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Ezekyle’s ability to shift between personas never ceased to intrigue me. On the battlefield, he was the incarnation of war itself—merciless, inevitable, cutting down enemies without hesitation, leaving the earth stained red in his wake. On the command bridge of the Vengeful Spirit, he became a sovereign, dispensing judgment with a weight that made even the most seasoned officers falter. Among those who sought his wisdom, he was a patient guide, offering the support they needed to rise to his expectations. To me, he was all of this—a master, a brother, a star I could not help but follow.
There was something about him that felt genuine, no matter which face he wore. Unlike the others, Ezekyle’s masks never felt like masks at all. He was all of these things, seamlessly woven together into one man.
But there was one side of him I rarely saw, one that both repelled and captivated me in equal measure. The punisher. The cruel, savage force of retribution that didn’t simply end lives but made an example of those he deemed worthy of suffering. Abaddon didn’t mete out punishment often—most who crossed him were dispatched quickly, without ceremony. But when he chose to teach someone a lesson, it was something unforgettable. Something terrible.
He would call for me in moments like these, and I knew why. Partly, it was because my skills ensured the victim would endure long enough to face the full weight of his wrath. But partly… partly, it was because he saw how I looked at him in those moments. Covered in blood. Eyes burning with cold barely contained fury. A terrible figure of vengeance. And though I would never admit it, I knew he could see the fascination written plainly in my expression.
And he called upon me this time as well. Half-concealed in the shadows, I stood motionless, the faint tether of life spinning from my fingers into the hearts of the bloodied, broken heap that had once been Haarken Worldclaimer.
Another bone snapped with a wet crunch, and the figure beneath Abaddon’s hand no longer resembled the proud herald who had dared to attract his ire. There was no pity in me for Haarken. This was mercy—to be taught a lesson that would never need repeating. My gaze, however, was not on the wretched form beneath him. It was on Ezekyle.
Oh, how my hearts seemed to quicken in moments like these. His colossal form loomed over the shattered wreck of the herald, each deliberate movement a study in dominance. The tension in his muscles as they corded and flexed, the pale skin of his hands now painted with crimson, the raw violence of it all—it was a sight that demanded reverence. A god of wrath, sculpting destruction with his bare hands. The cold fury etched into his face was terrifying, yes, but magnificent. Irresistible.
I couldn’t tear my attention away. Not merely from the embodiment of overwhelming might that he was, though that alone would have been enough to hold me rapt. No, it was the aura that truly ensnared me. Those deep, burgundy tones that coiled around him, dark and suffocating, growing richer with every muffled scream, every shattered bone. Tendrils of shadowed crimson writhed and pulsed, binding themselves tighter as the herald’s suffering deepened. I reached out with my focus, brushing tentatively against them, and was rewarded with a wave of something visceral. That bloodthirsty satisfaction. That overwhelming weight of absolute superiority. It pressed against my thoughts like a tidal wave, and I found myself yielding to it, savoring it far more than I should have.
I was lost in the slow, meticulous ritual of it all. Watching him like this, so utterly in control, so beautifully ruthless—it felt intoxicating. Drunk on the blood, the suffering, the power radiating from him. Drunk on Ezekyle Abaddon himself, in his most unrestrained, bloodthirsty form. Every moment dragged me deeper, and I surrendered willingly.
It stirred something within me, an ache I scarcely understood. A hunger. A need. One I hadn’t realized I possessed until moments like this. As always, whenever I stood in Abaddon’s presence, my carefully maintained composure unraveled with humiliating ease. It snapped, brittle and fragile, like a cord drawn too tightly. Before I could rein myself in, before better judgment could take hold, I let myself be known. A whisper across the psychic void. A silent, wordless plea for something I craved more than air. My eyes fixed on the war table, on the tableau of beautiful violence sprawled before me.
Abaddon turned his head slightly, his brow furrowing in faint acknowledgment. For a moment, his golden eyes caught mine, and I saw it—a glint of recognition. He knew. He always knew. That I was not merely his silent assistant, but an enraptured audience. A willing devotee. There was a deliberate slowness to his movements as his hands shifted to Haarken’s battered chest, and I felt my breath catch. The herald’s wide, terrified eyes—one of the few parts of him still intact—flicked to me, pleading silently. But I did not waver. I leaned closer, drawn helplessly forward, as though compelled by a force greater than myself.
Abaddon’s hands covered the broken form of Haarken entirely, his muscles taut with restrained strength. The herald tried to resist, feeble and pathetic in his struggle, but we all knew the truth. The fight had been lost long before it began. With the barest fraction of Abaddon’s strength, he pressed down, and the sound was exquisite. A wet crack, followed by the crumbling of ribs collapsing inward, piercing lungs and shredding them like paper. Blood poured from Haarken’s mangled mouth, thick and dark, pooling over the war table in rivers that gleamed under the dim light. He couldn’t scream—his voice had been stolen long ago, his vocal cords torn to shreds—but the psychic echo of his agony reverberated through the room. It was sharper, purer than any scream could ever be, and it sent a shiver through me.
I reached out with my mind, quickly assessing the damage. His lungs, punctured by shards of bone, struggled to function. With barely a flicker of focus, I mended them just enough to keep him alive, to ensure he endured. It was a trivial task, one that demanded so little of me, leaving the rest of my mind free to drink in the scene before me. To bask in it. To revel in it.
Ezekyle was magnificent. Towering, unyielding, the embodiment of strength and merciless will. His pale hands, slick with blood, moved with an artistry that was equal parts brutality and precision. The tension in his frame, the deliberate cruelty in his every action, sent a thrill coursing through me. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to. My senses were consumed, overwhelmed by the intoxicating aura that radiated from him. That aura—dark, crimson, and suffocating—was wrapped around me like a vice, pressing against my mind.
I couldn’t explain it, not even to myself. This feeling, this thrilling, maddening desire that gripped me so tightly in moments like this—it defied reason. It wasn’t simply admiration or fascination. No, it was something far deeper. Far darker. And as I stood there, watching him, I let it consume me. My mind, my body, my very being was filled with that singular, undeniable truth: I wanted this. I wanted him. This terrible, beautiful cruelty. This raw power. I was utterly enthralled, and I did not care to hide it.
Of course, it was only fitting for a being as cruel as Abaddon to prolong my torment as well. He ignored the longing that burned within me, the suggestive glances I cast his way. He continued the punishment, exacting his planned suffering upon the herald, while I stood helpless, consumed by my own. My hunger only grew, raw and maddening, as I was denied even the slightest release. I was left to endure, my agony a reflection of Haarken’s, though in its own way far more exquisite.
When I thought I might break, when my psychic focus wavered and even the fabric of my robes felt stifling, Abaddon finally granted me a reprieve. At first, through the haze of my clouded mind, I barely noticed him tossing Haarken aside, the herald’s broken body landing on the floor with a dull, wet thud. But then his golden eyes turned to me, cutting through everything else.
“Khayon.” The sound of my name on his lips was like water to a parched throat. “Come here.”
Before I could even think, my body obeyed, moving without hesitation. My skirts whispered against the ruined, bloodied form of Haarken as I approached, drawn into Abaddon’s orbit as though I had no will of my own.
Just as I approached, I felt it—the effortless strength that defined Abaddon, the inescapable force with which he commanded everything around him. He maneuvered me as if I were nothing, trapping me between the table’s cold edge and his towering form. My back hit the war table, the impact forcing me to tilt my head back, and my eyes were level with his chest. His presence overwhelmed me, heat radiating from his blood-slicked body, the scent of iron and sweat filling the air between us. Every nerve in me burned with maddening desire, and it took every shred of willpower not to bury my face in him, to taste and inhale the raw essence of him—blood, sweat, and power.
His hand seized my hair, fingers tangling with a bruising grip, pulling my head back sharply. My breath hitched as I met his gaze, those golden eyes piercing me, stripping me bare. He didn’t need psychic power to read me, though I wouldn’t have dared to shield my thoughts even if he did. No, Abaddon had always seen through me, into me, as if my soul was laid out for his judgment.
“It wouldn’t be my blade,” Abaddon said, his voice low and rough, “if you weren’t so drawn to destruction.” He leaned closer, the heat of his breath ghosting against my ear, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “Or is it me you’re drawn to?”
I couldn’t answer. Words failed me. Thought failed me. I didn’t know if there was even a difference. My desires, my hunger, had consumed me completely, and all I could feel was him. His closeness. His weight. The heavy, suffocating power of his presence.
He didn’t wait for a response. Abaddon rarely did. His hand maintained its grip on my hair as he leaned forward, pressing me harder into the edge of the table with the bulk of his weight. My breath caught in my throat, and I could feel the solid force of him against me. My long-neglected cock pressed against his thigh—a momentary relief—but soon he withdrew and I instinctively leaned forward, my body betraying me, only his iron grip holding me firmly in place.
His hand was slick with blood now, Haarken’s blood, fresh and dark. A few drops fell onto my robes, crimson disappearing into the sea of black velvet. He grabbed my chin, thumb pressing insistently against my bottom lip, forcing my mouth open. I obeyed without hesitation, my lips parting as his bloodied fingers slid across my tongue.
“You’re so eager to see my judgment.” Abaddon’s voice was like a blade cutting through my haze. “How about you feel what it’s like?”
I trembled, every word sinking into me, every movement binding me tighter to him. And I didn’t resist. I couldn’t.
And then, I felt it. The emotions trapped in Haarken's blood, now staining my tongue. They surged into me, entwining with my own thoughts and desires, drowning me in their intensity. Fear. Absolute, all-consuming fear. It pulsed through me alongside my longing, twisting them together into something I could no longer separate. I feared Abaddon’s touch as much as I craved it, and I was paralyzed in the grip of those opposing forces, completely at his mercy.
Haarken’s despair, his terror, his agony—they were sharp and cutting, but they were nothing compared to the undercurrent that dominated it all. Reverence. A worshipful acceptance of Abaddon's unmatched might and superiority. It flowed through me like a torrent, reshaping my thoughts, and transforming my own desires into a need to yield. To submit. To revel in the power of my Warmaster and offer myself to his will.
I was lost in it, barely aware of my surroundings, until I felt his hands on me. Strong, unwavering touch. With no effort at all, he turned me, bending me over the table, forcing my face into the blood that pooled across its surface. The cold wetness of it smeared against my skin, and I shuddered, gasping as his weight pressed down on me. This felt right. To be commanded by him. To be put in my place—beneath him, beneath his glorious strength.
His hands moved with purpose, hiking up my robes, the rough brush of his fingers against my thighs sending jolts of sensation through me. I couldn’t stop the soft, gasping sounds that escaped my lips, each one making me taste more of the tainted blood beneath me. With every drop, Haarken’s ghost lingered in my mind, his emotions flooding me more and more, amplifying the alien sensations coursing through my body.
Somewhere, distantly, I knew I could sever this tether. I could break the connection and free myself from the echoes of Haarken’s suffering. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. It was thrilling, intoxicating, to be allowed even the briefest glimpse of Abaddon’s true strength. To feel, even secondhand, the weight of his power. And so with each breathless gasp at the touch of Abaddon's fingers, I surrendered again and again, willingly, and let it consume me further.
He knew what I felt—how could he not? There was no gentleness in him, no restraint. His rough hands gripped my hips with bruising force, dragging me closer in one swift motion.
I could feel the heat radiating from him as he leaned over me, pinning me against the table with nothing more than a fraction of his weight. His cock, still slick from the herald’s blood, was now firmly pressed against my ass. Shallow breaths escaped my lips, each one trembling under the crushing press of him above me. Even without the blood clouding my thoughts, I would have found it arousing—intoxicating in a way that defied all reason.
Abaddon didn’t prepare me, simply pushing into my willing, helpless body. The pain of being forced to accommodate him while unprepared burned, but I didn’t resort to biomancy to assist me as I usually did when I was with him. With Haarken’s emotions flowing through my mind, the pain radiated through my being as a separate, twisted kind of pleasure. I enjoyed the feeling of his cock spearing through my insides, without any thought or care for my wellbeing. I could feel each one of the piercings, that adorned the underside of his shaft, catch against the edges of my hole as he forced his way inside me.
I knew he was not holding back this time. His fingers dug into my hips with crushing strength, the bruising grip promising to leave marks that would linger long after this moment had passed—a silent, physical reminder of his power over me. His trusts were quick and brutal, each movement sending jolts through my body. A sharp, intoxicating mixture of pleasure and pain radiated outward, making me instinctively try to push back against him, though my efforts were futile. I was trapped, completely at his mercy. And I would not lie to myself—I relished every second of it.
It was one thing to admire Abaddon’s violence from afar, to watch as he unraveled others with his raw, brutal force. But to feel it, to be the one subjected to it while drunk on the echoes of suffering and reverence still clinging to Haarken’s blood—it was a pleasure that eluded words. With every ruthless movement, he claimed me, leaving no room for resistance. His weight, his strength, the sheer dominance of his presence—it pinned me down, reminding me who I belong to again and again.
Abaddon’s breath ghosted against my ear. Despite the force he poured into every thrust, Abaddon wasn’t even out of breath. This was nothing to him. Effortless. Another reminder of his strength, of the power I could only yield to. And I did, willingly. Completely.
“Khayon," he growled, his voice low and rough. I felt his nose buried in my hair as he inhaled deeply, as though savoring the moment. "My perfect sorcerer. So eager to submit."
These words made my already fast-approaching release even closer. Each time he forcefully pushed into me he hit the spot that made my toes curl and body shudder in exquisite pleasure. Soon I couldn’t even stand, supported only by Abaddon’s hands and weight on top of me.
Maybe I moaned. Maybe I screamed for him to take me harder. Or maybe I simply lay there, pliant and wordless, too consumed by the storm of emotions running rampant through me to make a sound. I couldn’t tell. All I knew, with absolute certainty, was that I had never felt anything like this before.
It was not long before I reached my peak, my body unable to last longer without the aid of biomancy. My release painted the rusty red of the dried blood on the war table with white streaks as I shuddered, fingers scratching for purchase at the metallic surface. It didn't stop Abaddon, who continued taking me through my ecstasy, wresting even more pain and pleasure from my overstimulated flesh.
I twitched beneath his relentless, unyielding thrusts, my body trembling. Tears and drool streaked my face, mixing with the blood smeared across my skin, some of it washing away, though never entirely. I had lost all sense of time, existing only in this exquisite torment, this sweet agony that left me raw and undone. It consumed me, claimed me, and I gave myself to it completely, without hesitation or resistance. Gave myself to him.
When I thought I could take no more, I felt Abaddon grip me with a force I would be wary of at any other moment and bury his cock deep inside me. I heard my name pass from his lips more akin to a snarl as he claimed me, filling me with his essence. His weight collapsed atop me, but I welcomed it as I heard his low groan reverberate through both of us.
After it was over, when the tension had bled from the air and we both caught our breath, Ezekyle reached down and hauled me to my feet. With his bloodstained hands, he straightened my robes, brushing the folds smooth without a word. It was a gesture that, coming from him, carried its own weight. Not a kindness, exactly, but something close. Something that spoke of acknowledgment.
When I’d steadied myself, I looked up at him. His golden eyes, so often cold and distant, held a faint glint of something else. Amusement, maybe. Or approval. It was subtle, buried beneath the iron mask he wore, but it was there. I raised a brow in silent question, knowing he’d likely ignore it. He always did.
But this time, he surprised me. His lips curved, just barely, into the faintest shadow of a smile. It was a fleeting thing, visible for only a moment—but it was real. And it was mine to see.
“Khayon,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual edge, “you never disappoint me.”
The words landed heavier than I expected, though his tone was calm, almost casual. He didn’t elaborate; he never did. Ezekyle didn’t offer explanations or embellishments. He simply spoke, as though stating a fact that had no room for argument.
I blinked, caught off guard by the rare reassurance. For Abaddon, the absence of critique was its own form of praise. And yet, there was more. Something in the way he looked at me.
“Always full of mysteries,” I murmured, adjusting the last of my robes. It wasn’t much of a response, but I knew he didn’t expect more. He never did.
He turned then, his massive frame shifting effortlessly as he began to walk away. A low rumble of amusement escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close enough. It lingered in the air, and I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my own lips.
Whatever had passed between us at that moment, it was enough. In his eyes, I had done what he expected of me. And, perhaps, just a little more.
As I followed him into the waiting shadows of the Vengeful Spirit’s winding corridors, I felt a steadiness in my steps that hadn’t been there before.