Descent

KINDLE EXCLUSIVE BONUS CHAPTER

LORD DEVON’S DESCENT INTO MADNESS

Occuring prior to the fight between Michael and Lord Devon in Chapter Forty-Three 

LORD DEVON

All Devon saw was death.

He had returned to his villa alone, three nights after he had left Castle Drake, cutting a foreboding figure as he stalked across the horizon like a man possessed, his horse nowhere in sight. He had locked himself away in his room for weeks, most of his meals going untouched. His only request was to keep the fire burning.

In the recesses of his chambers, Devon spent his days pacing, the room lit only by the flames. He had drawn the thick curtains that framed the window, afraid to look beyond the glass in case he found something staring back at him, straight from the pits of Hell. The image of the demons charging across the white snow of the mountain were burned into his mind. He saw them when he closed his eyes, the red of their eyes and their sharp claws that gouged the ground as they ran. Every crack of the logs in the grate was the snap of their jaws, every whisper in the hallway was the wind howling in his ear as he was suspended, helpless and terrified, their leader staring into his soul.

When he wasn’t pacing, he stared into the fire, listening to the answers it gave. He could swear it was talking to him, whispering in his ear of the inevitable downfall of those demonic creatures, and how he alone could save the world from their evil and banish them to the depths from whence they came.

After a while, he started talking back, knowing how the servants looked at him when they brought his meals and changed his linens. But he knew better. They had not seen it, had not felt the terror that lingered in his heart, the claws that had raked across his mind and scrambled through his every thought. He knew what was out there. He had to protect them, had to fight back. He alone knew how to destroy them – the fire had told him how. In an inferno of silver and flames, he would bring down the demons.

Then they would not call him mad.

They would call him a hero.

And the Demon Lord of Castle Drake would be dead at his hand.

He would be revered, respected. They would call him a Saint and his father would be proud. He would win the heart of the woman he loved, and she would see that he was strong and worthy, and his men would be loyal to him and not his coin.

But he needed to be strong now. He needed to train. The Demon Lord was a warrior and would not fall easily. The fire would be with him, Devon knew; it had entered his heart and fuelled him, and he had let it into his mind to guide him.

Spring was coming, a time of new beginnings, when Devon emerged from his room, his eyes crazed and bloodshot. He took his sword to the blacksmith and threw it down on the worktop.

“Reforge the blade in silver,” he barked.

He saw only death.

***

It was on a mild evening weeks later that Devon’s training was interrupted by the arrival of a plain girl on horseback. He did not look up as she approached, carrying on with his drill.

He could not afford to be distracted. His task was too great, the weight he bore too heavy.

Night and day he practiced, learning the art of swordplay as he never had before. He’d employed the county’s best warriors to train him and had even outmatched them. They had left, saying that he was deranged, that his gruelling schedule would kill him. Devon had laughed them out of town. He would not die here. The fire inside him had told him so.

The girl dismounted, mumbling a quiet thanks to his staff. As he parried, he heard them whispering, his staff telling the girl to be careful, that he was not well and would not receive guests.

They are short sighted, the fire told him, they do not see the war you are training for. You must protect them. You are the only one who can.

He refocused and charged on, thrusting his sword into the swinging pig that was strung up for his practice. Better to get used to cutting through flesh than training wood.

“My lord?” the girl stuttered, hesitating at the edge of the ring he had created in the grounds of his manor. “Lord Devon?”

Another thrust. He did not have time for polite conversation. Evil waited for no one.

“My lord, I have come seeking your aid,” the girl continued, taking his silence as invitation.

Everyone will seek your aid once you accomplish your task, whispered the voice in his ear. Word already spreads of your noble mission.

“Speak, but do it quickly,” he ordered. She flinched at his tone as she took him in.

He could admit that his training had improved his physique; lean muscle rippled with the fire’s power as he moved, and he held himself tall, proud that it was he who had been chosen to wield it. He trained without armour or a shirt, sweat glistening on his skin despite the sinking sun. The cold did not bother him anymore, not with the fire breathing life into his bones.

Devon smiled and beckoned the girl forward, ignoring her hesitation.

“I come from Castle Drake, my lord,” she squeaked as she padded forward, her fearful eyes resting on his glinting blade.

The Demon Lord sends a challenge. He has heard of your bravery and noble pursuit, the voice in the fire hissed.

Of course, Devon thought. The demon is threatened.

“Relay your message, girl. Does the demon wish to challenge me? I am ready.”

“N-no, my lord,” the girl stuttered, wringing her hands before her.

She was a pathetic sight, her round face painstakingly ordinary. It was people like this that needed protecting most, the ones who could not defend themselves. Devon pitied her. Maybe in her stupidity she did not even know what her master was.

He continued the movements of his drill. He would not be distracted. His purpose was too great.

“I come on behalf of my friend, Luciana.”

Devon almost dropped his sword mid-swing.

It was as though a fog cleared from his mind, light breaking through the darkness that had descended on his endless days and nights. His muscles ached, his head pounded, and he shivered as he braced against the afternoon chill.

“Luciana?” he whispered. “Truly? What of her, is she well?”

“I fear she is not, my lord.”

The girl’s lip trembled as Devon turned to face her. A flash of recognition. A face behind a wooden door. Luciana’s door.

The maid who had interrupted them.

“What is your name?” Devon asked, softening his tone as his senses came back to him.

“Greta, my Lord.”

“And Luciana is in need of help, Greta?”

Greta sniffed, tears suddenly falling from her eyes. Devon’s brow furrowed, confusion etched on his face. He offered the girl his arm. “Please, kind girl, tell me your sorrows so that I may help unburden you.”

“She will not listen to reason.” The girl sobbed, twisting her hands in her skirts. “I fear that she had been blinded, manipulated somehow, and that we must get her as far away from that place as possible. Please, my lord, I know you cared for her. If you still do, help me get her away. She is my friend.”

Luci was in danger; Devon could feel it in his bones. But he needed to be sure.

“Away from what, dear Greta?”

“Lord Drake,” the girl whispered.

The fog descended on Devon once more.

Demon, the voice whispered, the fire ignited once more in his mind, clawing back the tatters of his sanity. He saw the black eyes, the fangs, the distorted face as Drake ripped Hell’s creatures limb from limb, covered in black blood and roaring like an animal himself.

He is their leader. Cut off the head, and the rest will fall.

Devon’s eyes darkened with purpose.

“Drake has her captive?”

“N-no, my Lord,” Greta stuttered. “She goes willingly. But there is something not right. They are not right. It is not natural!”

Just as you suspected, clever lord. She knows he is of Hell, the fire hissed, tugging at his will. She seeks a hero to rescue the damsel before she is defiled. She will be spoiled goods, tainted by darkness, not a fit bride. You must act, before it is too late. Evil waits for no man.

“You were right to come to me,” Devon snarled, dropping Greta’s arm and drawing his sword once more. “I will answer the call. Make no mistake, girl, the demon will die in a pool of his own blood before the moon is full.”

He threw his sword straight and true, the point severing the pig from its binding and the dead animal plunged to the ground, landing in a heap with a sickening squelch.

Devon marched into his manor without a backwards glance, oily laughter ringing in his ears.

He was ready.

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 9781803783932 (eBook)

www.cranthorpemillner.com

Cranthorpe Millner Publishers