Gripping the exquisite-class magic crystal that he had brought along for this exact purpose, Maels tapped into the vast stores of energies within and used them to bolster the energy imprint on the medallion that was meant to activate its summoning feature. As all of his followers prepared for a potential life-and-death struggle, he noticed something peculiar out of the corner of his eye.

The boy was staring at him with a wide gaze, clearly frightened but collected and observant. His eyes were solid silver, a pure shade the likes of which Maels had only seen on the faces of Duke Antoine and King Glenden himself. Arienne had been watching him too, though she was now staring at the sobbing children, her face twisted in disgust, not from their appearances but from their sufferings. Realizing both that the boy was no simple bastard and that Arienne needed to die within the next several minutes, he powered the medallion for dozens of seconds before a searing pain bit at his hand and caused him to drop the trinket amidst a sudden explosion of blinding white light.

Maels felt the demon’s presence before the light faded, a heavy aura bearing down on all within hundreds of paces of their location. In the following moments, everyone present aside from the frightened children was stunned into silence, including Maels. The frightened sobs increased as a tall, naked man appeared in their midst, a man that looked very similar to Gartur.

Maels’s heart sank as the man looked around with sentient, cognitive eyes the colour of roaring flames. Wasn’t he supposed to be a mindless puppet? Weren’t his magical and physical abilities supposed to be suppressed to a twentieth of their original potency? No matter how Maels looked at it, a powerful Inverted man had just emerged from the independent space within the medallion, an individual that was fully in control of his mind.

Built strong like a warrior, the man’s skin was red and scaly, shining like ruby-studded scale mail as he caught a pillar of sunlight from the clear skies above. At the centre of his chest was a strange birthmark that looked like twenty tiny candle flames arranged into a ring, as if a necklace of flame-shaped beads had been inked into his skin. It seemed unnatural.

“I—it can’t be!” Gartur seemed to recognize the markings and ran forward, throwing his hood back to reveal a similar complexion and then falling to his knees with a whimper that was a marriage of elation, fright and guilt. Heavy streams of tears spilled down his face as he grabbed at the man’s legs. “Forgive me, my king! If I didn’t do as they said…if I didn’t…” Gartur began to sob louder than the children.

The man, who was the first person that Maels had encountered that was taller than him, knelt down to rest a hand on Gartur’s shoulder, his sheer presence rendering everyone unable to make a move or even let slip a subtle sound. The guards around the clearing had all turned to see what the cause of the commotion was, but these renowned, handpicked swordsmen had gone weak in the knees at the sight of the towering Inverted man and were unable to move, much less draw their weapons.

Now that this person was in their midst, Maels and his people were as terrified as the immobile children. Although Maels had known what he was getting into before the onset of the summoning, he hadn’t expected the demon to look like the Inverted peoples of today. Weren’t those of the present era supposed to have gained more human-like appearances due to Lord Lucian’s grace in light of their repentance?

When the man went to help Gartur up, the old aid could only bow his head and press his face into the dirt, sobbing like someone that had sinned beyond redemption as he hugged at the man’s leg with trembling hands. Glancing at the crying children and then at the magic circle that they were arranged atop of, the man’s eyes flashed with evident rage before he turned his gaze on Maels, who instantly began to panic. He had the subconscious thought that if he didn’t do something within the next several seconds, he would die.

Without thinking, Maels snatched up the medallion from the forest floor and poured as much of the magic crystal’s energy into it as possible. Taking control of the magical imprint that operated the intricate seal that was supposed to dim the man’s mind and suppress his strengths, Maels yelled out an order with all his might.

“Stay where you are!”

The man stumbled as he made to take a step forward, his rugged, handsome face twisting in pain as he let out an ear-splitting scream that sounded like the roar of a massive, rabid beast. His scarlet eyes dimmed and he fell limply to his knees, Maels’s pounding heartbeat the only sound prevalent in his ears as he watched the spell take hold. Feeling wetness on the sides of his head, he realized that his eardrums had ruptured from the shrieking and that he was now completely deaf.

He and the others recovered in the following moments, those that were able to taking a minute or so to heal their ears. Not only had the man seemed to have lost his sense of self, but the oppressive aura that he had been giving off abruptly ceased.

The sound of breaking twigs betrayed Arienne’s sudden movement, the female swordsman disappearing into the forest with sudden, resolute steps. Almost immediately after, a slightly-dazed Deena cast a spell that illuminated her body in dim green light, a physical enhancement spell by the looks of it. A moment later, she blinked out of sight at the behest of an invisibility spell, a rapid series of snapping twigs and disturbed underbrush showing that she hadn’t hesitated to follow after the young knight.

More than anything, Maels felt uncertain now that Deena was gone. If things went south, could he really handle the situation with the subordinates that he’d brought along?

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he snapped out at his aid and said, “Gartur. What’s going on? How do you know him?”

Gartur ignored him and continued to sob, crawling forward to put himself between the other Inverted man and the surrounding arcanites, making a living shield of himself without the slightest sign of hesitation. Resolve on his wrinkled face, he ignored his frightful quivers and refused to budge.

“Gartur! Don’t make me discipline you!”

For the first time in his life, Maels saw hostility in the old man’s eyes. Dumbfounded, he commanded him to answer his questions under the curse of compulsion.

“The sigil on his chest doesn’t lie,” came the eventual response, the old man’s voice full of struggle. “This can only be King Ar’Daul, the head of the Dauls and the leader of my race!”

The surrounding arcanites began to tremble, the woman from before turning on Maels with fear in her eyes. “The King of the Dauls? How can that be? Everyone knows that he was killed by Saint Limnin!”

Maels suddenly knew who the owner of the old notebook was, which gave rise to a whirlwind of uncertainties that momentarily made him question many, many things. Saint Limnin had been in possession of Neiro’s grimoire?

Suppressing the countless questions that filled his mind, Maels strode past the others, faced the frightened boy at the centre of the magic circle and activated the ritual with a strong exertion of delicate spellwork. He needed to destroy the boy’s limbs with high magic as quickly as possible, for it was necessary that his corpse adopt the combustion spell that was crucial to his plan’s success. Just as Neiro had done countless times, Maels instigated the various stages of the ritual in rapid succession so that the curse of replication would take hold and bestow upon the boy the magics that were about to kill him.

“Your Grace,” said Ser Asten, who had left his post and walked into the clearing with wide, disturbed eyes that beheld nothing but Gartur and his fellow Daul. “You said that we needed the energy of the Kets to reveal the demon’s whereabouts, but you made it appear before activating the ritual.”

The male arcanite from before added with a stammer, “Y—Your Grace, what is this? What’s going on?”

Maels ignored them, fearing that he would have to return to the delegation as the sole survivor of his ‘encounter with the demon.’ After all of the resources he had used up to cultivate these followers, his heart hurt at the thought of throwing them away in such a manner.

A few moments after the magic circle’s activation, the children began to shriek in anguish, their screams sending chills down the spines of those present as the lines and symbols of the magic circle finally flared up with a devious grey light. One by one, the children began to die from overconsumption, their bodies drained of every last drop of their inner energies.

Seeing this, the young Silverkin at the centre of the circle began to struggle with all his might, but to no avail. He couldn’t move a muscle, and as long as he was bound by the circle he wouldn't be able to make use of his magics.