The Forging of Evil

The forge fortess of N’Char drifted through the Realm of Chaos like a cancerous star. Mountains of black rock bent inward at impossible angles, while rivers of lava flowed upward into storms of screaming ash. Here, the laws of reality had long since died. Distance changed with thought. Time staggered and broke. The sky itself bled fire.

At the center of this nightmare stood the Furnace Citadel.

Its towers clawed upward from obsidian rock, forged from black iron and mortared with bone ash. Thousands of mortal slaves toiled through cavernous foundries beneath the whips of horned overseers. Humans, dwarfs, elves, and orcs dragged carts of black ore across iron bridges suspended over bottomless pits. The weak fell screaming into the endless nothingness below.

The strong survived long enough to envy the dead.

Great daemon-smiths hammered at anvils, forging cursed blades and warped armor for the mortal champions of Chaos and demons alike. Every strike of demonic hammer echoed like thunder through the citadel.

Above them all stood N’Char.

The Greater Demon loomed upon an obsidian balcony, wings spread wide behind him. Their dark forms dissolved constantly into smoke at the edges, as though reality itself struggled to contain them. A mane of living fire crowned his tusked face, while his tail lashed back and forth behind cloven hooves.

He looked not upon his forge, but out beyond it—toward the mortal world.

“I am wasted here,” N’Char growled. His voice rolled across the citadel like an avalanche. “For the ages I have forged weapons for lesser beings. I arm champions. I empower warlords. I feed the ambitions of gods too frightened to leave their thrones.”

The furnaces roared louder around him.

“But I shall not remain their servant.”

Behind him, chained slaves brought forth an object, covered beneath a black shroud, on a palanquin. Even veiled, it radiated a malice so intense that nearby mortals struggled to control their sanity.

N’Char approached slowly and tore away the covering with one clawed hand.

The Daemonicum.

It resembled a great black chest forged from scorched iron and brass-darkened steel. Every surface was covered in glowing runes that burned molten orange from within like cracks in cooling lava. Daemonic faces and horned skulls jutted from its corners, their metal jaws twisted in silent screams. Heavy iron bands wrapped the artifact tight around its body, converging upon an enormous lock shaped like a snarling daemon visage.

The box seemed alive. Smoke seeped from its seams despite having no visible opening. The runes shifted subtly when observed. If anyone cared to ask them some of the slaves would swear they could hear whispering from inside; others would claim they heard scratching.

N’Char rested a claw upon the artifact lovingly.

“Beautiful,” came a silky voice nearby.

Sas’cha descended from above on black, bat-like wings. She landed gracefully beside the forge, appearing as an impossibly attractive elven woman amidst the horror around her. Long brunette hair framed pale features lit by furnace-fire, while piercing purple eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.

Unlike N’Char’s towering monstrousness, Sas’cha hid her malice beneath elegance. Which, in a way, made her far more dangerous.

She circled the Demonicum slowly. “The mortals will never resist touching it,” she purred.

“They were not meant to.” N’Char motioned toward the artifact. “Within this vessel are bound twelve thousand souls. Sorcerers. Kings. Priests. Murderers. Heroes.” He smiled, exposing enormous tusks. “Their suffering powers the gateway.”

Sas’cha ran delicate fingers across the glowing runes. The box trembled at her touch. “How was it forged?”

N’Char’s burning eyes narrowed with pride. “In the corpse-fires of fallen empires. Its metal was quenched in blood gathered from battlefields across a thousand realities.” His voice deepened. “Its lock was shaped from the spine of a daemon prince who dared challenge me.”

A low growl vibrated from inside the Demonicum.

Sas’cha’s smile widened. “And when opened?”

The Greater Daemon spread his wings. “The veil between realms will split apart.”

Visions materialized in the smoke around them: cities burning beneath black skies, armies devoured by daemons the temples, of the gods of Law, collapsing into fire.

“I will cross into the mortal world,” N’Char declared. “Not as a fleeting spirit summoned for moments… but incarnate. Flesh. Power. Dominion.”

The Realm of Chaos itself seemed to recoil at his ambition.

“To ascend, I require worship. Fear. Slaughter without measure.” His fiery mane surged higher. “The mortal world shall drown in war until my name eclipses even the Four.”

Sas’cha laughed softly. “You dream boldly.”

“I dream correctly.”

The lesser daemon turned away from the Demonicum and conjured a silver mirror from thin air. Its surface clouded before revealing a mortal chamber lit by candlelight. A human sorcerer knelt within circles of blood-painted runes.

Young. Desperate. Ambitious. Perfect.

“He is ready,” Sas’cha said. “For months I have whispered to him through dreams. I came to him first as a voice… then as a vision… and finally as desire itself.”

In the mirror, the sorcerer gazed longingly toward an unseen figure.

“He believes I will grant him greatness,” she continued. “Power over death. Knowledge forbidden to mankind. He would tear apart kingdoms merely to hear my voice again.”

N’Char watched silently. “And he shall summon you into the mortal realm?”

“Oh, yes.” Sas’cha’s smile became predatory. “I shall arrive weak. Frightened. Vulnerable.” She laughed at the absurdity. “Mortals love protecting beautiful things.”

The daemoness placed one hand upon the Daemonicum. “I will convince him this artifact contains the final secret to ascension.”

“And then?”

Her purple eyes gleamed. “He will open it willingly.”

At those words, the Demonicum pulsed violently. The runes flared brighter, and from somewhere deep inside the artifact came the muffled sound of screaming.