The Rise of the Demon King's Consort

Paris screamed out his despair as he saw the little ball of golden brilliance race upwards to the thick crowd of winged creatures. Sakias and Saieros were slowly fighting them off, adapting to the angelspawns’ fighting techniques, turning it against them. Saieros was badly wounded though, and soon his furious flight dwindled as he lost speed and began to spiral downwards as he was being chased by four angelspawn. He crashlanded onto the ground, a long trail of blood and dirt where he’d skidded along with far too much speed, coming to a hard stop as he hit a snow-covered tree. Upon seeing this, Paris stood and called out to his son, becoming aware that he’d attracted the attention of the angel fiends of Saieros. They turned to stare at him, and Paris felt as if their icy stares burned straight through him and into his very soul. He looked up as a movement caught his eye. It was Sakias, and he was diving for cover, seeking to escape the pursuers staying on his tail, while the majority broke off the attack to swarm around the golden spirit. There was a tremor in the sky, a loud bang and then a rain of lightning as the Treasure Child’s intense energy blast coursed through the atmosphere. Sakias hit the ground, skidding past his parents and straight into the woods. The angelspawn weren’t far from Paris by then. Another two metre and they’d grab him. Paris stumbled backwards, felt the cold snow sting on his bare skin. He hit his elbow against a frozen root and just in that instant his hand skid downwards into a hidden alcove in it. His fingers closed around something familiar, hard and cold.
The gap in the sky closed, and the mana shockwave obliterated everything in its path. Soon, it was raining scorched feathers. The Demon King turned his head to look to Paris. The King was so exhausted and in such pain he could do nothing but lie there, waiting for his fiends to approach him.
Paris summoned powers from within, and pulled at the hidden object, realizing it was filling him with strength. He rose to stand on his feet, and swung a golden glowing blade at the nearest spawn, slicing off his neck in the process in one swift blow He stared amazed at his own handiwork afterwards, realizing the sword had guided his blow, not the other way around. As another spawn approached, Paris suddenly realized what sword it was that he’d found. He dodged the blow, spun and ducked, burying the sword through his opponent’s back, right between the roots of the beautiful wings, cutting through armour as if it was butter. It felt so easy, like a game, and he ducked again, pulling out the sword from the dying spawn, lunging for the third, slicing the helmet and the skull in two with one blow.
Boundless energy coursed through him, exhilarating and refreshing. It gave Paris a strong sense of strength and confidence, yet most of all, he wanted to get to Saieros who remained motionless under the fallen snow from the tree he’d crashed against.
The Treasure Child came hurtling down, charging towards the fourth angelspawn who was going for the Demon King, filling it, then intensifying itself, burning the spawn from the inside. The spawn wailed and thrashed as it tumbled into the forest never to be seen again. The golden sphere soon returned from whence the spawn had scurried off to.
Sakias grabbed one of his opponents by the neck, twisting it in one hard move, dropping the lifeless body meet the next spawn head on, wrestling it to the ground. The unmistakable sound of cracking bones reached the ears of the bystanders, and Paris cringed as he heard the soldier of Apollo’s death cry being cut off abruptly. He did not want to know what Sakias just had done. Sakias rose. He was trembling with exhaustion, bloodied and dirty. His wingbones bore signs of bite marks and cuts from sharp nails. His beautifully erect member was scratched and reddened too, full of scrapes and bleeding.
A part of Paris wanted to walk over and kiss it well, to lick it clean so it wouldn’t hurt. But he thought the better of it, suppressing it. He looked down to the sword, tracing the familiar ornamental etchings of the Sword of Troy with his eyes, reminding himself that he was still just a whore, remembering Helen, Hector and Troy. Coming undone by Menelaus and Agamemnon, reduced to a whore, a whimpering, begging whore, writhing under their paingiving ministrations. But that’s not where it all had begun, had it? No, Paris had been succumbing to his lust a long time before that, destroying hopes and lives of young maidens ever since his first stolen kiss, giving himself away to the prettiest, the most alluring, taking pleasure in flaunting himself before the servant girls during midday, lying naked on the porch, sunbathing, sweat glistening, offering himself without actually giving, driving them mad, toying with the emotions of the young stable boys, making promises, stealing kisses which would never be allowed to be returned. The longing in their eyes, the long looks filled with desires and adoring, the crushed hopes in their eyes upon discovering the Prince of Troy tumbling in the hay with a woman. Had he cared? No. He’d never cared to play on their field, only tease it, touch it.
This sword was not his to bear, never had been his to bear. It had always been Hector’s, for from the very start, the gods must have seen Paris’ fate and what he’d eventually become. So they’d made him a lover and not a fighter, preparing him for eternity as The Demon King’s whore. Paris closed his eyes, and an image of his father came to mind. Paris immediately dropped the sword, feeling immensely guilty. He opened then again to find the Demon King gazing up at him in wonder.