The flames of darkness, p.1
The Flames of Darkness, page 1
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Book One: Hell’s Fire Dragon
The
Flames
of
Darkness
La Kayshal
First published in 2025 by La Kayshal
Copyright © La Kayshal 2025
All rights reserved. This book is protected by Australian copyright law. Reproduction and distribution of this book, in any form, without prior written permission of the publisher, is prohibited.
If Gods exist, then so do Demons.
The arrival of one ensures the awakening of the other.
Prologue
25 years ago
A shadow emerged.
From the deep abyss of hell, a defiant, dark-clawed hand crept swiftly, yet it remained in the hidden depths of the crevices.
Adalward, the four-headed, golden guardian dragon sent from the Heavens to watch the Hellgate, smirked. For centuries beyond memory, nothing escaped the burning depths of hell. He had diligently ensured that and today was no different. His old bones were ready to play the game of hide and seek.
He flew closer, his four heads sniffing and eyeing the foul shadow of a doomed creature who was perhaps once a cruel human, but now a permanent inhabitant of hell.
Before the creature could rise, one of Adalward’s massive, hideous jaws opened, spraying a torrent of golden flame, spilling ash across the cracked earth. The creature shrieked, and the dark claws dissolved into smoke as it plunged back into the pit, leaving the desert trembling in silence.
Hellgate was situated in a vast desert, its sands shifting like a living thing beneath the merciless sun. Each grain caught the light until the horizon burned like the edge of a forge. The wind did not whisper here. It screamed, carrying with it the scent of scorched stone and something older, something that did not belong in the world of men.
Fire roared within the cracked opening of Hellgate, not the tame flickers of mortal flame but something alive and hungry. The heat radiating from its depths could have melted steel or turned bone to ash in an instant.
This was the gate to hell.
And standing at its edge, his massive claws dug into the trembling earth, was Adalward.
The golden dragon was a creature of impossible majesty. His four heads each bore horns that caught the sun and scattered it in dazzling arcs of light. His scales shimmered with the weight of millennia, glowing from within as though Heaven’s essence had been woven into his flesh. His wings stretched wide, vast enough to blot out the sky, their membranes humming with power. For ages beyond counting, he had stood guard over this cursed place, a living barricade against the horrors that slithered below.
But something was different now.
The fire surged, twisting into shapes that should not exist. Faces with too many eyes, limbs that bent the wrong way, mouths frozen in silent screams. The air thickened, heavy with the stench of sulfur and rot. Adalward felt it before he saw it. The corruption seeped upward, tendrils of shadow snaking through the cracks, staining the world with their touch.
One of his heads lowered, nostrils flaring as embers spilled from between his teeth. A growl rose in his chest, deep enough to shake the desert floor.
Then a voice called his name. “Adalward.”
The sound was not a sound at all. It struck like a force, rattling the dragon’s bones. It came from the pit, from the fire, from the darkness that even flames could not touch.
Adalward did not flinch. “Satan,” he rumbled. “Still as impatient as ever.”
Smoke coiled upward, thick and choking, twisting into form. A figure emerged, taller than any man, carved from shadow and malice. Curved horns framed a face that was both beautiful and terrible, the kind that could lead nations to ruin with a smile.
Crimson eyes burned like dying stars, and the air crackled with restrained power.
Satan, the King of Hell, stood at the edge of his prison. The world trembled.
“I remind you, dragon,” he said, his voice sharp enough to whip flesh from bone, “that Heaven knows I will return. Until the day their king comes to build his kingdom, I shall rule the earth.”
Adalward’s scales flared with golden light, pushing back the suffocating dark. “You are impatient. It is still years before your first demon is allowed to ascend.”
Satan’s laugh was jagged, scraping against the mind. “One demon?” he sneered. “Even one of mine is enough to crack this world.”
“Which demon do you speak of?”
“Tynan.” Satan’s grin widened, revealing teeth like shards of glass. “Lord of Darkness and Chaos. He will open the way for my rule.”
Adalward’s growl deepened, shaking the desert itself. “Even Tynan is bound by Heaven’s decree. There are rules. First Tynan. Then your others. Only then will you rise. And only when your reign is complete will the Son of God return.”
Satan’s eyes gleamed, cruel and delighted. “Ah, dragon, you still cling to hope.” His words dripped with mockery. “But open your eyes. The world is already mine. Every war, every betrayal, every whisper of corruption is another thread in my tapestry.”
Smoke shimmered, and visions unfolded. Cities burning, streets running red with blood. Brothers turning guns on one another. Businessmen draped in expensive silk while the starving clawed at their feet.
“See how they kneel before greed?” Satan murmured. “How they slaughter in the name of pride? They need no demons to teach them sin. They perfect it themselves.”
Adalward’s gaze held steady, though sorrow flickered in his golden eyes. “You exaggerate. For every heart that turns black, another remembers mercy. For every hand raised in violence, one reaches out in kindness.”
“Kindness?” Satan’s laugh scraped bone. “Kindness does not stop the tide. You speak of scattered embers, while I command the wildfire.” The visions shifted. Crowds screaming for blood. Children taught to hate before they could read. Nations devouring themselves. “They choose me. Not in words, but in deeds.”
Adalward’s wings flexed, scattering divine sparks into the abyss. “And yet redemption is always one choice away. A thief returning what he stole. A soldier laying down his arms. A mother who starves so her child may eat. Quiet faith still endures.”
Satan sneered. “Redemption? A lie to comfort the damned. Their souls are mine long before their last breath.” His voice dropped to a razor’s edge. “Why do you think Heaven stays silent? Even they see the inevitable.”
For the first time, Adalward’s growl carried fury. “Heaven’s silence is not surrender. It is patience. The final battle is not yet written.”
“Then let us write it now.” Satan’s grin split wide. “Tynan is but the first stroke. Watch your precious faithful break. Watch as their prayers turn to curses. And when the last light gutters out…” His form dissolved, seeping back into the Hellgate. “Remember that you were warned.”
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
Adalward stood alone, the desert wind howling, carrying with it the echo of Satan’s taunts. The visions had faded, but their weight pressed against his ancient heart. The darkness would come. It would test the world. It would try to drown every flicker of light.
But as long as one flicker endured, as long as one soul still reached for grace, good will win over evil.
The storm was coming.
But storms, too, must pass.
Chapter 1
The Unshifted
The heavy rain hammered against the arched windows of the Dragon Council’s Hall, rattling the glass and drowning the silence inside. A television flickered to life at the far end of the chamber, its screen showing a solemn news anchor seated behind a polished desk, his voice steady and practiced with years of repetition.
“As the days draw nearer to the predicted three days of darkness, speculation continues to grow,” he said, his eyes fixed on the camera. “Experts remain divided on whether this event is rooted in scientific fact or whether it is simply another doomsday prophecy.”
The screen cut to a scientist explaining the sudden increase of solar flares and unusual activity from the Sun, suggesting that such disruptions could affect the Earth’s magnetic field. Then another guest, a popular YouTuber, dismissed the claims with a grin, pointing to the 2012 Mayan apocalypse as evidence of how people always gave in to irrational fears.
When the anchor returned, his tone carried a weight that seemed heavier than his words. “With the Sun becoming more erratic, some say we cannot afford to dismiss it. For now, it remains a waiting game, as many continue to hope this is only another false alarm.”
Mariah Mac Naught, Chief of the Dragon Council of the West, sat at her vast desk, watching the broadcast with an expression that revealed none of her thoughts. She wore flowing silver and indigo robes embroidered with the sigils of the Council, the fabric shimmering faintly in the lantern light. Her long silver hair was drawn into a single braid that fell over one shoulder, gleaming like spun metal. Yet, her fingers, tipped with long, painted nails, tapped against the wood with an impatience that betrayed her unease.
Her composure was famous within the Council, her authority rarely questioned, yet even she could not entirely conceal the tension in her jaw as the storm outside pressed against the windows. Rain streaked the glass like silver threads, and the darkness of the night seemed to thicken as the storm rolled over the city. Lightning burst across the sky in sharp flashes, illuminating the office briefly and then plunging it back into darkness.
She reached for the remote and switched off the television, but the words lingered in the air, heavy as stone. She knew the prophecy. The three days of darkness. The arrival of Tynan.
The world, and the dragons with it, stood on the edge of something far worse than anyone dared to admit.
The doors opened quickly and a thin secretary in a well-fitted three-piece suit stepped in, clutching an iPad. He hurried to the desk, his shoes clicking softly against the marble floor, and handed it over.
“I hope the list is ready, Mr. Fehmasus?” Mariah asked, extending her arm without hesitation and sliding the device from his grasp.
Fehmasus leaned over her shoulder, pointing to the screen with a finger that trembled slightly. “Only three, first dragon-born young adults, remain unshifted. They are between sixteen and seventeen. And one is...”
“The Chief of Drakon Academy’s son, Tariel Fenwick,” Mariah cut in sharply. Her eyes narrowed as she flicked to the boy’s profile. “If he is under our roof, then we can keep him under watch.”
The screen filled with Tariel’s face. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with unruly dark hair that curled faintly at the ends. His brown eyes, thoughtful and brooding, seemed older than his years, and his jaw carried the strength of his father’s bloodline. There was something calm about him, but it was not the calm of peace. It was dangerous, the quiet restraint of someone holding back more than he revealed.
“He looks like his father,” Mariah murmured. “And dangerously calm. Inform Chief Decimus Fenwick to enroll him in the Academy without delay. It is any moment now. He is close to shifting.”
Fehmasus nodded and swiped to the next profile. A girl appeared on the screen, the poor resolution of the camera unable to hide the sharpness of her gaze. Her long black hair fell untidily over her shoulders. Her green eyes glowed faintly, and behind her, the cramped kitchen looked broken and tired.
“She is a late bloomer as well. Everin Haydon,” Fehmasus said, his voice curling with disdain. “She lives in Midows, New York. Second-hand clothes. A family of five. Two younger siblings. A mother who is a stay-at-home alcoholic. A father who drives trucks for Dragon’s Bricks, never around, barely involved.”
Mariah studied the image for a long moment. Despite the broken walls behind her and the untidy clothes on her frame, the girl’s green eyes unsettled her. They were not the eyes of a helpless child. They were the eyes of still water hiding dangerous depths. “She will be sixteen soon. Perhaps she already feels it,” Mariah said quietly. “Keep watch.” She swiped again.
“And this,” she said, her voice heavier, “is the most difficult one. The Bevington girl.”
Phoenix Bevington’s photo filled the screen, the polished lighting making her appear as if she had stepped out of an advertisement. Her golden blonde hair was cut perfectly, just above her shoulders, and curled at the ends. Her lashes were thick with mascara, and her lips were lined in an expensive shade. She wore a designer hoodie and branded jewelry, her pose set in front of a private gym. Even in stillness, her expression was one of pride, entitlement, and distance.
Fehmasus smirked. “And the hardest to bring to the Academy.”
“But we must,” Mariah said firmly, setting the iPad down with finality and rising to her full height. Her voice was steady and commanding, carrying the weight of the storm outside. “The end of times is approaching. If the two-thousand-year-old prophecy is true, if God is to return, then the demons will rise before Him. And the first will be Tynan, the Demon of Darkness and Chaos.”
She turned toward the storm, her gaze fixed on the lightning that broke across the horizon, as though she could already sense something vast and ancient stirring in its depths.
“The truth is bitter. We must think of ourselves before He arrives. And the only way to do that,” her voice dropped into steel, “is to kill the vessel that will allow the demon’s return.”
Fehmasus swallowed, the sound loud in the silence, but he did not argue.
“Send out the Dragon’s Summon to the three families,” Mariah commanded, her eyes unblinking.
Fehmasus hesitated, his voice quiet. “But the Dragon’s Summon is a high-order directive, reserved only for shapeshifters of rank...”
Mariah turned her gaze on him, cold as iron. “The Council rules the West. Follow my order now.”
Chapter 2
Shattered Reflections
Side-stepping a couple of homeless individuals, Everin Haydon walked cautiously through the slippery and dark alleys of Midows. She carried a bag full of groceries and she was late. Her younger siblings would already be back from school, and there was nothing in the fridge for them to eat. Her mother, as usual, would be lying on the sofa, scrolling through television channels in her half-drunken state.
She hurried up the narrow stairs to their cramped two-bedroom apartment. The stench of booze, cigarette smoke, and leftover food scraps rotting in the nearby flooded bin filled her nose, but she was used to it by now. This was the normal smell of her neighborhood.
Before she could unlock the door, her younger brother Samuel’s scream pierced the air. “You ate all of it, Doriya!” His thirteen-year-old voice cracked with anger.
Any moment now, her mother would explode. Beth Haydon’s stern voice was known throughout Midows, and Everin knew it would terrify Samuel. She twisted the stuck key as fast as she could and yanked the door open.
Beth’s yell blasted through the entrance.
“Get the hell out of my house, you son of a freak!”
Everin rushed inside and slammed the door before the annoyed neighbors came to complain. Samuel darted behind her just as Beth charged toward him with an empty alcohol bottle clutched in her hand.
Doriya stood frozen in the kitchen, her scream echoing through the apartment.
“Mum,” Everin said firmly, planting herself between Samuel and Beth.
Beth swayed, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused, but her rage did not falter. “Come here, you brat. I’ll spank your bottom red today!”
For a heartbeat, she hesitated when she recognized Everin. Then, with a violent cry, she smashed the bottle against the wall just behind Samuel. Shards rained to the floor, the sharp crack echoing through the room.
Everin could feel Samuel trembling against her back, his fingers clutching tightly at her torn sweater. She set the heavy grocery bags on the counter and turned, pulling Samuel into her arms. “Are you hurt?” she whispered, glaring over his head at Beth.
Samuel shook his head side-ways quickly. “I’m hungry. I just wanted to make some noodles. Doriya wanted to make some too. Then the stupid bowl dropped on the floor and Mum woke up.”
Doriya, barefoot and edging carefully around broken ceramic pieces, shouted, “It wasn’t me!”
Everin sighed. “Be careful around the shards, Doriya.”
Beth staggered back to the sofa, muttering angrily. “I can’t even rest in my own house. All this fuss over a bowl. Useless.” She slumped heavily onto the cushions, rubbing her forehead.
Although Samuel was her younger brother, Everin had raised him like a mother, the same with Doriya. Protecting them was second nature, even if it meant standing against Beth herself. “It’s fine. I’ll make dinner soon. Go shower,” she urged Samuel, pushing him gently toward the bathroom.
