The massive church loomed against the night sky, its stained-glass windows catching only the faintest glimmer of moonlight. Inside, the chandeliers swayed above the chaos, their candles sputtering against the wind that slipped through the cracks like a curse. Priests and nuns scrambled through the nave, clutching relics and tomes with shaking hands. Footsteps pounded over toppled pews. Breathless prayers tangled with screams, creating a rising cacophony of dread.

  Yet through the panic, one priest moved with deliberate calm. His steps were measured, his eyes steeled against the fear closing in around him. He paused only to help a nun to her feet, whispering something urgent before pushing her toward the shadows.

  “Take only what you need—nothing more!” he barked, though his voice barely rose above the storm battering the ancient walls. Rain pelted the stone like a drumbeat of war. Thunder growled above them, low and long, as if the heavens themselves were warning them to flee.

  And then it came.

  The church doors exploded inward with a deafening crack, slamming into the stone with bone-shaking force. Every candle extinguished at once, their flames devoured by a wave of cold that rushed through the sanctuary like a living thing. Shadows surged forward. The air grew dense, oppressive—drenched in a silence so absolute it smothered the last of the screams.

  And from the threshold, he arrived.

  Two ember-red eyes pierced the gloom, fixed and unblinking. The congregation froze as if the mere sight of him drained the warmth from their blood.

  His silhouette stepped forward, slow and unhurried. A flash of lightning cut across the sky, illuminating the intruder for one brief, terrible instant: jet-black hair tousled by the storm, a smirk curling across his lips, and features too sharp—too cruel—to belong to any savior.

  The storm screamed. The church held its breath.

  Malekith had arrived.

  “Malekith,” the priest whispered, his voice trembling like brittle glass.

  Malekith stepped inside. His hands remained casually buried in his pockets, shoulders slouched as he strolled forward with the languid confidence of a predator who already owned the room. The congregation remained still, their eyes wide, their bodies trembling. His presence filled the church like rot in the marrow—silent, invasive, and inescapable.

  “You know,” Malekith drawled, his voice rough yet mocking, “I’ve never quite understood the point of churches.” He stopped in front of the priest, his smirk widening. “What’s that saying again?” He tilted his head, eyes glittering with malice. “You’ll never find God in a church?”

  The priest, despite his fear, stood tall. His jaw tightened. “You wouldn’t understand faith.”

  Malekith chuckled softly—a sound like gravel rolling over stone. He lifted a hand lazily, resting two fingers under the priest’s chin to tilt it upward. “Faith,” he repeated, his voice quiet. “Is that what you cling to when the blood starts flowing?”

  He lingered there for a moment, then let the priest’s chin fall as he turned to face the silent crowd.

  “You know why I’m here.” His voice, though calm, cut through the room like a blade. “Where is the halo?”

  The priest swallowed hard. “The inquisitors… they’ve been alerted. They’ll be here soon.”

  Malekith smiled at that—broad, slow, like a wolf humoring a dying deer. “Do I look concerned?”

  He spun to face the priest again, his smile vanishing. “The halo, priest.” His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “Don’t lie to me.”

  The priest’s hands trembled, though his gaze remained defiant. “It’s not here.”

  Malekith stilled. Slowly, he turned his head to glance at a nun standing nearby.

  The air turned still. Then—

  She was ripped from the ground, an invisible force dragging her through the air. She thrashed and clawed as Malekith caught her throat in his hand.

  “Stalling won’t save you. It only makes this more entertaining for me.”

  His red eyes flicked back to the priest.

  “Lie to me again, and she’ll leave in pieces.”

  “I’m not lying!” the priest cried. “The halo’s been sent far away! Even I don’t know where it is!”

  Malekith said nothing.

  Slowly, he lowered the nun to the floor.

  The priest exhaled, relief flooding his face.

  Then the nun froze. Her eyes widened in silent horror as thin red lines traced across her skin—hundreds of them, delicate and precise. She barely had time to scream before her body erupted in a mist of blood and bone.

  Silence.

  The priest stood motionless, speckled with crimson, staring at the empty space where the nun had stood.

  Malekith sighed, as if bored by the whole ordeal. He pulled a pristine handkerchief from his coat and dabbed a single drop of blood from his cheek. Then, with casual disdain, he tossed the cloth at the priest’s feet.

  “Clean yourself up,” he said. “You look like hell.”

  The priest caught it with shaking hands, wiping his face with slow, trembling strokes.

  Malekith leaned in, his voice low and mocking. “Now. Who did you give it to?”

  “I—I stowed it on a caravan heading to Jamenlot,” the priest stammered.

  Malekith tilted his head, unimpressed. “A halo... on a caravan?”

  He gave a disappointed sigh. “Come on. You’re lying. And I’m getting bored.”

  “It’s the truth!”

  A slow, dangerous smile spread across Malekith’s lips as he began to circle the priest like a shark. “The truth… You’re so bad at this.” He paused, voice lilting like a parent humoring a dumb child. “Let’s try this again.”

  “We gave it to the High Church!” the priest blurted. “They hid it! I swear, that’s all I know!”

  Malekith groaned, dragging a hand down his face with theatrical weariness. “Ugh… you people are exhausting.” His tone brightened again, disturbingly cheerful. “But I suppose I can still have fun.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  In an instant, the congregation—every man, woman, and child—detonated in a spray of blood. No screams, no warning—just wet oblivion.

  The sacred hall drowned in red. Blood pooled beneath shattered pews. A holy place, reduced to a butchered ruin.

  Only the priest remained. His knees buckled, but fear locked him in place.

  The silence was deafening.

  Malekith strolled up to him, hands tucked back into his coat pockets as though out for a walk.

  “Well,” he drawled, eyeing the man, “look at you. Still breathing. Must be your lucky day.”

  “An artifact, I bet.” Malekith cocked an eyebrow. “What do you have?”

  The priest fumbled beneath his robes, pulling free a silver chain. A pendant dangled at the end—small, tarnished, etched with the image of Saint Christopher.

  Malekith’s eyes gleamed. “Ah… that’s why you’re still breathing.” He clicked his tongue. “Pity. I was hoping to carve you into something memorable.”

  He turned away, already losing interest. “Don’t worry, though. I’m nothing if not creative.”

  Raising a single hand, he conjured a flickering orb of fire. It pulsed in his palm—small at first, but growing with every heartbeat. The flames hissed and coiled, hungry and aware, like they’d tasted blood before.

  With a lazy flick, he lobbed it behind him.

  The pews lit up first—dry wood erupting in an instant. The flames raced along the floor, licked the tapestries, scaled the stone pillars like starving beasts. The church roared to life in fire.

  The priest’s screams rose behind him—sharp, desperate, drowned quickly beneath the inferno’s hungry howls.

  Malekith didn’t look back. He strolled leisurely down the steps, his black coat fluttering in the hot wind. Behind him, the fire clawed at the heavens, the sacred cathedral reduced to a funeral pyre.

  He paused at the edge of the cobbled street, casting a final glance over his shoulder. The flames reflected in his red eyes, and his smirk returned—slow, satisfied, cruel.

  “Faith,” he muttered with a scoff. “You all cling to ash and call it salvation.”

  Then he turned and walked into the dark, his shadow stretching behind him like a stain on the world.

  Malekith walked leisurely down the cobbled street, his dark hair melting into the night. His glowing crimson eyes burned like embers in a storm, cutting through the shadows and drawing fearful glances from behind warped shutters and cracked doors. Pale faces peered out—trembling, silent, and praying he wouldn’t look their way.

  A smirk tugged at his lips as the distant clink of armor echoed up the lane. He stopped, one hand resting casually at his hip, the other dangling free, as a squad of knights rounded the corner at the far end of the street. Their heavy boots struck in grim rhythm, steel catching lanternlight. White tabards gleamed with embroidered crosses, clean and ceremonial.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Malekith chuckled softly.

  “So he really did send for them. Precious.”

  The knights marched with rigid purpose, halting as their captain raised a gauntleted fist. He stood broad-shouldered and grim, his expression carved from stone.

  “Halt!” the inquisitor barked, voice booming through the narrow street.

  Malekith tilted his head, like he was inspecting a half-finished painting. “You know,” he said, tone light, almost thoughtful, “you boys have fantastic response time. Really. Gold star for effort.”

  “You have committed crimes against the High Church,” the captain replied, unshaken. “Surrender now, or face judgment and death.”

  Malekith’s gaze drifted past the man—toward the distant glow behind them, where the spire of the church still burned. Smoke curled into the clouds. The wind carried screams made ragged by distance.

  He turned back, grinning. “It was like that when I got here.”

  “Liar!” the captain snapped, fury cracking through his composure.

  Malekith sighed dramatically, lowering his head as if stricken. “Fine. You got me. I did do those awful things.” He raised both hands in mock surrender, stepping forward slowly, theatrically. “Please, take me in. I’m simply overflowing with regret.”

  The knights hesitated, casting uneasy glances toward their captain. The man gestured silently.

  One knight stepped forward, chains in hand. His shield was slung over his back, and his approach was careful—too careful.

  Malekith’s smirk didn’t waver.

  The moment the knight’s hand brushed his wrist, the world tilted. Malekith vanished.

  In a blink, he reappeared behind the knight—silent, sudden, and smiling—as his hand closed around the man’s throat.

  Crack.

  The knight’s body dropped like a stone, and Malekith stepped over him, his glowing eyes locking onto the remaining four.

  “Really?” he taunted, shaking his head. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

  “Attack!” the captain roared, rallying the others.

  Three swords flashed. The knights surged forward.

  Malekith smiled—a wicked, gleeful thing—and didn’t move until the first blade was inches from his throat. At the last moment, he ducked effortlessly, the air whistling past his hair. The second knight lunged. Malekith caught the man’s wrist mid-swing—paused just long enough to meet his eyes—then twisted until the bones snapped like brittle twigs. The knight screamed as the sword hit the ground.

  The third came down hard, blade raised to cleave him in half.

  Malekith caught the weapon with his bare hand. Sparks hissed against his palm. He leaned in, close enough for the knight to see the glint of amusement in his crimson eyes.

  “Cute trick,” Malekith murmured.

  With a sudden twist, the blade shattered, shards scattering across the cobblestone. Before the knight could react, Malekith drove his hand into the man’s chest—a precise, brutal strike that shattered bone and stilled the heart.

  The knight dropped like a ragdoll, blood pooling at Malekith’s feet.

  A sharp shout cut through the dark. Malekith twisted into a backflip just as a knight’s blade sliced through the space he’d occupied. As he flipped, his heel connected with the knight’s helmet—an echoing crunch followed as the man’s head slammed into the cobblestones. The knight collapsed in a heap, his helmet rolling into the shadows.

  Malekith landed with feline grace, adjusting his sleeve with exaggerated care.

  The final knight charged, sword thrust low. Malekith stepped aside, caught the man’s wrist, and redirected the blade—driving it down into the skull of the fallen inquisitor. Steel punched through bone with a wet crunch.

  The last knight slumped forward, impaling the corpse in a final, grisly heap.

  The sword remained lodged in the corpse, blood pooling around it. Malekith sighed contentedly, straightening as his gaze shifted to the last man standing.

  The captain.

  He hadn’t moved. His sword—Lumen—was drawn, white flames flickering along its edge like a restrained storm. The holy blade glowed faintly, casting a halo of light that seemed almost defiant.

  Malekith’s smirk faded for the first time, replaced by something colder—curious. His crimson eyes narrowed. “That sword...” he murmured. “Lumen. The Lumen.”

  The captain’s jaw tightened, his posture rigid. “Enough talk, demon. You’ll answer for your crimes.”

  “Demon?” Malekith repeated, voice low with amusement. “I like you. Most men would’ve charged by now… but not you.” He stepped forward slowly, his gaze sharp. “You watched your men die and didn’t flinch. I don’t know if that makes you brave… or just broken.”

  The captain didn’t respond. He simply raised Lumen, its flames surging higher, answering his will.

  Malekith let out a quiet chuckle, then turned to the fallen knight—the one still pinned to the ground with a blade protruding from his skull. With a sharp tug, he ripped the weapon free. The corpse crumpled with a dull thud, and blood dripped from the steel as Malekith tested its weight, spinning it lazily in his hand.

  Then he turned back to the captain, crimson eyes alight with malice.

  Malekith stepped over the body, his black boots leaving faint scorch marks on the cobbled ground. In his hand, the blade still trembled, humming faintly as if recoiling from its corrupted wielder. He ran his glowing hand along the steel, fiery light snaking through the grooves like liquid fire. Slowly, the blade ignited, radiating with flickering crimson flames that licked the air hungrily. The glow cast his face in a demonic hue, his smirk widening.

  Across from him, the captain climbed to his feet, wavering but resolute. His armor was scorched, his shield battered, yet his grip on the holy sword Lumen remained firm. White fire still danced along its edge, brighter and more defiant than before. His breaths came ragged and sharp as he leveled the blade at Malekith.

  “You know, ‘demon’ is such a derogatory term,” Malekith began, voice lilting with mock playfulness. “I prefer to think of myself as—”

  The captain charged, faster than Malekith anticipated. The holy sword came down in a sweeping arc. Malekith barely twisted out of the way, his monologue cut short as the blade crashed into the stone where he’d stood. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the impact, and a wave of searing white fire erupted, roaring toward him.

  Malekith’s eyes flashed with surprise. He leapt back, flipping through the air as the flames tore past him, singeing his coat. He landed in a low crouch and retaliated in one swift motion, slashing a wave of crimson fire toward the captain. The captain raised his shield and braced himself, the crimson flames crashing against the holy light and fizzling into smoke.

  Malekith hissed, clutching his side where the blade had scored him. The burn tore through him like molten needles, far worse than any ordinary wound. His tunic hung in scorched tatters, edges still trailing smoke. For the first time in centuries, he felt real pain. And it thrilled him.

  “Now we’re talking,” Malekith muttered, his grin curling wider, his teeth bared like a predator tasting blood.

  He lunged forward, fire trailing from his blade as he struck with brutal speed. The captain met him blow for blow, Lumen blazing with every clash. Sparks and embers erupted into the night as steel screamed—heaven and hell clashing with every strike.

  Malekith feinted left, spun low, and slashed at the captain’s flank, but the shield snapped into place, knocking him off balance. The captain’s sword came around fast, a silver arc slicing across Malekith’s ribs.

  He staggered, biting back a hiss. The wound burned white-hot beneath the shredded ruin of his tunic, the scent of scorched flesh clawing at his senses—familiar, unwelcome, and exhilarating.

  Malekith’s laughter broke through the night—a jagged, delighted sound. Not born of joy. Of sheer, awful pleasure.

  He surged forward, his blade flashing upward in a streak of fire and malice. The captain met the strike with a flawless parry—steel crashing, sparks raining down like falling stars. The counter came fast. Lumen howled through the air, aimed to take Malekith’s head.

  Malekith twisted hard, spinning to the captain’s back—but the shield was already there, intercepting with a bone-rattling slam. The follow-up blow landed, slicing a searing line across Malekith’s side. Fabric sizzled. Flesh hissed.

  He stumbled back, tunic in scorched tatters. The pain was sharp. Deep. Real.

  And still, he grinned—wide, hungry, alive in the pain.

  “Not bad,” Malekith growled, his voice low and sinister, as he gripped his blade tighter. Sparks flared along its edge as flames licked up the steel.

  With a roar, he lunged, thrusting the sword forward with both hands, aiming to impale the captain’s chest. The captain braced, meeting him head-on. Their blades collided in a blinding explosion of fire and light, the impact sending shock waves rippling outward. The cobbled street cracked beneath their feet—and then—

  BOOM.

  The sheer force of the clash hurled both warriors back like rag dolls. Malekith crashed through a stone wall, bricks collapsing in his wake, while the captain smashed into a nearby building, his armored frame punching a crater into the facade. Dust blanketed the wreckage, choking the air.

  For a heartbeat, all was still.

  Then came laughter—low, mocking. The rubble shifted. A charred stone tumbled aside, and Malekith rose from the wreckage, his silhouette framed by the flicker of lingering embers. He stepped forward, dragging his blade behind him, the tip carving a fiery trail into the broken street.

  Across the ruin, the captain emerged—blood streaking his face, his armor dented and groaning with each step. His shield was cracked. His breath ragged. But Lumen still burned in his hand, its white fire dim but defiant.

  Malekith grinned, licking blood from his lip.

  “Now we’re having fun,” he said, his grin sharp. “You’re impressive, captain—I'll give you that.”

  He sneered, eyes narrowing.

  “Genesis, huh?” He tilted his head. “Burning your soul to play god. How noble.”

  The captain froze—shock flickering through tired eyes.

  “Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Malekith laughed, low and taunting. “I know exactly what it costs to use Genesis. It hollows you out.” His eyes glimmered darkly. “But by all means, keep going. I want to see how far you’ll fall trying to stop me.”

  The captain tightened his grip on Lumen, his resolve unshaken. “I’ll burn every last scrap of my soul if it means destroying you, monster!”

  With a roar, he charged again, his strikes more desperate, more relentless. The holy flames crackled brighter, surrounding his every movement in righteous fury. Malekith danced around each swing, his movements fluid, mocking. He let the captain fight harder, faster, forcing him to expend what little strength remained.

  Then, the opening came. The captain swung wide. Malekith twisted underneath the strike, driving his flaming blade into the captain’s stomach. The white flames hissed against his weapon as though recoiling from the corruption. The captain staggered, blood splattering across the cobblestones.

  Their eyes locked in the firelight—one burning with pain, the other with sadistic joy.

  The captain lashed out, headbutting Malekith with a last burst of strength. The blow sent Malekith’s head snapping back. He blinked, stunned—then grinned.

  “Well,” he muttered, cracking his neck, “that wasn’t very knightly of you.”

  With a brutal motion, Malekith slammed his forehead into the captain’s visor. The metal caved with a sickening crunch, blood spraying as the helmet collapsed around his skull. The captain dropped to his knees, blood trickling down his face, his body trembling from the effort to stay upright.

  Malekith stepped closer, resting his fiery blade against his shoulder. “Credit where it’s due—you lasted longer than most.” His voice lowered, mocking yet almost impressed. “But that Genesis trick… you humans never learn, do you? Borrowing power you don’t understand.”

  “Fuck… off,” the captain rasped through bloodied teeth.

  Malekith chuckled darkly, crouching down to meet the captain’s eyes. “Not very righteous, are we now? I thought you ‘warriors of God’ were supposed to have better manners.”

  “If I’m going to die…” The captain’s hand shot up, slamming his sword into the ground. “I’m taking you with me!”

  Lumen erupted in a burst of white fire, a radiant pulse exploding outward like a divine shockwave. The inferno roared with holy fury, consuming everything in its path. Malekith had barely a moment to leap backward, shielding his face as the explosion detonated.

  The blast left devastation in its wake. Buildings had crumbled into smoking ruins, cobblestones were molten, and the captain lay in the epicenter—a charred, broken figure barely clinging to life. His armor had fused to his body, his face a ruin of burns and blood, yet his hand still clutched the hilt of his holy sword.

  Through the smoke, Malekith emerged, hands in his pockets, his silhouette untouched by the devastation. His gaze fell on the captain’s ruined form with something resembling amusement.

  “Got to admit,” Malekith said, his voice cutting through the silence. “I like your style. You saved me the trouble of leveling this village myself.” He sighed dramatically, stepping forward. “But it’s been fun, really. I have a halo to find, though, so…” He shrugged. “See you in Hell, yeah?”

  Malekith reached for Lumen, now half-buried in molten stone. The blade flared with one last flicker of white light as though resisting him. Malekith gripped it, his eyes narrowing as he focused. The holy flames pulsed angrily, growing brighter in defiance.

  “Now, now… let’s not fight,” Malekith murmured softly, his smile cold.

  The white flames sputtered, resisting him—then dimmed, trembling as if in pain. Inch by inch, their brilliance bled away, turning black. Shadows crawled across the steel, flickering with a hunger that felt alive.

  “Now that’s divine,” he murmured, twisted awe in his voice.

  The captain, through blurred vision, saw the last remnants of light extinguish from Lumen.

  Malekith turned his back on the dying man, the corrupted sword resting on his shoulder as he strolled casually through the ruin he’d left behind.

  “Be seeing you,” he called over his shoulder, his voice echoing like a cruel whisper in the dark.

  Then he vanished into the smoke, his shadow stretching behind him — the last mark of a nightmare that would never leave this place.

  Malekith doesn't conquer with armies—he unravels faith with a smile.

  The church lies in ruin. The captain is broken. And now the corrupted Lumen rests in the hands of a monster.

  The halo is out there.

  And he's not done hunting.

  ?? Bookmark the story, leave a comment, and brace yourself—because the High Church is next.