WITH ALL GOOD INTENT

PRE-ORDER INCENTIVE BONUS CHAPTER

WITH ALL GOOD INTENT

LORD DEVON DISCOVERS THE TRUTH

Occuring during the battle in Chapter Twenty-Seven

LORD DEVON

It took Devon until he reached the opposite treeline to realise he had been humiliated.

Lord Drake had cast him off like he was a liability, sending him on a fool’s errand instead of allowing him to assist. He had dressed it up as though Devon was being useful, the claims of a rogue wolf invented in the spur of the moment to lure him away.

Devon cursed himself. He had eaten it up, let himself be persuaded, even ordered away. And the worst part? He had gone willingly, eager to please and happy to be given a task.

He stopped dead at the edge of the forest, at the foot of the vast mountain Castle Drake was carved into, and wordlessly turned his horse about, a look of determination and betrayal marring his features as he pushed past the two men that had accompanied him. They had lost some of the light by the time they reached the entrance to the mountain pass that Drake and his men had continued down, the jagged incline navigated deftly by their horses’ sure-footed hooves. They followed the tracks left by Drake’s men, his own not questioning his uncharacteristic silence as he pondered Drake’s outright rude disregard.

Although, Devon thought, at least he is consistent.

The lord of Castle Drake had been made out to be a formidable figure, secretive and reclusive. He was all of those things, Devon had come to learn, the man mostly sending his general to deal with Devon’s visits rather than greet his neighbour himself.

Of course, that had only made Devon more determined to be accepted, to get beneath his steely exterior and be friendly as Englishmen should. So, he had returned often, trying to help with scouting plans, offering his men and his assistance, always to be met with resistance and brush offs, if he was met at all. Even the kindly priest, who he had learned was Drake’s father – a strange tale he had yet to hear – had been somewhat standoffish, encouraging Devon to leave the matter to Drake’s men, as if he was a child.

It was downright insulting.

Devon scowled as he pulled up the neck of his long, heavy coat, bracing against the bitter approaching dark. They were deep into the pass now, their surroundings eerily quiet, the sound of their horses’ hooves crunching softly in the freshly falling snow echoing off the trees. Nothing stirred, any signs of wildlife hiding away from them in caves along the rockfaces that loomed on either side of them. Night was gathering, the sun dipping low in the sky and casting long shadows out behind them, making Devon more than a little uneasy every time he caught them shifting out of the corner of his eye.

He took this pass often on his visits to Castle Drake. It cut straight through the mountain, opening into a valley at the other side before flattening out into the thick forest that surrounded his village. It was a day’s ride at most, with him often setting out at dawn’s first break and making it to the keep just after sundown. He mostly came alone, never feeling as threatened as he did now on the familiar route.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that Drake’s men were ahead, somewhere, hunting down an entity that had butchered his men, slaughtering them like animals. He refused to believe it.

No mere wolf or bear could inflict the damage he had seen.

His men had been torn apart as if they were ragdolls, left in tatters like shredded meat. If it was a wolf, it was rabid. If it was a bear, it was demented.

If it was something more...

Devon had heard stories as a child: do not go out after dark, for there are terrible things that lurk there. All children grew while being told these tales. They slept with their feet firmly in their bedframes because of the monsters under the bed, kept a candle burning at night to stop the ones in the shadows creeping towards them after they shut their eyes, and stuck to the paths in the woods because the wild things couldn’t get you when your feet were planted firmly on the gravel.

But on coming to this land, Devon realised there were more to the stories here, for even the adults lived in fear. When he had first arrived in the village at his father’s behest, he had walked amongst the people, talking to them, learning their language better than his school maids had been able to teach him. He had held court for them, tended their livestock, shopped at their markets and helped rebuild their houses – but never after dark, when they barred their doors and shuttered their windows until the sun touched the ground once more.

Still, he had become fond of this place and its people. He had already written home to tell his parents of the girl he was going to marry, the quiet beauty he had met at Castle Drake, promising to bring her home to meet them one day. He had promised his villagers that he would bring her there too, but they had seemed hesitant, whispering among themselves about ‘il signore dei demoni’, which had confused him… until he saw the state of his men’s corpses.

Remembering their torn flesh at the edge of the woods brought back bile in his throat, and he pushed it down, something he had been unable to do that day. He had brought up his breakfast in the shadow of the trees, and whatever else was left once the smell caught up to him. The villagers had not buried the bodies – they’d burned them, the pyre high and the smoke rising upwards for miles. No one knew why they had been out in the forest after dark, nor had even seen them leave their homes, but night after night, more bodies kept appearing, mutilated and drained of blood, and Devon began to know real fear.

Enough to seek out the Demon Lord for help.

Was it human nature to want to be treated as an equal? To strive for good relations between villages, come to aid when called on? Lord Drake had indeed come to his aid, he was honourable in that sense, but the air with which he carried himself – like he was more than, looking down on Devon like he was a boy playing at a lordship, sneering when he’d come with nothing but good intent – was enough to make him grit his teeth and double down his efforts.

He would not fail in this. He would have respect.

Yet here he was, following behind them like a service dog instead of riding beside them with his head held high.

Devon knew he was often referred to as a Summer Lord, born to a wealthy family and brought up solely for the purpose of taking over his father’s lands. He had been fortunate in all ways: educated; taught to fight, but never being required to raise his sword in combat; taught how to ride; how to talk, walk, and act like a man of education. Drake, it seemed, had experienced a similar upbringing, yet harder somehow, and it had left him disdainful, untrusting of the world. If Devon was summer, Drake was the dead of winter – cold, hard and unfeeling.

Perhaps it was this that made Devon wary in his presence. His appearance in itself was shocking: the white, almost translucent skin, the intensity of the shadows beneath his eyes, his daunting stature. It was as if he had been carved from marble, as unyielding as the stone itself. Devon couldn’t put his finger on it. He wanted to please Lord Drake in a way, but something about him, his castle, his men – even his amiable elderly father – made him cautious, even afraid, like his bones had been chilled to their core and no closeness to a fire could breathe life back into them.

Devon’s horse stopped beneath him, whinnying in apparent displeasure, breaking through his thoughts. They had come to the edge of the forest that lined the valley at the heart of the pass. Night had descended, the sky above black as pitch, no stars shining through the clouds that blanketed it. He gave his horse a nudge with his heel, but the animal bayed and refused to go. Again, he kicked, the horse conceding a few steps before backing up, ears flat to his head and yanking on the bit in his mouth. Devon heard the same from the men that flanked him and sighed.

“Looks like we’re on foot from here, men,” he said, hopping down from the saddle and trying to remain unphased. “Apparently the horses are afraid of the dark.”

The men grunted at him and obeyed, as was their custom. Devon had always been charming and mostly got along well with everyone he met, but occasionally, the contents of his purse spoke louder than he did, and such was the case with his hired guards.

They pressed on through the trees, Devon not wanting to admit his tracking capabilities were somewhat lacking while the snow hid the worn path, but he led the way regardless, his usual confident air concealing any doubts he might have.

It was as he was stumbling his way along, trying to figure out where Drake and his men could be in the surrounding silence, that he realised.

There were no tracks.

There had been no tracks since the treeline.

Devon looked up, squinting his eyes through the trees and into the patches of darkness between them. The snowfall was not heavy enough to hide the tracks of ten armed men. There would surely be some signs. But the earth remained untouched beneath their feet, their own footprints the only disturbances in the snow behind them and through the trees in front.

He listened for something, anything to give away Drake’s position. They had not been that far behind. But the night wielded no secrets, the air thick with anticipation, and he furrowed his brow in confusion.

A scream shattered the silence.

It was an evil, unearthly sound that pierced through the whole world and sent a shard of fear slicing through his heart. It took everything not to drop to his knees, cowering. Devon felt his men flinch violently behind him and draw their weapons, so he followed suit and unsheathed his own sword. It was the first time he’d ever done so with the intent of using it and he gulped under the weight of the responsibility, the blade suddenly as heavy as lead in his hand. They stood still, braced, waiting for something to happen.

Devon had no idea how long they stood there, frozen by fear, but he became vaguely aware that his men were waiting for orders. Right. He paid them to follow him, not to walk into the night and be surrounded by untold terrors.

The screech sounded again, curdling his blood, but no creature made itself known to determine its origin. They had reached the edge of the trees where the ground began to rise when, in the distance, he picked up a faint clanging noise that sounded like the steel on steel of battle, just over the ridge that he knew led to the ravine below.

To his people.

The thought spurred him on, his feet finally regaining movement and propelling him forward, his men close behind.

It took what seemed like an age to climb the steep incline that led to the top of the valley, and Devon felt sluggish with fatigue by the time they’d reached halfway. He had always travelled this way on horseback, but now his chest heaved with exertion and his sword dragged, his ragged breath clouding the way in front of him as he climbed through the snow. He could hear the battle more clearly now, the crash of metal, the shouting of men… and among it, the snarling of beasts, the snapping of strong jaws and a strange hissing that sounded more feral than any noise he had ever heard.

It seemed Lord Drake was right. A pack of savage beasts, hungry for the taste of man. Devon hoped they had not arrived too late to be of assistance, his anger with Drake dissipating into a wild hope – that he might descend and save the day, land the killing blow and perhaps earn the respect of the intimidating lord.

Finally, they reached the top of the ridge. But nothing could have prepared them for what they saw when they peered over.

There was indeed a battle raging below them, but the beasts were not any that Devon had laid eyes on before, not even in his wildest nightmares. They ran with a speed unlike any he had seen, fighting like men but moving faster than his eyes could track them, disappearing and coming up again miles away in the time it had taken him to blink. Their eyes were dilated black all the way to their lids, the whites gone, leaving only bottomless black holes filled with hatred and evil. Their faces contorted, littered with purplish veins that snaked from their eyes and stood out on their glowing white skin. They ripped and shredded, fangs protruding from their snarling mouths, their hands as deadly as the weapons they carried.

It took a moment to realise that Drake’s men were the beasts they had heard, the strange hissing and growling sounds coming from deep within them as they tore apart their foe.

It was then that Devon saw the full picture.

Demons fighting demons, some standing as men, others running on all fours like animals on elongated limbs.

Devon ducked down behind the ridge in complete terror, feeling his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Adrenaline was running through his veins, propelling him into a state of fight or flight. He looked at his men, who seemed to be considering if lining their pockets was worth taking on creatures of Hell, their eyes wide and their chests heaving. Devon had to lead by example. He gritted his teeth and swallowed his fear, then breached the edge once more.

In the clearing, he made out a figure in the carnage, tall, broad, moving with purpose and precision.

Lord Drake.

He looked as fearsome as his men, and Devon suddenly understood the aversion he had felt in his stomach each time he’d faced him. Deep down, he wondered if he’d sensed this beast, this demon, and his own intuition had tried to warn him.

Il signore dei demone.

The Demon Lord.

His villagers had known. Lord Drake was the monster they cowered from, the reason they kept inside at night, hidden behind their locked doors, praying he wouldn’t steal them away in the dark. How many of his people had he dragged from their beds and disembowelled? How many lives had he taken? And yet he had sat there while Devon had asked for his help, humouring him while he told the tale of the beasts claiming his livestock and his men, all the while knowing he was the very evil behind it.

Devon watched with a renewed sense of horror as Lord Drake was set upon by a long limbed, hairless version of his own demonic self, its bones sticking out of its back as it swiped at him, knocking him to his feet. Devon prayed that his job was done for him, that Drake would not rise, but he looked on as one of his men came to his aid, hauling him up. Drake had thrust his bare hand into the other demon’s chest, blood spraying everywhere as he pulled its organs out in a way that could only be described as barbaric.

The other demons kept coming, crawling down the sides of the hill like spiders. Devon tore his gaze away from the animal that Lord Drake had become and followed their point of origin, across the gorge to its summit. There, standing amidst the night sky, stood a lone monster, straight backed and staring directly at Devon and his men.

If his heart had not stopped before, it did now.

Devon could not move. His eyes held those of the demon, as if it was looking into his very soul. It was as though it was pulling him across the ravine towards it, all sense of depth gone as he hung in mid-air before it. It cocked its head, its face unreadable, and Devon could feel it scrambling inside his head, like it was raking its taloned hand across his skull.

He began to pray.

With all his might, he called on God to deliver him, to save him, and he felt a dark, sinister laugh rumble through the valley, pressing against his mind.

God will not save you now, Charles Devon.

He almost loosed his bowels.

The claws in his head rummaged, his memories being sifted through like the thing was looking for something. The pain was excruciating, and he could feel his consciousness slipping. The demon smiled at him through the torment, its mouth widening to show a row of razor-sharp teeth flanked by two enormous, fanged incisors.

And just like that, it was gone.

He was back in his own body, his head was clear, and the thing was looking away towards the battle below. Devon ducked behind the ridge once more, vaguely aware that his men were nowhere to be found, gouges in the snow telling of their desertion. He had dropped his sword and it lay imprinted in the snow next to his knees. A warm trickle made its way to his lip and he raised his hand to wipe away the blood that dripped from his nostril.

Another scream pierced the night, the thing that had held him prisoner in his own body calling back its forces. The beasts retreated, scattering like flies, and Devons heart raced once more.

They were heading for his position.

There was no time for him to move, for in seconds they were on him, and it was all he could do but curl into a ball, covering his head against the onslaught. But none of them touched him. They leapt over him like he wasn’t here, hordes of them bounding through the trees at the bottom of the hill and disappearing back into the nightmares they had crawled out from, leaving no trace behind them.

Devon waited a good while before lifting his head, his breathing uneven and laced with dread. As he did, he felt a presence behind him, turning to see the demon from the hilltop inches from his face. Any scream he might have loosed was lost on the wind, for he knew he was staring death in the face.

The thing panted before him, a dark, foul looking liquid hanging from its fangs in strings. It was on all fours like the others, and Devon knew that one swipe of its claws would end him. But the thing stared at him, its eyes red as blood in the darkness, and he saw his own terrified reflection in them alongside something he couldn’t place. An understanding; a recognition that seemed somewhat cerebral.

Like it was thinking.

He braced himself, not wanting to run from the face of certain death, and held its stare.

But it simply walked away, melting into the night along with the rest of its kin.

Devon slid down the hill, half on his backside, his sword forgotten. He ran in a daze towards the edge of the trees to where his horse, more loyal than his men, stood waiting, pawing at the ground like it was impatient to leave. He had never agreed more in his life. He mounted the animal, twisting his ankle in the process but not registering the pain in his haste to flee. He was hardly in the saddle before the horse set off, away from the mountain pass towards Castle Drake.

The cold night’s wind whipped past him, making his eyes water, though he could not determine whether they were simply a byproduct of his pace or tears he was shedding himself – of relief, of terror.

He clung to his horse, not caring where it led him, until he came to the opening of the pass and saw a figure in the distance: a solitary man, carrying another, moving with such speed that he knew immediately it was one of Drake’s demons.

He looked to the side and saw the rest of them, moving with the same unnatural speed but not nearly keeping up with the one in front. He and his horse had no chance if they saw him, but they seemed to be paying him no mind, their focus solely on the one being carried in front.

He reached the gates of Castle Drake before he realised it was the lord himself being carried, apparently so injured from the battle he was not conscious. The way was barred, but he watched wide-eyed as the demon soldiers he had once believed men hoisted Lord Drake up and carried him away, his clothes hanging in shreds around him as he bled onto the floor of the entryway.

He prayed for the second time that night, staring at the pool of blood on the floor that was so dark in the moonlight, it appeared black. He prayed for God to hear him again, that He would let this Demon Lord die and return him to the Hell from whence he came.

Devon thought of his bride to be, the woman he had fallen for, holed up in this Godforsaken place, and his resolve hardened. No wonder she was so frightened, so quiet. She must live in fear of the demons around her.

He would save her, he decided. He would free her if it was the last thing he did, and in doing it, he would rid the world of the evil he had witnessed this night.

The thought consumed him, possessed him, tainted his thoughts as he remounted his steed, warping his mind until only vengeance remained.

He would kill Lord Drake.

***

The Devil smiled as he watched the human ride away, his weak mind already bending to his compulsion.

Humans were so fickle.

Copyright © Natalie Jay (2026)

The right of Natalie Jay to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2026)

ISBN 978-1-80378-381-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781803783932 (eBook)

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