The air in King Mortas Brinx's throne room was thick with the scent of boredom and spilled seed. Nude, save for a strategically placed black silk eye patch, the half-demon king stroked his length, his arrow-tipped tail snapping irritably against the marble floor.

“Draden, go tell my demon’s Samson and Dane to go with the troops and retrieve more staff,” Mortas growled, his gaze fixed on Samuel, his cowering valet, who was attempting to clean the messy floor.

Meanwhile, miles away in a secluded forest compound, Grace Thornheart, sword in hand, practiced her sisterhood's moves. The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, a stark contrast to the distant whispers of a world ruled by men. She sheathed her sword, a shimmering extension of her own flesh, just as the dinner bell chimed, calling her to a simple meal.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: “Grace, your tree is lovely, but you need to acquire a skill for defense.” Grace merely rolled her eyes. She had her sword, and she didn't wish to kill.

The ground vibrated. Hoofbeats. Many of them. Brianna’s panicked yell from the watchtower confirmed their worst fears: “It’s the king’s troops!”