“These roots... not ready? And... this one is?”

Out in the wilderness, a particular Demonfolk girl was pointing between two different leafy stems, sticking out of the ground.

“Yes! Well... somewhat. The roots with the larger brush on top is ready to eat.”

The response that came to her sounded out in her mind, whispered and raspy. Despite that, she did not question it, merely tilting her head at that response.

“Larger brush?” she asked.

“More leaves, Sollar. More brush means it has more sticks and leaves.”

Sollar was, by most standards, a typical Demonfolk girl. She stood at roughly below-average height, with apricot-colored hair and similarly-colored eyes that shimmered from underneath her long and messy hair.

She peered at the smaller plant of the two.

“Can I eat the not ready one?”

“No! No, well... you can, it’s not bad for you. But it won’t taste good.”

“Oh, icky flavor. I can avoid it.”

The Demonfolk girl stepped towards the taller brush. The hand of hers that was not preoccupied with pointing at the plants held an ornate brass shovel. The pristine surface was neither scratched nor chipped, yet was caked in dirt and mud.

The end of the shovel dug into the dirt a hand’s length away from the base of the larger plant. A foot was placed on the handles directly above the blade of the shovel, allowing her to leverage the weight of her body to dig the spade into the ground.

“Good. Once you’re all the way down, grip the shovel while leaning back.”

“It’s called Shov-ar,” Sollar stated, matter-of-factly.

“Fine. Use... Shovar, and lean back while gripping the handle.”

Sollar leaned back a little. “Like this?”

“Further. Get your weight in on it! Like you’re pulling on a heavy door.”

Her brother’s voice, from the other side, still remained hushed. But there was now an edge of it, a degree of emphasis behind his voice. The Demonfolk girl proceeded as he had instructed, and began to pull back on the shovel as if her life depended on it.

A few seconds passed before the ground decided to give way. Half of the plant was uprooted in mere seconds. Sollar stumbled, kicking up dirt and hitting the ground.

She scrambled back onto her feet, brushing some dust off her clothes. Considering that her clothes were mostly dirtied rags at this point, it didn’t matter all that much to her. Instead, Sollar directed her attention at the half-uprooted plant that the blade of her shovel was wedged beneath.

“Luth-ar! Look! I got it out!”

She bounded over to the exposed plant. Wrapping both her hands around the thickest portion of the stem, she heaved it over her shoulder, until the rest of the roots snapped from the ground. The Demonfolk girl almost fell backwards, with the plant still in her hands.

“Careful. And make sure you clean it before you eat.”

“I know. You said to me already.”

Conveniently and thankfully, there just happened to be a stream nearby for her to wash the root in.

Sollar got up from the ground, before picking up her bounty. She stepped through the brush, towards the sounds of running water.

“Is this river fine?” the Demonfolk girl asked, once she was looking upon it.

“It’s more of a creek than a river. But step closer to allow me to examine the water.”

“Step closer and...?”

“So I can look at the water, to make sure it’s safe to drink.”

“Okay!”

She then proceeded to splash her feet into the water of the creek.

“No, don’t step in! Your socks’ll get... Oh, whatever. But the water looks clean enough.”

Sollar hesitated.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Well... no, but your shoes are probably wet. Nevermind that, you can just clean your rallien.”

Sollar proceeded to unclasp the metal, bowl-like helmet that she wore. Or rather, it would be more accurate to describe it as a helmet-like bowl, with its shape.

Squatting down, the Demonfolk girl dipped the helmet into the crystal clear flowing water. After a few seconds, she brought up the rim of the helmet to her lips, and drank.

After satisfying her thirst, the Demonfolk girl then tossed it atop a dry rock next to her, before using both hands to lower the root vegetable in her hands — what Luth referred to as a ‘rallien’ — into the flowing stream. 

“That’s good. Scrub all the dirt off it and it’ll be good to eat.”

“Like always!”

She was rather quick to wash it clean. Holding it up to her face, the Demonfolk girl stared at her own handiwork. The vegetable was shaped like a radish but had a thin, blood-red skin similar to that of a carrot.

She then bit into it and began chewing at the fibery flesh. It had a light, refreshing, taste, with a subtly sweet flavor to it.

“Mmm, this one tastes good! You’re good at picking the best ones,” Sollar exclaimed. “There are so many around, too. The Human-folk probably eat a lot of them!”

“Humans don’t really like eating ralliens.”

“Humans don’t like it? But why?”

“Well... They call them demonroots. It’s got a bitter taste to them, from what I know.”

“Bitter?”

“Uh, imagine if it... tasted like it was biting your tongue. Like you were eating sand, or dirt.”

Sollar swallowed down her mouthful of the sweet vegetable. “Really? That sounds bad. Why do we taste it sweet then?”

“Uh, well... your big brother isn’t sure.”

“But you should have the answer! Right?”

“There probably is an answer, I just don’t know it.”

The Demonfolk girl began thinking for a few seconds, as though thinking hard enough would manifest the answer into her own head.

“I know! I can just ask Say-say when she comes over. Or Forr-ar! They’re Gen-ralls, so they know!”

“Uhm, I’m not so sure if you can really ask General Seis or General Forge about that.”

“Hmm... yes. I should ask Ril-ay instead.”

“Er...”

Sollar bit a few more times into the rallien, and continued chewing at the vegetable as her brother pondered over how to respond to that statement.

A few more good-sized chunks out of the rallien left it with nothing but the hard-to-chew core of it. The Demonfolk girl was about to discard it until her brother interrupted her.

“Make sure you eat all of it.”

“Huh?” Sollar asked. “But the middle part is hard to chew.”

“It’s chewy, yes, but if you chew it enough it’ll soften. That’s where a lot of the nutrients are. Eat it so you can grow healthy.”

Sollar grimaced, staring at the core of the vegetable. But she bit into it regardless, as the Demonfolk girl stood up to grab at her metal hat.

“It will take me time to chew this,” she said. “I will continue walking.”

“That’s fine. Just keep walking in the direction I told you.”

Sollar shook the water off of her shoes as she stepped out of the stream, and similarly shook her metal hat dry.

“You said Forr-ar is this way, right?” she asked, as she placed the helmet back on her head.

“Yes, I can sense him in that direction. Everything will be fine once you can meet up with him.”

“And I can ask him about why ralliens taste like ‘bitter’ to Humans!”

“That too, I suppose.”

Sollar took another bite from the fibery core of the vegetable.

“Sollar, there’s—”

His voice was starting to cut out, as a magical static began overtaking it.

“I can’t—”

Her brother’s words gradually became indistinguishable from the surrounding sounds of the forest.

“Just keep— forward, I know— General—”

“Luth-ar?”

His words then faded out into silence.

“...Luth-ar?”

Sollar stood there, expecting a response. But all she could hear were the tweeting of birds and rustling of leaves.

“...Luth-ar, say something.”

She waited for another thirty seconds as if anticipating. But she heard nothing from him.

“Maybe he is tired.”

The Demonfolk girl looked up, at the shining sun above her, then down at the almost fully-eaten rallien in her hands.

“Go forward...”

Right, her brother told her to keep on going forward, and everything would be fine.

“Yes! I’ll go forward!”

She raised a hand up, before pointing it directly in the direction in front of her. And so, at her brother’s advice, the Demonfolk girl continued to walk forward, through the forest.

The lush greenery remained as she continued walking for an indefinite amount of time. Using her metal hat to shield her eyes from the sun, Sollar peered up to see what time of day it was.

“The sun was down there when I woke up,” Sollar said, pointing to the east. She then traced her finger up the path it went, until she stopped a fourth of the way up.

“And the sun is there now. Which is...”

Sollar lowered her hands to her face and spread them out.

“...Luth-ar says that there are twenty-four hours in a day. So if there are twenty-four, and four...”

She counted four fingers on one hand, then paused.

“I don’t have enough fingers. Ten fingers and twenty-four hours means I need... Ten is...”

Sollar began to count up to twenty-four on her fingers, by closing her hands into fists once she reached the tens. She had to close her hands two times, and the remaining left her with four fingers remaining on one hand.

“I need two more hands and four fingers to count.”

She then looked at the sky again and pointed east once more. She traced her finger across the sky, circling up and around and passing the sun before her finger landed west, where the sun would set.

“One full thing is twenty-four hours, so that means...”

While pointing west, the Demonfolk girl squinted. She saw something in the direction that she was pointing.

Through the trees in the forest, she spotted what seemed like a crowd. Her ears picked up the distant sound of voices that was carried to her by the breeze.

Unsure as to what she was seeing before her, Sollar stepped through the brush. The earlier task of determining how much time she had left in the day was left forgotten.

At the end of the clearing of trees, the Demonfolk girl peered again. Sure enough, there were the familiar silhouettes of...

“...People!”

Leaving behind a cloud of fallen leaves in her midst, the Demonfolk girl sprinted toward the group.

As she approached them, she could see that it appeared to be a group of Demonfolk working the land. Sollar’s eyes scanned over the group until one particular one caught her eye.

“It’s Forr-ar!”

The one she was staring at appeared to be the one leading the rest of the group. He shouted out commands as he tilled the ground, slicing the hoe through the dirt effortlessly.

He was a Demonfolk of medium height, with straight, black hair that ended just above his neck. The man’s piercing red irises could’ve been spotted from across a field. While his clothes were somewhat baggy, what could be seen suggested his build to be one of lean muscle.

And, the feature most notable of him were the two horns that jutted upwards from the temples of his head. Both horns were dark-gray, typical of a Demonfolk, and they stood up straight. Extending a finger’s length out of the mid-point of his horns and at the very top were antler-like protrusions that split off from his horns.

It also appeared that the top fifth of his right horn had been snapped off.

“We’re still two days behind from that rainstorm a week ago that washed everything away! Hurry up!”

That loud, commandeering voice was unmistakably who she thought it was. This was General Forge, one of the feared generals of the Demonfolk army during the war. And, right now, he seemed to be... farming?

Regardless, that didn’t stop her.

“Forr-ar!” 

The man jumped at the very happy-sounding shout right behind him. He spun around and held the hoe in his hand as though it were the halberd he frequently wielded in battle.

His eyes flickered left then right, tracing over the direction Sollar’s voice came from to identify any threats. His eyebrows shot up when his gaze landed on the all-too-familiar sister of the Demon Lord himself.

Everyone had gone quiet the moment Sollar shouted. And General Forge was not the one who broke the silence.

“Huh?”

“Who’s this?”

Two of the Demonfolk workers nearest to Sollar glanced over.

General Forge, in the meanwhile, took a moment to register who was speaking to him.

“Sollar?” he asked.

One of the Demonfolk laborers stepped up to General Forge.

“There a problem, Forge? She being a bother?”

“No, not at all,” the dark-haired Demonfolk General assured. “She’s just someone I haven’t seen in a while. You all carry on with your work, I need to speak with her.”

“Huh. It’s urgent?”

“Very much so. It’ll take a moment, so cover for me. Alright?”

“Got it, boss.”

General Forge placed a hand on Sollar’s shoulder and urged her away from the group, as he followed her. He took a look back, to ensure the distance between him and the others was sufficient, before turning to Sollar.

“Lady Sollar, what are you doing all the way out here?” he asked, in a hushed yet stern tone.

“Lut-har told me to find you here!” she exclaimed.

“Wait... Lord Luth told you?” General Forge asked. “He still has contact with you?”

“He stopped talking to me an hour ago.”

Oh, dear.

“How did it sound like when he stopped?”

“Uh... his voice sounded all... the words were disconnected, and they became quieter until I can’t hear him anymore?”

General Forge was in thought for a few seconds, before he snapped his fingers.

“Damn it. Those Humans discovered that he was contacting someone, and they cut the line.”

“Cut the line?” Sollar asked, tilting her head. “There weren’t any lines, and I didn’t see anything get cut.”

“I meant that they... uh,” General Forge stuttered. He looked for a way to word it so that the Demonfolk girl would understand.

“You two basically were able to talk to each other using magic. And when the Humans found out, they managed to stop him from talking.”

The confused look on Sollar’s face shifted to one of concern. “They stopped his talking?”

“Yes, they’re able to do that because they found out.”

Sollar sighed. “Humans are mean.”

“Only some,” General Forge corrected. “Especially the ones that have imprisoned your brother.”

“You do?”

Sollar looked hopeful. General Forge almost hesitated with what he was going to do next, but he had to.

“Let’s see...” the General murmured, looking down at the Demonfolk girl. He stepped up to her, then placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“According to protocol, the line of succession moves if the current Demon Lord is killed, incapacitated, or captured,” General Forge said. “To the misfortune of the crown’s status... you are next in line to Lord Luth.”

“You’re talking about lines again,” Sollar said. “If I was waiting in line for something, what do I get?”

“No, not like that. I mean that in a line of succession, as in who comes next.”

“But I never got in a line.”

“Gah!” General Forge exclaimed. This girl was hopeless. “Just— forget about that. According to tradition, you should technically be crowned Lady Sollar. But I can’t, in good conscience, allow anything like that to take place, as you’re not capable of taking on the position.”

General Forge stopped talking. He kept staring at Sollar, in anticipation.

The Demonfolk girl was not pleased to hear that from him.

“Do you say that I can’t do it?” Sollar asked. Her voice betrayed a bit of hurt.

“Well, I’m not saying that you’re— Well, I mean...” General Forge stammered. “Alright, I’ll be honest with you. You’re not really fit to take the position of the next Demon Lord, Lady Sollar.”

“Why?” she asked, almost immediately.

“Because you’re... well, not prepared enough to!” the Demonfolk General exclaimed. “Do you really think you can take your brother’s position at all?”

“Yes!” Sollar exclaimed, pointing her finger at him. “I can!”

“That was a rhetorical question, you weren’t supposed to answer it...” General Forge muttered.

“A... reh-torcal?” Sollar asked, tilting her head.

“Forget I said anything,” General Forge muttered.

The girl was completely lost as to what he was saying. However, she knew that there existed a ‘crown’ of sorts, and it sounded cool! She wanted it.

She felt something in her... click, and the Demonfolk girl could feel a sudden, immense build-up of something powerful within her.

Sollar held her own hands out, as she witnessed something gradually levitate from the air in front of her. It slowly fell down, dropping into her hands. Her arms swayed down a little, as the Demonfolk girl felt the weight of the item in question on her arms.

It was the Crown.

The Crown was black and jagged in design, made of a dark, obsidian-like material that reflected light at certain angles. It shimmered

“Sollar!” General Forge exclaimed. “What in the world did you do?”

“I got the Crown!” she exclaimed, holding it up. “See?”

He stared at her, dumbstruck.

“How did you—?” the Demonfolk General asked. “It shouldn’t be possible, there’s no way! You can’t just activate the Succession Spell on your own somehow!”

The Demonfolk girl cocked her head. She was both unconvinced by the explanation, as she had no clue what he was talking about.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I’m just saying that you need the approval of at least two of the Demonfolk Generals to do it!” General Forge exclaimed. “Thing is, I clearly disapproved of it! So how can you just do this?”

“But they didn’t say no,” Sollar said. “The other Gen-ralls.”

That made General Forge pause, as he put two and two together. He realized that he actually didn’t know how the Succession Spell worked; it worked, that was for certain. But her innocent comment made him realize this: There was a chance that the permission that needed to be granted would only need to be implicit.

In other words, he disapproved of it. However, of the three other Demonfolk Generals, at least two of them need to feel like Sollar was capable of taking on the role of ‘Demon Lord’ in some way for her to get the Crown once the Succession Spell was initiated.

“Grr... bet it’s General Seis and Riall,” General Forge muttered.

“Who?” Sollar asked, glancing up at him.

“Nothing, Lady Sollar. I was just thinking to myself.”

Looking at the Demonfolk girl again, he could see that she was tinkering with the Crown. She twirled it with one finger, then tossed it into the air to catch it, then rolled it down her arms like it was a toy.

“Lady Sollar, you’re technically a Demon Lord now. Don’t treat the Crown like that! In fact, you shouldn’t even have it in the first place!”

Sollar stopped playing with the Crown, but pouted when he told her to stop.

“I want to keep the Crown,” Sollar said.

“That’s the problem. Lord Luth has been captured, and he can’t use the Succession Spell himself. So now you’re the Demon Lord.”

Sollar shook her head left and right rigorously.

“No, thank you. You can have the Demon Lord thing instead, Forr-ar.”

“It doesn’t work like that, I don’t have royal blood!”

The Demonfolk girl continued shaking her head. “Nuh-uh! If I say it to you, you have to accept it!”

“Absolutely not, it will not work that way at all!” he replied. A drop of sweat slid off General Forge’s forehead.

“But I don’t wait it,” Sollar said.

“Sollar— this isn’t something you can just undo.”

“No.”

“You can’t just say—”

“No!”

If General Forge had any less patience, he would’ve blown up at the clueless girl. Figuratively, of course; he can’t lay a finger on her. He blinked once, then shook his head as if to clear his thoughts.

He needed to try a different approach.

“...Let me ask a different question. You love your brother, right?”

Unsure as to where General Forge wanted to bring the conversation, Sollar nodded yes.

“And,” he continued. “You want to make sure he’s safe.”

“Yes,” Sollar said. She gave a nod.

“You want to make sure he’s happy.”

The Demonfolk girl gave an uncertain nod.

“He won’t be very happy when he realizes that you took his precious Crown, I hope you know?”

It took her exactly ten seconds to realize what General Forge meant.

Another five seconds to decide what to do next.

Sollar grabbed the Crown off her head and tossed it to the ground. General Forge was almost about to cry out at the callous treatment of the sacred Demonfolk artifact.

It dissolved into white sparks on the ground, before reappearing in Sollar’s hand.

“No! Why? I don’t want it anymore!”

She gave it another toss, this time directly at General Forge. He was prepared for it, and caught the Crown midair — only to drop it himself when it zapped his finger.

“Youch! Sollar, only you can hold the Crown. It’ll hurt anyone else it touches.”

“Take it back! Say it! Say it!”

She kept on tossing the Crown at him, and he was trying to fruitlessly block it with his hands. Every time it would hit him, it would give the Demonfolk General a small shock, before it would land on the ground and dissolve into white sparks. And promptly reappear in Sollar’s hands.

The Demonfolk girl continued with the barrage of Crowns, until she tired herself out and sighed.

“I don’t want it,” Sollar muttered.

“Well, you have it now,” General Forge replied. “Even though I told you that you weren’t ready.”

“Let me get rid of it.”

He shook his head. “You can’t just ‘get rid of it’, Sollar. There’s only one way to pass it on to someone else.”

Sollar stared at him. Silence permeated between the two for half a minute.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Lady Sollar, do I really need to tell you? It’s the exact same as what we did earlier. Your brother needs to accept it back, but in-person. Because the Succession Spell only works one way!”

“Then we are going back to Luth-ar to give the crown back to him!”

“What? No, we can’t just ‘give it back to him’, he’s—”

“We’re returning it to him!”

General Forge stared at Sollar. He sighed, placing a hand on his forehead.

Even though she didn't purposefully accept the title, she was now officially the Demon Lord. Because of that, he was now technically obligated to follow her requests.

No matter how insane they were.

“What have I gotten myself into...”