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Devils love a good fight.
It’s in their blood. In their beating hearts. In the fire that burns in their veins.
Chaos. Destruction. Bloodlust.
It’s everything they stand for — ‘cept the lazy ones that like to sit, obviously, or the ones so badass they don’t have legs anymore, but that’s besides the fuckin’ point — because in the Fire Plane, your worth is measured in dirty tactics and foul play, and how hard you can pack a mean-ass punch.
The Fire Plane has a bad reputation for a reason.
It’s a devil’s playground, home to hellfire and damnation incarnate. Ripe with maniacal, dangerous creatures drenched in hedonism; they’re always selfish, never kind.
And at the core of it lies Prince Syrios, heir to the throne.
This playground is his bitch, and so is everyone in it. Perks of being flaming hot and evil in the land known for being flaming hot and evil — Syrios has everything he could possibly want, and yet he still finds himself restless, hungry for more.
He could be happy, living in the lap of lust and luxury for all eternity, but he isn’t.
He just wants a good goddamn fight.
He’s a flame devil, after all. He wants to sweat, wants to burn. He wants to use his fists and flames to break somebody, to smolder them down with no remorse. He wants them to hit back and he wants it to hurt. He wants to dance in the rings of fire and combat. He wants someone to dare to destroy him.
So Prince Syrios plays the devils’ game: he fights.
He loves to taste blood on his knuckles, and relishes in screams of pain. Sometimes, landing a blow makes him gleeful and giddy but it’s not enough.
He isn’t satisfied.
He craves something he can’t find on the streets he calls home. Yearns for something beyond. Something vicious and twisted for him to sink his teeth into.
These piece-of-shit weaklings call themselves devils yet they don’t leave him praying for gods he doesn’t believe in. How disappointing.
His victories are too easy, bodies crumpling so quick he can’t even call that an appetizer — he longs for so much more, he wants to feast for hours on a violent brawl to the death.
He wants the danger, wants the pain. He wants to feel fucking alive.
He tries everything to make an enemy out of someone worthy, but that’s the problem: nobody is worthy. Not against Prince Syrios.
He’s a sharp-tongued foul-mouthed master instigator, but nothing ever hits him hard enough, nothing ever gets right under his skin.
He’s never lost a fight, and probably never will.
And for a devil that loves fights, it’s such a fucking boring life to live.
It’s the hottest day in the world when the Ice Plane makes its move.
Syrios would know. He’d heard the warnings this day would come. The prophecies never lied. Every flame devil would rise to arms, desperate to fight the takeover, and it would be the hottest day on record as they fall under the crystal eyes of a demon lord; as cold and cruel as they come.
Here comes the storm, he thinks, the silhouette of a billowing cape stepping into the castle grounds, trailed by carnage. Welcome to hell, Your Highness.
Syrios can feel his own kingdom start to fray and snap at the seams, and all he can do is grin.
I’ve been waiting for you.
Violence is king, and they’ve just been dethroned.
It’s about damn time.
Demon King Regis is ruthless.
As Prince of the Fire Plane, Syrios watches every moment of the Demon King’s takeover, from the dramatic offing of his father to the havoc it hurls through the streets. It’s pure chaos, every devil for themselves, and the frenzy of smoke and fire from thousands to millions of flames set alight starts to paint the sky red.
Syrios yawns from his castle window. He’s not interested in seeing his own useless people fight a useless fight. He’s more interested in the cause of it, the eye of the hurricane approaching as bodies decorate the dusty pavement, an army of blue marching through the sunset streets.
Anarchy reigns supreme, and all the devil-blooded scream for salvation that will never arrive. There’s probably familiar faces in the crowd, but the prince isn’t interested in playing savior. That’s the nature of a devil from the Fire Plane; always selfish, never kind. He has no obligation to a kingdom loved by his father. The strongest will survive, he’s sure.
As for the others, well, Syrios loses them in bursts of silver blades and shards of ice. The sound of bloodshed rings in his ears as he fans himself, and he wonders if he should prepare a welcoming gift for the tyrant on his doorstep, or if that would be too forward. Maybe his welcoming gift should just be his fist. That’d be hot. Literally.
Talk about overkill, though. Countless lovers and friends and foes, quelled in a heartbeat. Neighbors and loyal subjects all collapsing under the Demon King’s heel.
He should be mad, really. Should be real pissed off. Should be cooking up a vengeance plan to chop those pretty horns right off the Demon King’s pretty little head.
But he isn’t.
Prince Syrios watches every moment of the Demon King’s takeover, and absolutely loves it.
He’s so happy.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy.
He’d race through the streets in gallops for joy if he could, but he’d rather watch it all burn to a crisp while he waits for the Demon King of the Ice Plane to find him.
It’s not long at all when the castle doors are busted open, fragments of crystal snow whirling around the culprit, green eyes narrowed in warning.
Syrios likes him already. That cruel, calculating face. He wants to punch him, rake his nails over his pristine icy skin, wants to see which parts of the Demon King tremble under his burning touch.
The anticipation sends sparks through his body, the flame of his tail burning ever bright. He wants this fight more than anything; it only figures the most worthy opponent for a royal is another damn royal, and those are real fucking hard to find.
Syrios has landed a blow on every street thug and castle guard he can get his hands on, but nobody ever stands a chance against him. They’re always senseless, puny little bitches with too much ego, and he had been done with just fighting his pops over and over — he’s actually glad that old man kicked the bucket. Thank the fucking shard.
Fire meets ice in the castle corridor.
Regis looks at him in thinly veiled disgust, and Syrios grins and grins. He’s so elegant. He’s so regal, so refined. It would be a great pleasure to ruin him. To split that composure into pieces, and set him aflame, consuming him bit by agonizing bit.
Ice meets fire in the castle stairwell.
Syrios barely escapes the blizzard, blasts of fire magic propelling him through jagged ice crystals as he feels the rip of blistering snow against his cheek. What melts on impact sizzles into steam, but a high body temperature doesn’t protect him from the onslaught of pure elemental rage. Regis does not fuck around. Every time Syrios tries to open his eyes, he’s fighting the very air he breathes.
Regis wants to suffocate him in the snow. Syrios breathes fire. He’s not going down that easily. Their spells clash over and over, and he growls when Regis turns the stairwell into unnavigable sleet.
So Syrios takes to the walls.
The devil prince digs his claws into the bricks, battering his tail against the castle’s innards to shake the snow and slip of ice, and he can hear the echo of the Demon King’s laughter as that royal pain-in-the-ass ascends. It’s fine, Syrios can navigate this castle blind. He clambers after him with the same laughter, half-maniacal half-seething.
Fire meets ice in the throne room, before Syrios finally feels that cold skin against his own. It’s everything he could have ever hoped for.
That first fist against his cheek is pure ecstasy.
King Regis is brutal. King Regis is cold.
King Regis punches like a million fucking nails, icicles springing from his knuckles with intent to kill. It’d murder any lesser man in a heartbeat, but Syrios is royal blood and agile. The icicles snap against his cheek, and he uses his fingers to lick off every stray drop. Every shrapnel, embedded in his skin for the taking. Anything the Demon King touches will be his.
“That all you got? After all that playing in the snow, I expected more of a grand finale.” Syrios laughs, tauntingly, the water steaming against the heat of his tongue. His whole body drips with condensation and sweat, and Syrios has never felt more alive. “I think you forget who’s got the home ground advantage here, Your Highness.”
Regis just smiles coolly back. “I wasn’t aiming for you, swine.”
The moment they lock eyes in the throne room, Syrios feels fear for the first time in his long, devilish life.
The flame shard.
Hell, that damned flame shard — fuck! The Royal Family has one job, and Prince Syrios has never had that job since his old man was the one that was supposed to protect the stupid fucking rock and now that good-for-nothing bitch-ass king is...!
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Of course, Regis hadn’t been after him, that would be so idiotic, what would the Demon King even be here for if not that piece of shit bloody rock— fuck, fuck, fuck—
Syrios snarls as he leaps towards the shard, ready to snatch the flickering hunk of junk tumbling from its pedestal, but Regis is right behind him.
An icy hand envelopes the prince’s tail, and he grimaces, swinging his leg around in an attempt to snap the demon’s wrist with his heel. Regis is faster. He yanks hard, sharp edge of his fingernails digging in, and slams Syrios into the ground, pressing his knee against his skull.
“You’re cocky, rookie. You let your guard down too easily.” Regis tells him, unimpressed. “You don’t even deserve to be called a royal. How did you expect to dominate this land with such incompetence? All you are is a weak, overconfident fool.”
“Frigid bitch.” Syrios spits out blood.
“Cower.” Regis replies, and the cold of his fingers burns as he drags Syrios’ upwards by the hair, his grip delving firm into his scalp. He speaks into his ear, frosty and demanding. “Just like all your loyal subjects. Cower to me.”
“Like playing it rough, do ya?” The prince pants, short of breath, smirk never leaving his lips. “At least take me out to dinner first. You’re a royal, for fuck’s sake. Act like one.”
The king shoves him to the ground again, and kicks him so he’s on his side. Those cold green eyes narrow in malicious content. Icy fingers wrap beneath Syrios’ chin, and steam billows everywhere Regis touches.
“Watch me take your kingdom right from under your hands.” Regis declares, dark and sinister and so sadistically that Syrios can feel his heart racing in his chest, the devil’s blood enjoying every moment of it. “Watch me destroy everything you’ve ever loved.”
Beautiful. God, he’s so beautiful. Syrios wants to see him crumble. He wants to break him, wants to melt him, wants to tear him to pieces.
He’s getting dizzy from excitement. This is the most fun he’s had in years.
He cranks up his body heat, glowing magma until he’s too hot to touch, and Regis hisses and pulls back, condensation filling the air like a cloud of white smoke.
“Hands off,” Syrios grins, ripping off a glove with his teeth. His hand is red-hot and blazing, and when he imagines branding the Demon King with his fist, saliva drips from his tongue, mingling with his blood. He keeps grinning and the fire burns hotter and hotter, his body setting alight with adrenaline, raring to kill. “Or I’ll give you something to really scream about.”
Every blow is divine art.
They connect like a shipwreck to a ravenous, open sea. Syrios wants to swallow him, wants to prove that fire always dominates ice, wants to see Regis learn that the forces of nature cannot be overcome.
It’s inevitable, even if Syrios is pinned down for slaughter.
It’s uncontrollable, even if Regis brings the tapered tip of an icicle right to the heart of the flame devil’s throat.
Fire will be victorious, because it always has been.
There is no other end to this fight.
Fuck what the prophecy foretold, there is no way Regis can defeat him.
Syrios is starving for the battle, so much that he bites his lip hard enough to bleed. He wants to destroy every part of the Demon King — his armor, his cape, his belts, his gauntlets, his horns. He wants to take him down, wants to possess him, wants him broken and betrayed. That’s what devils do. His instincts flare with joy every time he knocks the king back, and every time he hears a gnash of teeth or grunt of pain.
Regis is swift, dodging flames like he’s been trained for it, but it does nothing to stop the devil prince’s hunger.
Now that he’s gotten a taste, he wants more and more.
He wants to bite him, mar him, burn him, rip him up, bury him alive, hear him scream his name.
Regis stays unattainable and beautiful and cruel. Syrios feels devil blood sear in the back of his eyes, pulsing with heat. He can’t think straight. His mind is consumed with the fire of competition, the thrill of finding a weakness and baring his fangs. The thought of devouring him.
Every time they clash, he feels it more.
Over and over, it’s paradise in hell. Nobody has ever matched him like this before, nobody has made Syrios work so hard to keep up, and what’s more, Regis gazes at him like he’s barely fazed by the heat of battle. Like he’s vermin.
Syrios has never been so disrespected, never been so thoroughly contested, never been looked at with such scorn and contempt.
It’s so much fucking fun. What other faces can the Demon King make? What would it take to get him to let his guard down? To reach right into his core and turn it to fire and ash; to make him just like Syrios himself, a debauched, battle-hungry devil that seeks the pleasure of a fight, above all else?
Regis strikes a blade through him and it comes out wine-red, the blue light of his sword splattered with blood.
Syrios instantly cauterizes the wound with a blazing palm and whistles when his fingers comes back stained. He takes his tongue to them, knuckle to fingertip, makes sure that Regis watches. He knows it must be infuriating to hurt somebody and not get any reaction, but Syrios is a master instigator and will never give anyone the delight of hearing his pain.
“Weak shit,” he jeers. “Are you even trying to hurt me, or just messin' around?”
“Enough of this. I don’t have time for your games.” Regis says, waving an uncaring hand. A magic circle erupts like a spiders' web, encasing Syrios’ legs in a prison of ice. It climbs up his body, stiff and inescapable, freezing white-hot muscle and bone. The cold is so deliciously painful that Syrios can see stars. “It ends today. Watch your kingdom submit to me. You will follow soon after.”
“Like hell I will.” Syrios bites back, before the ice sharpens to spikes. He shakes from exhilaration, focuses on thawing out, ignoring how Regis' boots echo through the throne room like the steady hands of a clock ticking down.
In, out. In, out. His breath comes out in short puffs. The more ice he melts, the more lightheaded he gets. He’s a fucking flame devil, damn it, he’s not used to the cold.
It’s incredible, though. Torturous and slow. Nothing like fire. Syrios is enthralled by it. He stares at Regis as the Demon King moves, takes in the sharp jaw of his profile and piercing gaze.
He is so, so eerily beautiful.
Regis doesn’t seem to appreciate being leered at, though, so he shoots off another violent wave of ice without so much as a glance in the prince’s direction, and Syrios buckles at the knees.
He’s perfect. He’s brutal, coldblooded, and god dang perfect.
“You need not fight it, lowly prince. You will submit to me. You do not have a say in the matter.” Regis tells him. “Now, I need you to watch your kingdom fall. We’ll watch it together. Come.”
It hits in pins and needles, Regis’ magic engulfing him like wires dragging him along the frosted tiles, scraping his beaten body against the chill. Syrios fights it, protests the shivers that wrack him from inside out, but his flames don’t hold up. Regis came prepared to conquer. He’s right — Syrios, a man undefeated, had gotten cocky.
“Pretty, isn’t it? The tool of your demise.” Regis approaches the shard, and the whole room sinks to sub-zero temperatures. “This place has gotten too warm for my liking. I’m sure this lovely little shard would appreciate some reprieve from all this...” His lip curls in disdain. “...terrible heat.”
“Greedy, aren’t you?” Syrios snickers lightly, channeling his fire to keep himself cognizant in the stinging cold. “I’m sure your bloodline’s shard is just as pretty as you are — no need to be jealous of mine. Care to compare, Your Highness?”
“Trite words from a royal rodent.” Regis replies, plucking the fallen flame shard from the ground. “You’re not the least bit charming.”
“I think I am, otherwise you’d have silenced me by now.”
“You want to be silenced, do you?” He turns the shard in his hand, admiring it. “That can be arranged.”
The Demon King’s mouth moves with a quiet incantation, and the deep red of the shard quivers.
When he smiles in satisfaction, Syrios wants nothing more than to push him down, to remind him which element is superior, to show him who’s the real king around here.
But he can’t.
The flame shard now corrupted in the Demon King’s hands halts his mind and dims his fire — his strength flickers and fights like a lit wick about to drown in a melted candle.
Lower devils would lose their sentience altogether, minds too weak to be without the power of the shard, but Syrios is a royal and he’s not nearly so feeble or fragile.
“That don’t work on me, stupid.” Syrios doesn’t falter. Full power, half power, what does it matter. He’ll smoke this demon the moment he turns his back.
“Wasn’t for you,” Regis enunciates the words in a voice far too gentle to be as sly as they are. “Stupid.”
Crashes can be heard in the distance, screams of mutiny turning into unintelligible roars. The Fire Plane surrenders as the Demon King steals their vitality, and puts an end to their capability to resist. Devils turn on each other, unable to differentiate friend and foe. In a breath, he conquers, and all fire becomes ice.
It’s the coldest day in the world when the Ice Plane turns the Fire Plane to dust.
Syrios’ heart thuds in agony, but there’s laughter on his lips.
The flame shard shares Syrios’ blood.
That’s why he can tell its whereabouts even after being locked in his own castle’s dungeon.
It’s a waste of resources, honestly. Fire and ice are opposing forces; there’s no chamber that Regis can keep him in. Syrios is hot enough to melt through steel, even with only a fraction of his power.
But he waits with his eyes closed. Tracking the movements.
He feels Regis’ breath when the Demon King speaks to the shard. When those cold fingers caress it, ever-so-gently. When Regis weaves sigils around it, and the chill sets in, he feels it all; the feeling of being trapped, of being held at his mercy.
How tragic. How divine.
Every part of Syrios burns.
He prays to gods he doesn’t believe in.
“Get out, pest.” Regis demands, looking down at him through the gates of the cell. The soft firelight from behind him haloes him like a fucked up angel, the wings of his cape dancing in the shadows. He is still beautiful. “I’d have assumed you’d run with your tail between your legs by now. This is my castle. I could just kill you right here, and end the Fire Plane for all of time.”
“You could.” Syrios smiles lazily at him from the back of the dungeon. “But you won’t.”
“You don’t think I will?” Regis tilts his head, expression giving nothing away.
“Just face it, you’ve made my kingdom mindless.” Syrios shrugs. “Nobody can listen to you if they don’t have a brain that knows how to listen. You’ll have no allies here. No subjects. Nobody to do what you say. Your army won’t entertain you, they’re too scared. I’m the only one you can bully, and you’ll die of boredom if you don’t at least get that.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
Ah, but the prophecies don’t lie. They’ve never lied.
Syrios knows he doesn’t die, because it’s written in the stars. He’ll get his kingdom back if he plays along, and he’ll feel the indomitable high of the Ice Plane’s demise when that day finally arrives.
Until then, he’s just here to have fun.
“Well, if you wanna kill me so bad, go for it.” Syrios bends the bars of his cell’s back window, disintegrating the bricks on the wall. He winks back at the Demon King before he falls, head-first. “Catch me if you can.”