The sky wage the battle between the sun and the moon as dawn break is coming to its end. The sky turns from a pinkish glow into a bright blue with rippled clouds and morning birds traversing the skies in search of food. The wind brings to land the sweet fragrance and freshness of the sea, revitalizing the desire to face the new day. The shadows from the night scurry back into oblivion as sunlight reaches to touch the vast extents of the Kingdom of Anglier.
Soon enough the clean, sweep-free streets from cold night air is being walk over by pedestrians and workers who look forward to this day, whether its performing their jobs or chores or just having a stroll in the otherwise normal course of their life. Sweet aromas of cooking food and the occasional running of cats in the roofs starts just after voices fill the air, birds are trying futilely to overpower the laughter and words with their chirpings.
The Kingdom of Anglier dominates over a great land, having under its dutiful watch the regions adjacent to it. The castle, symbol of power and wealth, is located atop a hill encircle by a massive wall. The King never leaves his castle to attend trivial matters, nor does he lends an ear to listen to the various complains of hygiene and poverty that ravages the kingdom in general. Instead, he keeps those matters to himself and lets them escape from his mind just as quickly as a hand stroke carelessly brushing through the air. A fool-hardy king they have to dominate over a kingdom brimming with trouble.
Steam from several chimneys flows into the sky, the first tincture of fog to start the day, and trickles up from the darkened and ashen chimneys. A chimney in particular is consider a great oddity to passers-by for it is of a pitch black color of brick with drops and streaks of a red liquid dripping from the edges. A fetid and acrid smell of iron emanates from its fumes whenever they are release into the air.
The cauldron just below the long chimney is being stir with caution and delicacy, careful of not spilling its venomous contents. A man shrouded in filthy rags stirs the pot with a long wooden ladle, hunched down toward it and inhaling the exotic aroma. He jumps, startled, at the rapid steps approaching the dark and murky room that had a window facing to the west heavily drape with moth-eaten, dusty curtains.
The door bursts open revealing a tall and lanky man cloaked in dark garments with a despicable expression in his face. He has a crooked smile and his eyes have a pallid brilliance in them. Upon entering the room his steps become lighter, as if floating, his cloak trailing noiselessly behind him.
“Is the stew ready, Murdson?” a cold and heavy voice says from the thin lips of the master of the house. His dark eyes sweep across the room, looking intently at the cauldron set atop blazing fire.
“Yes, master,” the hunched servant bows low, the brim of his nose almost touching the grimy floor. “I set the stew on the fire early in the morning just as you ordered.”
“Good, good,” the man sinks into an armchair, his right hand pressing and rubbing his left hand. Then his fingers start toying with a small object in his left fingers, an amused smile settles on his lips. “I felt pain last night, as if a part of me was being consumed in hellish flames. It died away once the moon began wavering.”
“Master, will it be that one of your creations was destroyed?” Murdson asks, taking a bowl from the rickety table.
“Quite possibly,” he grumbles, slouching deeper into the armchair. His eyebrows are knitted together in deep thoughts and consternation. “The only thing I regret is the fact that I’m not there to protect those fragile, little creatures…” There is a slight smirk on his face which turns into a grin, displaying his yellowed teeth.
Murdson chuckles, as he pours some of the stew in the bowl. A strong and stagnant smell fills the room as Murdson carries the hot, thick, dark red stew toward his master. “Master, your breakfast.”
He waves his thin hand in the air, instantly Murdson steps aside and watches his master slowly rise from the armchair and walking to the center of the room. He pulls back his left sleeve showing his pale and bony hand; in the fourth finger he has a ring with a black pearl on it. The pearl’s blackness surpasses the bleakness of a night sky devoid from stars, only capable of matching the color of the heart of the ring’s bearer.
He stoops, placing a hand on the floor and mutters demonic and incomprehensible words. The pearl glows with an indefinite dark radiance summoning shadows from the depths of the underworld. Those shadows seep through the floor cracks, forcefully carrying parts of the floor’s stones with it. With a considerable amount of building material, it starts to shape itself before the man.
“Grow to be something perfect,” he whispers ardently as he watches his creation forming long and elegant limbs from a body. Dark sparkles surround the new creation, shaping and delineating its feminine features and bestowing it with a sort of delicate and attractive nudity. He places his hand before the demon’s mouth and she bites it, drinking some of his dead, noxious elixir of life. His eyes enlarge with satisfaction and eagerness as hair begins cascading down her back and her eyes open to reveal a bright ocean to him. But soon enough that hopeful expression soon recoils and contorts into a face full of disgust as her eyes loses the beautiful and bright color and turns into dark half-orbs. He stands up abruptly, leaving the frail figure of the demon kneeling on the floor.
“My love,” the demon croaks, reaching a hand out to her master and creator.
He quickly jerks his hand back with abhorrence as he watches his new, imperfect creation. “Not one of my creations have been perfect, none in which Zahira can dwell in satisfactorily,” he turns to Murdson and with a cold expression he orders him, “get rid of her, I don’t want to see her any further.”
“But Master, you cannot throw them off to the streets when you don’t like them,” Murdson says, advancing toward his master with slow steps. “We’ve sent enough demons into the streets, the witches are exterminating them and you will feel pain every time they kill one. The hurt is making you weaker and sicker!”
“I don’t care!” he bellows, slapping his impetuous servant. The bowl escapes from his shaking hands and smashes on the floor. The red, viscous liquid begins spreading and smearing the floor, the demon hastily throws herself to the floor and begins licking the red stew with delight—thinking it’s blood. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Yes Master Drey,” Murdson bows once and scurries toward the crouching figure, pulling her to her feet and ushering her out of the room.
Drey heaves a sigh and closes his blood-shot eyes. He walks over to the cauldron and looks down on the broiling stew. “Zahira, I’m looking forward for you to come back. Please be patient, I am trying to find the perfect body for you…”