He feels a looming sense of curious dismay, an uncomfortable and undesired thrill of doubt as his illusion rippled and bent. No, he hisses in the heavy weight of his mind, swift disbelief clouding against the judgement of what clearly resonates against his eyes. She must have touched, but to touch she must have known - but how, the demonchild could not say. King of illusions, prince of lies, how have you failed on this night? Furies rise in his chest as he backs away, snorting, beastly crown rocking to and fro in anxious motions, long narrow horns clashing against raging winds and blue lightning. The labyrinth shuddered under its master's distress, bent away harmlessly as the black angel pressed against it. Beneath the thunder and behind the pouring rain, he is his own whirlwind of fury and distress, a wild mind that wants nothing more than to claw through the body that confines it and to devour the souls who dare oppose him.

And she? She, the fallen angel who dared disrupt his dark desires, the blackened beacon of purity who had thwarted his carefully composed deceit? She was scarcely visible through the pouring rain, the failing illusion, the dying light, and yet a blinding flash of lightning gave the demon more of a view that he had ever desired. She was airborne, a Valkyrie of heaven sent to bring him down, a flame in the sky that would, he was certain, show him no mercy.

She was a dragon, and she had come to bring the rapture upon his kingdom, to smite him where he stood and cast his rule aside. She was a dragon, and she was enormous, and in the presence of such a monster he should have been shaken. Demonchild, foolish king, can you not see that you are a mere boy in the playing field of giants? No, you cannot; for you are a son of serpents and a mask of lies. You, little demon, you do not know fear, and soon you will suffer for your ignorance.

The weight of her wings tears through the air; it rumbles not unlike the thunder, and yet so unlike the thunder. The lightning is his ally, glancing off of her with brash contrast and illumination, causing golden scales to glow while hiding his own dark form, giving him cover as he splits, contorts, and becomes three. In the instant she claws the ground, six hooves leap away, six small figures retreating from her imposing form, six pairs of heterochromatic eyes gazing at her with dark defiance, with a cold question of guess who?. They make no sound, but it matters not, for the raging elements and pouring water would mask any noise the demon legion tried to intimidate with. All are wet, real or illusionary droplets of water coursing down their sides, identical reactions the the falling sky. They snake around her, one left and two right; they dance, daring her to guess the one who is real, keeping their long and deadly horns directed at her form in case she guesses well. The demonchild conducts his army like a general; each movement is precise, each glance exact, carefully avoiding tail and claws alike as all question, silently, what will you do now, fallen seraph? Will she dive for the duo who harry her right? Will she know that the lone colt is truly the one she seeks? A single thistle blows against his chest as he waits, the soggy purple flower quickly disintegrating in the wind like some poor abused plaything.

[596 words]