to the ground below, cratering into the pavement before making pace to the gates. Foolish men stood between him and escape, more families rendered fatherless. The restrained vision he held, the foggy cave, had begun to melt away. The darkness of the Corbaglian night clawed at the seams of his sight. Lucidity pierced the fog, he felt his muscles hitch and his body stagger back. He gagged, screaming out as he was forced back to reality. His breathing grew manic, his body slumping forward as vomit forced its way through his lips. He screamed again, and again. He leaned hard against his spear, the metal heft of the unwieldly tool supporting his weight. Nobody was following him, the fools were culled and the wise survived. He was free to suffer in the tree line, just out of sight of the city’s guard.

This was a feeling he despised; control is king to the Slayer. Yet his bargains with darkness further rob him of that very control he craves. But he can’t stop now, not with the aching he’s been doomed with. Bargains beget further bargains, the faintest taste of power a seed for unconquerable vice. So the Slayer must press on, the aching will only grow worse as he waits.

The way back to his benefactor was a long, shambling march broken up by sessions of violent illness. The fractures in his mind crept in and wrought the acid from his gut, his physical body driven to sickness over budding enlightenment. What little lucidity he held onto was the sole reason he kept to the road, the compulsions tugging him in ways he had no intention of going, to harm things he’d rather not. He arrived at the benefactor’s domain, the act of passing to within his influence forcing a great weight upon him. His master’s aura was intense, a rare sensation in the common world. Magic rarely projected itself so greatly, oft relegated to little sparks scattered by mortal sorcerers. The slayer had become well accustomed to the crushing darkness of his master, the weight soothing him from his budding anxieties.

The core of his master’s small domain was an overgrown forest, rich with old growth. To lesser men this would be the “Frontiers”, the domain of Campestrians and those who stand along them against the surreal. A great grotto nestled beneath an imposing willow was where the slayer was required, the passage rife with obstruction. Fallen trees and running brooks, great boulders and the like, but his destination was ingrained in him. He knew these paths, everything was distinct.

An hour was spent simply navigating the primeval woods, the grotto meeting the slayer as the sun crept beneath the hills due west. He descended, heavy footfalls cracking against weathered stone steps as light became sparse. The depths of the grotto were endlessly empty, though their essence was claustrophobic. A low growl emanated from behind the veil of dark, a harsh, tinny overtone punctuating it. The slayer knew this sound well and stood firm. His master, a beast of great potential, ushered cold light through the expansive cavern. His figure, jagged blades of stone embedded to bones of obsidian, a wicked bestial maw punctuated by burning sockets where eyes should be set. He moved with great purpose, a stride that befits a triumphant lord. The slayer fell to his knee, an arm crossing his chest as his master bore down upon him.

“Acrisius, my sworn mortal blade.” The beast’s growl continued, though within the imperfections did meaning begin to emerge. No words left his open maw despite the surge of ideas the slayer could parse. He was used to this sensation, save for the burning chill it sent down his spice. It was so deeply unnatural, the words felt intrusive. They were carved into his mind from nothing, meaning painfully manifested by something beyond his control. “I can see why thine kind were so fond of the wolf.” He continued, reaching a long arm down to Acrisius’s level. Stony talons hooked under the slayer’s helmet, effortlessly casting it off to the side with a simple stroke.

The mortal’s eyes met the demon’s embers, their shared gaze intensifying the chilled heat that he felt. He tried to speak, though naught left him but a complacent acknowledgement, a surrender of the conversation back to his master. A single hand motioned beneath the slayer’s jaw, stony digits cupping his head. “I had not taken a human to be capable of such might, let alone there being one so willing to do it at another’s behest.” The growling twisted to a hollow chuckle as the beast went upright, his hand retreating with dragged talons against the slayer’s soft skin. Rivulets ran crimson down his neck, flowing past his gorget in a steady flow.

“Arise, sworn blade. So I may bequeath upon you a lesser boon.” He boomed, words finally leaving that jagged maw of his. He spoke in a hollow, shrieking tone. Low notes crept beneath the ethereal trill that he spoke in, the inhumanity of it making it hard to not flinch as his voice shifted without sense.

Acrisius dutifully arose, the demon’s hand swiftly pressing to his throat. The slayer was hefted, his face level with the grinning visage of his master. He held a plain face, showing neither fear nor concern, he had given himself fully to his master. As their faces drew close the slayer was struck with a sudden force, a magnetism that drew something beyond him to the demon ahead, like shadowy tendrils tugging at his very soul. With the connection formed did the promised boon begin to be transferred, flowing in a painful stream that radiated to every inch of his body. Intense heat heralded shocks that drove him to convulsions, his body thrashing in his plates as he was held aloft. The slayer’s wordless suffering had given way to a dull static, pain replaced with numbness. Sensory deprived bliss overtook him for the fleeting moment that separated physical agony from mental torment. Shrill whines and imperceptible pleas in languages the world had long since forgotten roiled in his head as the transference took place.

The bestowing continued in this state for hours, though to the slayer it felt akin to generations. In a sudden moment though had it turned to naught. Every sensation he was deprived of flooded to fill the empty space as it was let back in, the idle sounds that crept off the demon’s form alone enough to sting his mind. He gagged around his master’s grip, the beast throwing him to the floor ahead as he came back to his senses.

“That is Auhek, a great spear who served the Lector of Storms. He is within you now, a shared soul.” The demon said in that intrusive growl, painful meaning creeping back into Acrisius’s head.

“Thank you, Vexho.” Acrisius spoke, his voice awash with newfound confidence. He pushed himself up from his position on the ground, grabbing at his helmet as he made his ascent. Vexho held that burning gaze upon the slayer for a second, perhaps in appreciation, before turning to leave.

The introduction of a foreign soul was not an event taken lightly, for the universe did not operate with this mind. A single body is incapable of this under the assumption that all exists as is demanded, though Vexho effortlessly surpassed this. Acrisius was a new type of mortal, at least the first he has ever heard of, a twin-vessel.

The slayer, though fearing competition, held sole control of the functions of his head. He was Acrisius, his thoughts, his actions, all that he was. But he knew, he felt, that within him was something great. The coming days were spent without contrast, absolute dominance being held over the domain of his mind. The dissociation, the fog, all of that was a temporary burden his master had cast away. In their place did a new sensation come and go in waves, a feeling of immense and euphoric strength that fueled a manic obedience to the task at hand. Henceforth would Acrisius be regarded as demon, both to those who feared him and those who saw him equal. Even Vexho had regarded him as such, opting to speak to the demon within than the mortal vessel, though Acrisius simply took it as his new name. He felt no urge or desire, no intrusive thoughts responding to his master’s usage of that name, he was truly in command of this it would seem.