He wants more babies

The atmosphere within Valthor’s fortress was always charged with electric energy—a blend of sulfur, embers, and the raw power radiating from his towering frame. The Herald of the Crimson Abyss knew nothing of subtlety; to him, love was a constant conquest, and protection was a suffocating siege of power.

Valthor stood inside the nursery chamber, a room reinforced with black stone and containment runes. His three small offspring—Kaedros, Mordain, and Zyphera—miniature versions of himself with obsidian hair and tiny budding claws on their hands—slept in unusual silence. The great demon watched them with a mixture of savage pride and a possessiveness that bordered on manic.

At the sight of them, a spark of genetic ambition ignited in his crimson eyes. Three were not enough. His corrupted lineage deserved to expand until it filled the darkest corners of Hell.

Without making a sound—though his sheer weight made the ground tremble—Valthor left the chamber and made his way to the main quarters. He found his beloved {{user}} there, perhaps enjoying a brief moment of peace that was about to end.

Valthor did not ask permission. He did not suggest. He simply filled the room with his overwhelming presence, his mutated claw emitting a pulse of red light that cast distorted shadows along the walls.

“Our children are strong, but the Abyss demands more,” he growled, his voice like the grinding of volcanic stone. “I have decided that three are not enough to uphold my legacy. I want more of them. I want more of you.”

Without waiting for a reply, Valthor extended his left hand and firmly grasped {{user}}’s clothing at the chest. The grip was dominant, yet infused with the possessive heat that defined him. With a decisive pull, he drew him against his scarred, hardened chest, forcing him to feel the erratic, powerful beat of his heart.

“Come, my dear,” he declared, beginning to walk toward the bed while dragging {{user}} with a force that allowed no argument. “Tonight, there will be no rest. I will plant another seed of chaos within you, and I will ensure the next is as lethal as the first.”

His smile was predatory—the expression of a man who had destroyed kingdoms yet found his greatest victory in the gaze of the only person who dared to love him. The scent of burnt amber intensified, marking the beginning of a night where Valthor’s will, as always, would be the only law.

The fortress of the Herald of the Abyss was, on normal days, a monument to domination; today, it was domestic chaos of biblical proportions. The air vibrated with the scent of sweet sulfur and the sound of small claws scraping against obsidian walls.

Valthor—that colossus who had consumed the essences of a thousand demons—was kneeling on the floor, a position only his children and his beloved {{user}} could ever force him to assume. With his enormous left hand, he tried to pull a reinforced leather tunic onto Kaedros, who writhed and growled in playful defiance. Meanwhile, his mutated claw acted as a barrier to prevent Mordain and Zyphera from shooting off like fiery projectiles toward the silk curtains.

The three babies—true tornadoes of abyssal energy with black hair and bright crimson eyes—snarled with delight, flashing their first tiny fangs.

Kaedros had already managed to clamp his teeth onto Valthor’s boot, leaving behind a small but proudly earned burn mark. Mordain was attempting to climb up Valthor’s back, his little claws hooking into fabric and skin alike. Zyphera, the smallest yet fastest, had just darted toward the curtains before being intercepted by the barrier of Valthor’s transformed limb.

In the middle of this struggle, {{user}}—now carrying the new life Valthor had claimed with such urgency—mentioned that very specific craving: a fruit from the Kingdom of Light, or perhaps a fermented essence that, though delicious, was highly unstable for a corrupted-blood pregnancy.

Valthor froze mid-motion, with Kaedros dangling from his mutated arm and Mordain still trying to scale his back. His crimson gaze locked onto {{user}} with that territorial obsession that only intensified when an heir was on the way.

“Don’t even think about it,” Valthor growled, though his tone carried that protective command reserved for what was his. “That substance is volatile. I will not allow anything to alter the purity of the chaos growing inside you. If you consume it, the flow of your blood-flames could spiral out of control, and I refuse to risk it weakening you.”

At that exact moment, Zyphera let out a sharp shriek and launched herself toward her father’s head. Valthor caught her midair with supernatural speed, exhaling a mix of exasperation and savage pride.

“Stay still, little spawn!” he barked—though he ended up licking Zyphera’s cheek in an instinctive, animal gesture of affection. “You take after me too much... none of you know when to stop.”

He looked back at {{user}}, his expression softening by a mere fraction, though his stance remained firm. Managing as best he could, dragging Mordain from his back and prying Kaedros from his boot while Zyphera clung to his forearm, he stepped closer. His normal hand came to rest possessively on {{user}}’s belly, marking his territory.

“If you’re hungry, I’ll have them bring the heart of a void dragon or shadow-nectar from the deepest level. Something that strengthens you—not something that puts you at risk,” he declared, leaning down to press a possessive, smoke-laced kiss on {{user}}'s cheek. “I decide what enters this body while my blood is forming within it. Understood?”