The Forsaken Hero

What remained of Rash’alon’s horde dominated a stretch of plains nearly a mile across, ranging from seventh-level behemoths to first-level scions. Almost every demon’s soul was shrouded in curse mana, but there were a fair number of fire and blade demons betwixt them. All of the demons bore unfamiliar marks, even the curse ones.

"A collection of all who wouldn’t accept the young apostle’s mark," Fyren murmured.

If Luke’s demons had been restless, this horde was near riotous. Scions fought openly, rolling in snapping, snarling balls of teeth and scales. A fourth-level evolved demon tore a group of scions apart with a casual flick of its claws, splattering the withered grass in blood. I flinched at the violence, gripping Fable’s fur.

"I-is it because he’s dead?" I asked timidly.

Fyren chuckled, shaking his head. "No, this is the typical state of a horde. Remember what I said about how demons change to reflect the one who holds their mark?"

I nodded, the strange developing mannerisms of our own forces coming to mind.

"The hordes you’ve seen until now have been led by mortals. Even the brutal Apostles–" he flashed a grin at Luke, "Even you are rather tame compared to the typical demon. It’s actually impressive that the demon lords overseeing this horde managed to keep it so contained. This many demons would normally spill out over almost a hundred miles, always hunting for something to consume or fight unless strictly ordered otherwise."

"Do you know who might be responsible for that?" Jessia asked, suddenly popping into our conversation.

Fyren frowned at her. "Watch yourself, apostle. There’s no reason to startle the Oracle."

Jessia stuck her tongue out, and his frown deepened.

"Um, do you?" I asked hesitantly.