The Demon Who Ate The Moons

Authors Note

This is a short story from within the Kai’Nor Chronicles, told by the esteemed Chronicler, Linus Verdux by fire light. This is a pivotal part of Vixen III, where Vixen finally learns of the true identity of the monster chasing her. Worry not, this spoils nothing of the plot of Vixen, but gives a true look into the Myths and Legends of Kai’Nor.

This is a classic Arthurian-style tale of magic and monsters, featuring a much referenced character, Alviere Harrow. (You should read The Epilogue of a Storyteller to learn more about this historic character)

 TAH <3

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Morrigan, Morrigan,

Mistress of the night.

On raven’s wings and hollow bones,

She devoured the three moons’ light.

Alviere Harrow trudged his way across the new and broken world. By his side were his court of men and fae alike, plotting points on the map as they filled in the blanks. The fabled Knights of the Dawn. They started at Gracefall, the first and last city to survive the Shadow Wars, and then they followed the sun westward.

Harrow and his knights walked half the world. Everywhere they went, they found people who were lost from the breaking of the world and he brought them back into the light. Alviere Harrow did not leave footsteps in the sand; he left a trail of hope and life. In his wake were shining cities that had been erected in his honour. There were kingdoms of people who praised his name and there was a future with brighter days ahead.

“My king, I can see that your men are tired and need to rest,” said the fae Magnus Clave, Harrow’s trusted partner, inventor, and mapkeeper. “According to our scouts, there should be a good field up ahead to make camp.”

The immortal king shook his head. “No, my love. I can smell beasts about. This place is not safe to rest. There is darkness here. We must wait until we are in safe territories.” And so, they continued to wade, their hands on their swords and their spears, watching the darkness as closely as a mother watches her child.

It is important to remember that during this time, the world had just been broken. The golden days of the Gods and glory were over. The Gods had vanished and the map itself had been shredded and thrown to the wind. Alviere Harrow had fought alongside the Gods and earned immortality for his service to his people, and he didn’t waste a second of it on himself. He gave his earned longevity back to the world as a living god. He fought demons and protected his people.

In his wake, Harrow and his knights slaughtered shy of four-score demons who had escaped the Chaos between worlds. When he heard the tales of the beasts and the monsters that plagued his people, Alviere went out of his way to hunt them down. He would find their lairs and either burn them with silver and holy fire, sending them back to the Nameless Pit, or trick them into entrapment and servitude.

But of all the seventy-two demons and their crowns of inky darkness, in whatever hierarchy they deemed themselves to follow, Morrigan the Lighteater was the only one to have bested Alviere Harrow. She is the only one to have left a scar.

Alvire smote Baphomit the Bloody in a single blow. Elphvarik the Cunning was tricked into their labyrinthian prison to roam for eternity. But the Lighteater tested Harrow and his knights to no avail.

Scholars estimate that Harrow was half the world away from the kingdom of Gracefall on Edonian shores. He was on the edge of Derrian and Tash’ola. Not many miles away from where we sit now. They had walked for months without rest. Their legs burned and the armour on their backs was like lead weights. Of course, the Knights of the New Dawn did not moan or complain. They simply walked on with their heads held high.

“Hello there,” cooed an old woman who approached the band of knights with not a care in the world. When the old woman saw them, she saw the banners of High King Harrow and offered them rest. “Oh my,” she said, bowing low. “My king, please come off this treacherous road and rest. Your knights look tired and in need of a good meal.”

Alviere was hesitant. By the knight’s code, it was only honourable to accept the hospitality of his subjects, but there was a smudge of distrust in his heart. “My lady,” Magnus Clave cut in.

“We would be happy to accept any offer of shelter. Is there a town nearby?”

Only Magnus Clave could undermine the king, as was the privilege of being his partner. As delicately as he could, Alviere pulled his partner aside and scowled, the same scowl that made the god of death quiver and the god of war fall. Magnus, however, was immune to such looks. Not because he was the first generation of fae, and not because he was once lieutenant to the god Alphor, but because he had spent nearly three hundred years at his husband’s side. It was hard to fear the face you had slept next to each night for a century.

“Magnus,” the High King said quietly. “My gut tells me that we should not sleep here tonight. We should continue.”

“My lord, we have been walking for a month straight. Your men refuse to show it, but they are inches away from collapsing from exhaustion. They carry more mud on them than they do armour. It is of the knight’s code to accept the hospitality of your subjects. Are you an oathbreaker?” Magnus Clave flashed a shy smile and left his husband to stew in his own guilt.

He turned to the woman and smiled. “My dear, it would be an honour to accept your invitation.” The king bowed to his subject and continued to scowl at his sweet-faced husband.

A servant to her king, the old woman led the knights to a grove in the forest. Where the land dipped and the stone rose to reveal a small town hidden in the leaves. Alviere did note the strange circumstances of the town’s appearance. Not a single chimney in sight spat smoke and the people seemed to wander aimlessly through the streets.

But as Gracefall’s banners came into view, the atmosphere changed like the last day of winter. The townspeople welcomed the knights warmly, waving and granting them gifts. Each bowed to their masters and took their presence as an honour.

“Come, this way,” the old woman said as she ushered the weary travellers into her home. The old woman kindly began to cook a hearty meal for the knights and then drew them hot, steaming baths. She diligently washed their clothes and offered them her roof to rest for the night.

The knights accepted the woman’s kindness but in return, the knights cleaned the cobwebs from her eaves. They cut enough wood for her fire to last the winter and beyond, and helped her peel the carrots, prune the herbs, and dice the meat. When their baths were done, they scrubbed the tubs and cleaned their host’s house.

This, of course, was the knight’s way: to pay kindness with kindness.

Night fell and in the warmth of the woman’s home, they ate the feast they had all helped prepare. But Alviere still felt that something was off. Though their food was delicious and the woman’s welcome was warm, Alviere’s knights began to gluttonously devour their meal, demanding more. For a moment, they became unruly and rude. They smashed glasses and plates and demanded seconds and beer.

Then, their eyes went white, and their bodies went limp, like a flower sagging in the absence of the sun.

Even Harrow himself had fallen to the spell of the old woman.

For she was no sweet crone. She was corrupted. Inhuman. Her soul had been taken and moulded into something new.

You see, Grimmnear are creatures that can take all shapes and forms. From a sly fox to a feeble old woman, demons can attach themselves onto the soul of any creature that can feed them Chaos. Like the moon in the aether and its light illuminating the ground, demons hold their feet in two worlds. They are like the scent in the wind or the heat in the flame. Just as humans and fae, and fairvern create Harmony and Order, there are beings that cause Chaos and Discord.

Unbeknownst to the Knights of the Dawn, this woman was more than she seemed. She not only had a demon clinging to the flame of her soul but she was also an enchantress. A witch who had survived the Chaos and clung to its power. Like the Wielders of today, this woman had the knowledge of Alchemy. She knew the herbs and the fauna of the world and the magic they held. She could make the very elements of nature bend to her whim.

When Orwin fixed the world after its breaking, the demons who had been thriving in that Chaos between worlds did all they could to hang on. Morrigan, the Mistress of the Night, bonded with the enchantress to ensure her survival. She promised the woman the knowledge of every fruit and flower, and in return, she would be a slave to Morrigan’s commands.

The enchantress agreed.

When Morrigan told the enchantress to pick a flower under the three moons’ light, she did. When Morrigan told the woman to brew potions and brews that no mortal would dare think of, she did. And when Morrigan told the woman to poison the town and the king, she did.

With the guidance of her demon, the old woman had plucked a rare flower. Its sap would take the mind of even the strongest of men and make them malleable to suggestions. It would make them slaves and thralls. And so, the woman poisoned her town with the sap of the flower day after day, amassing an army.

The knights’ eyes went glassy. Their minds were void of the fire and spark that once fuelled them. The demon roared in delight as now the High King of Kai’Nor was under her command. A man who had touched the Gods and rode dragons. A man who had slain demons and men alike. The old woman inspected the handsome king’s face. Tears welled in his sapphire eyes as he fought the poison in his veins.

She issued a command to her new thrall. She ordered the king to stand and bow to her, but he did not obey. The demon tried again, now using her infernal wiles as means of suggestion. She bit into his skin and pulled apart his golden armour, but he still did not obey.

Alviere Harrow was strong. She could feel the god-given resilience burning through her brew, but Morrigan would not give in. “Great King Harrow,” the demon said through her vessel. “You have slain my sisters and brothers, and you have brought much dread to the fields of Annwyn. I am going to invoke damnation on your soul in penance for your crimes. The pain you have caused me to feel, I shall return to you tenfold.”

Her thralls pulled the king away as the enchantress went to prepare a spell. For you see, Morrigan herself was like the enchantress. She was a witch in her own right. Yes, she could pull at the threads of Chaos and make the world bow to her command… but even demons had their limits.

Demons are bound between two worlds and their existences are cursed with obeying certain laws. Demons must fear the light of holy fire, and their skins must burn at the touch of silver. They are thrown between the Pit of Anwynn and the mortal plane as rain is dropped from the sky and forced to return to the sky only to drop again. Morrigan wanted to escape. She wanted to be more. She wanted to be in both worlds completely.

So, while burning through mortal lives, she tinkered with spells and potions. She researched the limits of her own Chaos and gathered the ingredients she needed. Alchemy, Pharmika, Artificary—whatever you may call the study of making Harmony tangible, you must know that the ingredients are more than just a recipe. As with all magic, there needs to be intent. There needs to be a touch of soul to each ingredient.

A weed plucked in the day, as you pass it by chance, is useless, but for a witch to wait until the three moons touch, each as whole as a cat’s eye cutting through the dark—that gives the weeds purpose. An importance. For a witch to hunt it out in the dark, to pluck the right leaves that grew in the right places, that makes the weed something else. It made it more. So imagine when you sacrifice something more than a weed: a favourite toy, the colour of your eyes… That is when Alchemy gets scary.

Magnus Clave dragged his husband to the base of a stone circle where Morrigan had built her altar. The trees there had cut, the ground had been flattened, and a plaza had been erected. On a stone dais in the centre of the circle was a cauldron. The stone floor was scarred with infernal glyphs and runes of all kinds. Lines connecting sinister circle to sinister circle.

The night sky above them was without fog or clouds as the stars looked down on the ritual grounds like a thousand eyes refusing to blink. The Three Moons—pale discs full and glaring—beat down silver light brighter than the sun at noon.

“Bring him to his knees,” the demon commanded, and the king was dropped in front of the dais. “King Alviere Harrow, named Therilax by the dragons and Godslayer by your people—I name you my enemy.” Morrigan spoke the words like an incantation, her voice rising and falling as if in song. “You will be the making of your own destruction. The love you feel for your country and your people will fuel its end.”

“I will never!” Alviere spat, unable to move.

Morrigan dropped ingredients into her cauldron one by one. Green light bloomed from the lip of the cauldron as fog curled at its edges. Then, she took a silver knife and drove its teeth into her own heart. Black blood flowed quickly, drawn magically like the spurt of a fountain and poured into the pot. The green light deepened and the contents within bubbled.

“I bring forth the elements, and I take each strand of Harmony. I give my blood, my vessel, and my Chaos.” Tendrils the colour of the darkest ink sprouted from her back. Chaos in its most primal form bled into the cauldron. Finally, she smiled a sinister grin. “From my enemy, I take parts of his land. I take the god-given gifts away from him. And I will take the blood of his people.”

Following a silent command, Magnus Clave drove a dagger into Alviere’s side. The blade was drenched red with his blood. Magnus stepped up to the dais, presenting it as if it were a royal gift. The knife dropped into the cauldron and the ground shook.

Alveire knew what was coming next. He knew the sacrifices Alchemy took. He knew that Morrigan would go to no bounds to claim what was hers. “Don’t you dare,” Alviere cried as she lifted the knife. “No!”

The knife moved in a flash across Magnus’s neck. A wound so thin that even a papercut would shy to its likeness. Magnus cried out, tears streaking out from his glassy eyes, and both tears and blood flowed into the crucible. All at once, the infernal glyphs sparked alight as a bolt of green energy burst into the sky.

Three columns of silver light rained down from the sky and each focused on Morrigan. The moons began to eclipse, the light bleeding away from the edges as the silver light poured into Morrigan’s veins. “Yes,” she cried. “Yes!”

Magnus Clave’s body slumped to the floor, and that was enough to break Alviere from his spell. The poison burnt away from him as his anger and sorrow flared brighter than the sun. He pushed away the knights who held his side and moved like an animal towards the witch. The moons above were now nearly drained. Two sickles sat beside Muthrin, who was now curling at the edges like burning parchment.

In a single heroic act, Harrow kicked the cauldron from its dais and its contents splashed all over Morrigan. Alviere scooped up the silver knife that had been used to kill the love of his life and drove it deep into the neck of the demon.

This, of course, was not enough to kill a Grimmnear. Silver could leave a scar, yes, but to send its blighted soul back to Annwyn, he would need more. The attack was just enough to halt the spell. The beams of light from the moons faded, and the demon’s skin now glowed with its stolen light.

Alviere had stopped many demons with less, but for what Morrigan had done to Magnus, she deserved to burn. Alviere believed that she deserved to die. But without Sunrise, his legendary sword, he could not banish her from this world. And so, fuelled by anger and a broken heart, he took the silver blade and carved the wyrds of the Gods into Morrigan’s skin.

He used his god-given powers to ignite a prayer that pulled Morrigan’s soul out of her stolen body and forced it into the now empty crucible. Alviere slammed the lid on tight. With the fading remnants of his strength and power, he used his blood for one last prayer. He did not pray to the gods or to Harmony—but to Magnus. To his love.

With bloodied hands, he scribed the binding runes that the Three had shown him and sealed the crucible shut.

Once Morrigan was sealed away, the Knights of the Dawn and the townspeople slowly came back to consciousness. The moons, however, stayed as they were. Maidana and Cronin were trapped in a static state—never to be full again. As was the same for Alviere Harrow’s heart.

The High King of Kai’Nor had sealed away a great evil, but to do so, he had lost everything. The world was now bleak without his love. The light didn’t glow as bright, and music never sounded the same.

In the days that followed, the town that Morrigan had enslaved was left to fall to ruin. Harrow took the town’s wealth of silver, and he gilded the cauldron shut. All alone, he delved into the dark woods and hid it in a place to be forgotten.