The grasp of death slowly reached towards Praxis as he laid in a pool of his blood. Escape was no longer an option. Half of his limbs were either frozen or burned to ash. One by one, his organs began failing as he bled out of every orifice, natural or cut open.
His death was going to be slow, painful, and witnessed by his murderers.
As he suffered there on the ground, his assailants watched. There was no dignity, nor was there any honor given to him with this death. He was nothing more than a pig being gutted in a slaughterhouse. Worse yet was that he wasn't being killed to be eaten, he was just being killed for the sake of being killed.
This was the message his family wanted to send him. They wanted him to know this, how they saw, how they had always seen him. Even in his last moments, they wanted him to know that he was nothing to them. Not even worth the dignity of a quick and painless death.
"How much longer is this going to take?" one assassin asked.
"We are not to speak in the presence of the mark," said another who stood at the center.
"It's not like anyone's around that could find us."
Their voices began ringing from all directions, and Praxis couldn't tell which one was talking.
"The client said to make his death last as long as possible."
"A few more seconds and the job will be done."
"I don't know. This one seems resilient. I give a few minutes."
"Look at him, he's gonna croak at a moment now."
"You want to make a wager."
"A wager, get me on this..."
"25 silver pieces says..."
As the assassins discussed how much Praxis' remaining life was worth to them, an indescribable feeling began forming inside of him. A feeling which he long suppressed and forgot about. Even though he managed to lock it away somewhere deep inside of is psyche, it had been slowly burning inside of him his whole life.
A feeling that came not from his birth, but was given life and nurtured by the people whom he had to call family. It was a feeling that came from out from pure malice, hatred, and boiling rage that superseded his calm nature.
All his life life he had been their puppet to mock, to humiliate, to torment. Yet, he stayed quiet and did nothing. He even helped them grow in power and wealth. He helped them gain trade treaties, peace agreements, and new alliances. What does he get in return? A death in the middle of nowhere.
There would be no ceremony honoring his accomplishments. No titles or statues made out of them. He would disappear like all the other illegitimate children of the Emperor had. Not even a whisper in the symphony that was the Empire. He would be killed just like how they killed his mother. Given enough time, he wouldn't even be a whisper anymore. His whole existence would disappear, and his accomplishments would all be buried.
His blood began boiling and bubbling inside of him. For the first time in his life, Praxis felt a seething rage. He did not want to just die a meaningless death out in the middle of nowhere. He wanted them to feel the pain, they inflicted on him. He wanted them to bleed the way he was bleeding.
He wanted to pull out one of the daggers and push it down the throat of his attackers.
He wanted to lunge one of the arrows through the attacker's eye.
He wanted to burn off their flesh the way they did to Karvin.
He wanted to be the one to watch as they died and make it last an eternity.
He tried to stand back up on his own two feet, but he'd already lost all sensation on them.
He tried moving his arm and even the tips of his fingers, but he could no longer feel them.
He said to himself: Get up! This is not how you die. You survived this long in this world, just to die out in the middle of nowhere. You are a prince of this forsaken empire. You are going to kill them all and watch as they bleed. Stand up. Don't die like this. Stand up.
Praxis pleaded to himself, to his body, to every fiber of his being that still held on to not succumb. To would not give up until the palace paid for their betrayal. He pleaded, and pleaded, and pleaded, but nothing. His body would not listen, and he laid there still bleeding out to death.
When neither his body nor his soul heard his cry for help, something else did. Something that was not of his world. Something old, vile, and plagued with rage much worse than his. That creature, spawned from the depths of darkness itself, began whispering to him.
"Praxis, death is almost at your doorstep, and you have no strength left to fend it off. What are you going to do now? Are you going to give up?"
It spoke slowly and softly. Every word felt like a rope being wrapped and tightened around Praxis' neck. Praxis no longer felt the rage he had felt a second prior. Somehow, he couldn't feel anything but a sense of dread. Everything felt cold and hollow.
"I will live," Praxis managed to utter. "I refuse to die like this. I refuse to let them win."
"Good. Good. That is the tenacity I want to see. Tell me, Praxis, what are you willing to give for that opportunity? What is vindication worth to you?"
Praxis did not answer the voice's question. Instead, he asked it something. "Do angles of death have concepts of vindication? I was always told that you lived to serve Osiris' will."
The voice began laughing. "No, No, don't confuse me with those ugly creatures. I am no servant of Osiris. I am something much more malicious and cancerous. I am the demon of chains. I am the grand torturer of Tartarus. I am pain itself. I am also someone who can be your salvation. But only if you let me in, I am the power that can give you what you desire most."
"What I desire most. What is it that I desire?" Praxis asked the demon.
The voice laughed, "Vindication. Revenge. Justice. Call it whatever you will. They all result in the same thing. With the pain and suffering inflicted on your enemies and those who wronged you. Form this pact with me, and justice will be delivered to your wrongdoers. All of them. Imagine the pain they will feel, doesn't excite you, Praxis?"
"With them all dead, will I live a quiet life?"
"Of course."
"What do you get in exchange?"
"I want your body. From this moment on, your body belongs to me. You can keep your soul, but your body will be a vessel for my soul. It will be the vessel we use to destroy this Empire, Praxis. Think about your face being the last thing they see before they are all reduced to nothingness."
"You are a demon. Why would I give my body to a demon?"
The demon began laughing, "You have nothing left to lose, Praxis. It's this or death. You either become dust like your mother, or you become death for your enemies. Rain your vengeance on those who've betrayed you, on those who've hurt you. Kill them all and burn down their empire to dust."
Praxis was quiet. With the few moments remaining he had of this life, he thought. Vengeance, the word to describe his desire. Was that truly what he wanted?
A door opened before his eyes, and he saw a woman on the other side. She had the same hair as he did. The same color eyes and the same shape of nose. She looked kind and comforting. She opened her arms to him, telling him to come to her. He saw the option to leave it all behind and not look back.
Then another door opened behind him. This door felt all too familiar to him as he'd known it his whole life. It was a door full of hate and agony. Nothing but suffering and torment. He had always believed that this day would never come, but the path destiny laid out for him was not one of salvation, but a path of violence and a demonic reincarnation.
For most people, the choice might have been the one of peace and comfort. An endless paradise of comfort and love. But Praxis never known what it was like to be loved. The first door meant nothing to him. But he knew the second door all too well. It was home, it was all that he ever knew.
"I accept," he said to the demon.