Chapter 8: Chapter 8: The First Night

CHAPTER 8: THE FIRST NIGHT

The echo of the doors thudding shut was louder than it had any right to be. It rolled through the throne room, reverberated up into the rafters, and died away into silence.

Lily sagged back in the throne and let out a long, theatrical sigh. The kind of sigh you gave when your coworkers left you with cleanup after a shift.

“Well,” she muttered to herself. “Congratulations, Lily Carter. You just signed up to babysit a cult.”

Her crimson eyes traced the empty hall, lit by torches that flickered obediently but cast shadows that writhed on their own. She flexed her hands on the armrests, the carved skulls beneath her fingers grinning up like they were in on the joke.

Had she made a mistake? Probably… no definitely. She had promised them strength and wealth without even pausing to ask herself what those words actually meant here.

“Strength and wealth,” she said aloud, mimicking her own earlier regal tone. “Sure. Why not. Easy peasy. It’s not like those are vague, completely relative concepts or anything.”

She let her head tip back until it thunked against the cold obsidian. Her horns clacked faintly against the carved stone.

Strength. What did that even look like to them? To her, strength was max-level raid gear, skills optimized for DPS, knowing every boss mechanic. To them… a dagger that wasn’t rusted through? Armor that wasn’t stitched together out of burlap sacks? Maybe the ability to not get mugged in an alley?

Wealth. Ha. That was even trickier.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and brought up her inventory with a thought. Her eyes flicked to the currency pouch, and the numbers blinked back at her.

1,147,456 Bronze Crowns

785,897 Silver Crowns

245,748 Gold Crowns

212,254 Platinum Crowns

147,142 Mithril Crowns

45,475 Adamant Crowns

15,147 Orichalcum Crowns

1,257 Dragonsteel Crowns

13 Ethereal Crowns

She let out a low whistle. “Yeah, that’s… obscene.”

Her mind flicked back to the moment she’d tossed Sevrin a single Mithril Crown, casual as dropping him bus fare. His eyes had bulged so wide she thought they might roll out of his head.

“Really?” she muttered, rubbing at her temple. “That’s what gets you all starry-eyed? A Mithril Crown?”

From her perspective, Mithril was barely halfway up the ladder. She had whole stacks of the things. They were shiny, sure, but not exactly the endgame. But the way he reacted, you’d think she’d just handed him the deed to the kingdom.

She leaned her cheek against her fist. Wealth is relative, she reminded herself. The problem was—she had no clue what it meant here. To her, a Mithril Crown was just another shiny icon in the bottom row of her inventory, no different than the thousands stacked beside it. In Xantia, money had been basically meaningless, at least the low tier coins. You could grind dungeons, spam quests, flip loot on the market—hell, if you were bored enough, you could farm raids all night and drown in gold by morning. Infinite faucets meant infinite inflation.

So how was she supposed to translate that into a world where every coin might actually be backed by something real? For all she knew, that single Mithril Crown she’d tossed at Sevrin could buy a kingdom. Or maybe it was just good for a month’s rent and a cart of bread. She had no frame of reference, nothing but the bad habits of a player used to swimming in virtual cash.

She groaned, pressing her palm to her face. “Great. So, either I just handed them godhood, or lunch money. And I won’t know which until they try to spend it.”

The thought of Sevrin swaggering into town tomorrow, waving the coin around like it was pocket change, made her stomach knot. She had no idea if he’d be laughed at, mobbed, or worshiped for it, and that uncertainty was somehow worse.

Strength wasn’t any easier to pin down. In Xantia, she could quantify everything: a level-twenty-five party needed around eighty gold for baseline gear, ten gold per quest reward, grind until your eyes bled. Numbers, charts, spreadsheets, everything was predictable. But that was in a game where gold poured endlessly from dungeons, loot tables, and raid bosses. Here? She had no clue what a sword cost, or what passed for “starter equipment.”

For all she knew, she’d just given them enough to arm an army. Or not even enough for boots. The comparison was useless.

Still, judging by the way Sevrin had nearly dropped the coin on the spot, it was clearly more than pocket change. Maybe she shouldn’t have dismissed his explanation about the currency system so quickly. But to ask now? No. That would ruin the mystique. Demon Princesses didn’t pause their ominous speeches to request an economics lesson. She’d have to figure it out herself, quietly.

Either way, one Mithril Crown ought to cover their little shopping trip. Six people, basic supplies, a roof over their heads… there was no reason it shouldn’t.

Speaking of roofs—Lily frowned, scrolling through her skill list again. Her eyes landed on [Structure Summon] → [Build: Home]. That was the closest thing she had to house-building. The last time she’d used it, she’d acted on pure muscle memory, like casting a skill in Xantia without thinking. But even then, she’d felt the drag on her mana pool. A strain that told her she’d altered the circle somehow.

She replayed the process in her head, tracing the runes she’d twisted without realizing. Yes. She had bent the parameters. That was how she’d ended up with this massive gothic mansion instead of some prefab starter hut.

If she could adjust it once, she could do it again. Smaller this time. Something modest. Servant quarters, maybe. Just enough to house the cultists without letting them infest her mansion.

A faint smile tugged her lips. “Yeah. That could work.”

She closed the skill menu with a flick of her hand. Tomorrow, she would experiment.

Her mind drifted back to tomorrow’s plan. She’d told them two of the cultists could head into town to buy supplies and start getting settled. But the more she thought about it, the itchier her curiosity grew. She wasn’t about to stay locked up in this mansion and its creepy forest forever. She needed to see the world with her own eyes—test if it really worked like Xantia, or if she was just fooling herself with assumptions.

Yeah. She’d tag along. In disguise, maybe. Or not. Honestly, terrifying the locals might be fun. She snorted, shaking her head. “God, listen to me. I sound like I’m actually getting into character.”

She pushed up from the throne. Her legs ached faintly as she stretched, though she hadn’t felt fatigue until now. That creeping heaviness was finally catching up to her, sinking into her shoulders.

She counted the hours. The raid back on Earth starting at midday, the late-night victory. Straight into her shift. Then her death, her rebirth here, the forest, the mansion, the cultists. It had to have been at least twenty-four hours since she’d really rested.

With a tiny, humorless laugh, she thought: Granted, I had a little nap in the middle called ‘death,’ but that doesn’t exactly recharge you.

Yawning, she crossed the throne room, her boots echoing across polished stone. She climbed the wide staircase, gargoyles glaring down at her from the balustrades. Their eyes seemed to follow her, hollow sockets filled with judgment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. “You try running a cult with zero management experience.”

The master bedroom door creaked as she pushed it open.

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It was straight out of a gothic roleplayer’s Pinterest board. The four-poster bed loomed at the center, carved with snarling gargoyles. Heavy velvet drapes spilled down like waterfalls of shadow. The mirror against the far wall gleamed faintly in torchlight, silvered frame darkened with tarnish. The wardrobe, the furniture, everything was carved wood, heavy and ornate, more decorative than practical.

Lily stepped inside and made a beeline for the mirror.

The face that stared back wasn’t Lily Carter. It was Lilithia Nocturne.

Crimson eyes glowed with endless depth. Horns curled back from her temples, elegant, wicked. Her pale skin looked like it had been carved by a sculptor obsessed with beauty. And her lips—oh, those lips—curved in the faintest smirk, half menace, half seduction.

Her stomach knotted. This wasn’t cosplay, nor was it a digital avatar. No, this was her now. She lifted her hand; the mirror Lily did the same. Same motion, same grace.

She whispered, “How much of me is still me?”

Her voice barely carried in the quiet room.

She tried to hold the reflection’s gaze, but the red eyes unnerved her. They weren’t just pretty; they were predatory. They drank in the light. They belonged to something dangerous.

It was fascinating, as if it were terrifying at the same time.

She pulled back, exhaling hard. “Okay. Nope. Not doing this existential crisis right before bed.”

She turned from the mirror, tugging at the gown until it pooled at her feet. She kicked off her boots and crawled into the massive bed. The blankets were thick, smelling faintly of cedar and dust. The mattress sank under her weight, soft enough to swallow her whole.

She tugged the blankets up, staring at the canopy overhead.

“Maybe,” she mumbled, “when I wake up, I’ll be back in my crappy apartment. I’ll laugh about this dream. Tell the guys on Discord. Then drag myself to another night shift.”

Her eyes drooped, heavy as lead.

The last thing she saw was the mirror across the room. Her reflection still standing there, faint crimson eyes glowing in the dark, even though she had turned away.

And then, finally, sleep dragged her under.

☽⛧☾

Sevrin, Marie, Marlon, Sharen, Tristan, and Garron walked in silence. Their footsteps echoed hollowly as they left the throne room, the vast doors closing behind them with a weight that felt final. No one dared speak. Not with the memory of those crimson eyes still burning in their minds.

The gallery stretched long and dim, lined with shadowy alcoves and strange portraits. Marie’s gaze flicked sideways as they passed the massive canvas again—the one of the Princess posing alongside that strange assembly of mortals, in front of some eldritch horror writhing in the background. She slowed just enough to let her eyes sweep across the painted inscription beneath.

Third of Embermoon, Year 321 of the Obsidian Age.

Her chest tightened. She didn’t know why, but something deep down told her the painting mattered. That the date mattered. Maybe it came from her upbringing, back when she’d been taught her letters and a bit of history. She wasn’t like Marlon, who had grown up beaten and starved in alleys. She’d once had books, lessons, even a family. A noble house, small and poor, but still noble.

Until it all slipped through her fingers.

Marie clenched her jaw, dragging her thoughts back to the present. Dwelling on her fall from grace wouldn’t help her now. What mattered was survival, and survival, under a creature like the Princess, meant catching every detail. Every clue. If even a scrap of knowledge gave her leverage, it could keep her soul intact.

She forced the date into memory, branding it into her mind as surely as if she had carved it into her skin. Third of Embermoon. Year 321. Obsidian Age.

Beside her, Marlon trudged with his head down, eyes still glazed with awe and terror. The boy looked half in love, half terrified out of his wits. She pitied him, but only a little.

Her gaze slid to the others.

The twins, Sharen and Tristan, walked in step, whispering to each other in hushed tones no one else could quite hear. They were sharper than most, quick studies who had managed to master spells Sevrin swore were beyond their tier. That still unnerved her. Power like that came with a price, and she doubted the twins had any idea what price they’d paid, or who would come to collect.

Then there was Garron. Solid, broad-shouldered, trudging with the weary patience of a man used to hard labor. His loyalty was simple: food, coin, and a cause to swing his fists for. That made him reliable, but also dangerous if Sevrin pushed him too far.

And finally, Sevrin himself. Their leader. The one who had found the book, whispered its promises, drawn them all into his web. Marie’s stomach twisted with frustration. She should have taken that book. She’d hated herself a hundred times over for not stealing it when she had the chance. The damned thing had given them spells, yes. She herself had scraped together enough to take the [Acolyte] class, an outlaw’s mark she bore without shame.

But the book was gone now. Taken by the Demon Princess herself, claimed as easily as if Sevrin had never touched it. That chance was lost. No stealing it, no studying it in secret. All that knowledge, all that power, now locked in the hands of the demoness.

Marie’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. Knowledge was power, and she was too empty-handed for her liking.

She stole one last look at the painting as the group stepped into the chill night air beyond the mansion doors. The stars wheeled overhead, strange and unfamiliar. The forest stretched dark and endless around them, its silence broken only by the crunch of their boots.

Marie hunched her shoulders against the cold and against the unease gnawing in her chest. The Demon Princess had granted their wishes with terrifying ease. Wealth. Strength. Freedom after ten years. It was everything she had asked for, everything she had gambled on in that desperate moment.

So why did she feel as though she’d only traded one master for another, and that this new one would devour them all the moment her patience wore thin?

She glanced at Sevrin again. His face was set, tight with ambition. He didn’t look relieved. He looked hungry.

Marie swallowed hard. She had stepped in tonight to save their lives. But she knew—deep down—that wouldn’t be the last time she’d have to stop Sevrin from dragging them straight into ruin.

The night pressed close around them as they left the mansion behind. For a long while, no one spoke. The forest loomed on either side of the overgrown path, trees rising like black pillars into the sky. When the gates were finally out of sight, the silence broke, not with words, but with the faint clatter of Sevrin pulling something from his robes.

The [Campfire Stone].

He turned it over in his hands, brows furrowed, like he’d never seen such a thing before. “So… how do I use this?”

Marie stopped dead and stared at him. “Are you serious?” The words slipped out sharper than she intended. “Weren’t you at the academy?”

Sevrin stiffened. “Not long enough to study every trinket.”

“It’s a magical item,” she snapped, unable to stop herself. “You put mana into it to activate it. Everyone knows that.” She bit back the rest of what she wanted to say. Gods, maybe she should’ve killed him already. Why hadn’t she realized sooner how incompetent he was? How much of this entire mess was her own fault, for following him? Her own greed for power. Her own desire to belong to something—anything.

Marie exhaled hard, forcing herself calm. Fine. Survive first. Regret later. She jabbed a finger toward a clearing near the treeline, where moonlight spilled silver over the grass. The lake stretched out beyond it, black water glinting with the reflection of stars. “There. The Princess said to camp. So, let’s camp.”

The others nodded, grateful for someone to take charge.

Sevrin crouched in the clearing, pressing the rune-etched stone to the ground. It took him three fumbling tries before the runes flared to life. With a hum, a smokeless flame blossomed upward, steady and warm. The light pushed back the night, painting the group in soft orange glow.

They gathered around it, one by one. For a while, they just sat. No luxury here, but none of them had lived in luxury for years anyway. The open sky was familiar. The warmth of a real fire, even conjured, was better than most nights they’d known.

Tristan was the first to break the silence. “So… who’s going to town tomorrow?” His voice carried a nervous edge, but also excitement.

“Not me,” Garron grunted. He stretched out his thick arms with a crack of joints. “I’ll stay. Too many guards get twitchy when they see someone my size.”

“I’ll go,” Sharen said quickly. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking toward Sevrin. “We need someone who can keep the coin safe.”

At that, all eyes dropped to the small pouch Sevrin had drawn from his robes. He loosened the string and tipped it forward so the single coin slid into his palm. The Mithril Crown caught the firelight at once, its pale blue-silver surface shimmering like moonlight on water. For a heartbeat, none of them breathed. It was impossible to mistake for anything ordinary.

Marlon’s breath caught audibly. “Gods…” He leaned forward, eyes wide. “I’ve never even seen one. That thing could buy—”

“Quiet,” Marie hissed. She glanced around the circle, lowering her voice. “Don’t say it like that. Not out loud.”

The boy flinched and sat back, cheeks burning.

Tristan frowned. “But he’s right. A Mithril Crown is… it’s more than any of us dreamed of. If we just—”

“No,” Marie cut him off. Her voice was firm, flat. “You don’t wave that around like some shiny bauble. You don’t even say what it’s worth until we know who’s listening.” She let her eyes sweep the group, hard enough that they all looked away.

The fire crackled.

Finally Sevrin spoke, his tone clipped. “I’ll carry it. And I’ll go to town. No one else has the experience.”

Marie bit back a bitter laugh. Experience? You couldn’t even turn on a campfire stone. She folded her arms instead. “You’re not going alone. The Princess said two of us. Sharen can go with you.”

The twin nodded, looking relieved.

“And the rest of us stay here,” Garron said. “Fine by me.”

The discussion petered out after that, the fire filling the silence. One by one, exhaustion pulled them down, each finding a patch of ground to lie on beneath the stars.

Marie sat last, knees hugged to her chest, staring into the flames.

The warmth seeped into her skin, but it didn’t touch the chill in her chest. They had wealth now. They had power promised. And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that all of it was borrowed, that the Demon Princess could snatch it away again as easily as she’d handed it out.

She pulled her cloak tighter and closed her eyes. Ten years, the Princess had said. Ten years of servitude.

If we live that long, Marie thought, and finally let sleep take her.