Summoning

Part II: Dor’gokaan Kneels

Dor’gokaan knelt.

The act itself was an obscenity, but it was one he chose. Choice mattered. Even here.

The floor beneath him was carved from inky obsidian, polished to a cruel perfection. Thousands of facets caught the dim, infernal light and reflected his form back at him in endless variations. Each reflection showed a different expression of devotion under strain: pain drawn tight across his features, sorrow folded into discipline, fury pressed down beneath obedience. Horror flickered there too, but not at the kneeling itself. Horror at the cost of service to his lord. A cost long paid and forever accruing.

He shifted slightly and the obsidian edges bit deeply.

Each facet ended in a razor line, cutting into his flesh where his weight bore down. Purple blood welled and ran in thin rivulets, tracing paths between the stones before vanishing entirely. The obsidian drank deeply. Its surface, dead-cold moments before, warmed as it fed.

Dor’gokaan welcomed the sensation.

Pain was proof of alignment. Pain meant the bond endured.

His lord watched him.

What remained of the demon king sat upon a throne that had once been vast beyond imagining. Now it was a suggestion of sovereignty rather than its fulfillment, a form sustained by memory, ritual, and the devotion of those who still remembered what he had been. His outline wavered, substance failing where essence had been spent too freely in ages past.

Yet the smile endured.

For Dor'gokaan's lord to endure at all, when all of his brethren had fallen, was no small thing. The smile was ancient. Amused and mocking, horrific in its intimacy. It carried cruelty refined by ages of certainty, knowledge sharpened into something foul and penetrating. It did not sit upon his lord’s face so much as emanate from him, pressing into Dor’gokaan’s thoughts, flaying memory and intention alike. There was more power in that smile alone than in all of Dor’gokaan’s monstrous frame, and it reminded him—mercilessly—of the gulf that would always remain between them. His lord could still unmake him if he wished. Dor’gokaan knew this, accepted it, and in many ways longed for such an end.

A voice entered his mind.

It carried the sound of a million worms moving in concert. Wet. Patient. Intimate.

You know what you must do.

The words were not spoken. They were impressed, branded directly into thought.

This is the moment I have waited for. There is opportunity here.

Dor’gokaan lowered his head further. Devotion tightened around him like a chain he had forged himself. No dismissal followed. None was required. The pressure of his lord’s will guided him backwards.

He withdrew from the chamber, crawling on bloody hands and knees.

Only once he had crossed the threshold did he rise. His own abode received him with familiar heat and the scent of sulfur and old blood. There, removed from the oppressive will of the demon lord, his tension eased.

The book had changed hands.

His lord had sensed it immediately.

Aris Demonica was Dor’gokaan’s work. Not just in ink and binding, but in cultivation. In patience measured by centuries. Mortals were easiest to reach when they slept, their minds unguarded, their fears unpoliced.

He slipped between the threads of their dreams, followed them back to vulnerable flesh. He whispered. Promised. Revealed just enough truth to anchor the lies. Knowledge flowed outward in fragments, and mortals, eager and terrified, wrote it down.

Generations taught one another how to listen.

How to open themselves wider.

How to invite Discord.

They believed they were mastering demons.

But they were preparing worlds.

Aris Demonica was never meant to grant control. It was meant to establish continuity. Each summoning weakened the boundary between realms. Each successful binding left residue. Corruption followed, slow and patient, like rot setting into timber.

With time, the world itself would lean toward Discord.

Then Bastian Oriel had intervened.

Dor’gokaan did not hate him for that. Hatred was inefficient. Bastian had done what vigilant minds always did when they sensed a threat they could not fully understand. He severed Dor’gokaan’s mortal conduits, one by one. When he took the book, the link collapsed entirely.

The years after the loss of the book were punishment. There was no forgiveness for failure. His lord tore Dor’gokaan’s limbs from his body and consumed them before his eyes, devouring flesh and essence alike. Then he waited, watching with ancient patience as the wounds slowly knit themselves whole, only to begin again. Over and over. Cycle after cycle. Dor’gokaan was not spared out of mercy, but devotion; only his absolute submission stayed his lord’s hand from killing him outright.

Then the book opened again.

A new reader.

Al’garath was summoned first. Crude, but sufficient. Dor’gokaan felt the link forming soon after. Slow, precise, and unmistakable the calling, the searching, the reaching. Such connection usually required generations to form, with hundreds of warlocks working in unison. 

This was different.

No cult. No chorus of faith. A single will, grinding patiently against the boundary between realms. Such focus was rare. An opportunity to connect, but a dangerous one. 

A name hovered at the edge of perception.

Tor… no. Ictv… incorrect.

Then clarity.

“Viktor,” Dor’gokaan whispered into the dark, completing the connection.

The summoning took him.

Energy tore him from his realm, dragging him through collapsing geometry and screaming sigils. When he arrived, the summoning circle burned with disciplined precision.

The mortal stood before him, small, weak. Halfling-sized. The contrast between them was almost amusing. 

Dor’gokaan lunged.

Pain followed, immediate and instructive. The wards scorched him as he struck them. He welcomed it. The summoner had done the work. Control, for now, was real.

Names alone did not bind demons.

But effort did.

Obsession did.

Belief did.

Dor’gokaan withdrew to the center of the circle, skin already knitting closed. He bowed his head, hoping that his mocking smile was hidden by his retreat. He would serve. He always did... for a time. He opened his mouth to speak...

Then the banishment struck.

He was returned to his chambers with brutal efficiency.

Annoying. Effective. Temporary. Viktor had not even bothered to address him. He had wished to linger in that world for a while longer. He frowned at the strength and skill shown by this lone mortal. It was troubling. 

But the rituals of binding and of banishment would weaken with repetition. The book—Aris Demonica— Dor'gokaan's book, his lord's book, omitted that little detail.

Dor’gokaan knelt once more, blood steaming against obsidian. He giggled, a rare sound from his lips. “Patience,” he murmured.

The corruption had already begun.

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By Peter Adams