Snow blanketed the field in an unbroken sheet, save for the dark line of pines that marked the forest’s edge. The wind cut sharply, driving white flurries sideways, dusting the Inquisitors’ cloaks and stinging their eyes. The stillness carried a weight—as if the world itself held its breath.

  Then the silence broke.

  The first sound was not a footfall, but wood splitting. A crack thundered across the field, followed by another, and another. The tree line shuddered. Old trunks bent and snapped as shapes forced their way through. Snow cascaded from branches like shaken dust as the forest itself seemed to resist and fail.

  The demonkin burst into the open. They were not giants, but the strength in their limbs was monstrous, wrong. One staggered forward with its arms grotesquely overlong, fingers curled into talons that gouged the earth. Another lurched on legs that bent backwards at the knee, its gait jerking yet fast, snow scattering beneath its claws. Their bodies swelled with muscle in places and shriveled in others, as if growth and decay had warred within the same flesh. Faces twisted—jaws stretched wide, eyes sunken but alight with a fever-glow.

  One seized a standing pine as it passed, not taller than the man beside it, and ripped the trunk sideways with such force that it toppled. The crash sent powder billowing across the field. Another hammered its fists into the ground until the snow shook loose from the Inquisitors’ boots.

  The air reeked of iron and burned resin, but under it all lingered something worse—the acrid tang of Vaylora twisted against itself. Their very presence seemed to sour the wind.

  The unit stiffened. Shields rose, some too high, some crooked. Spears wavered.

  “Saints preserve us,” a voice whispered, brittle as glass.

  A younger soldier flinched when one of the creatures let out a shriek that split the air like iron on stone. Another adjusted his grip on his blade three times, unable to stop his hands from trembling. Even the veterans kept their jaws clenched tight, eyes darting from monster to monster, waiting—hoping—for command.

  Darius stood at the fore, cloak snapping in the wind. He watched, not the horror of their forms, but the cracks in his own line: the uneven stance, the shield edge drooping, the fear running hot in their breath.

  He raised his hand, steady as carved stone. His voice carried over the storm.

  “Form line.”

  The demonkin charged.

  Snow flew from their feet in dirty plumes. They came not in formation, but in a reckless tide, snarling, bellowing, shrieking with voices like metal dragged across stone. Their eyes burned, not with thought, but with a hunger so raw it made the men’s stomachs knot.

  “Shields!” Darius barked.

  The line slammed together. The impact followed an instant later—flesh and bone hammering oak and iron. The first wave crashed hard enough to stagger the wall. Shields groaned, arms jolted in sockets. A soldier cried out as a clawed hand raked across his shield’s edge, carving grooves through seasoned wood.

  “Brace!” Darius shouted. “Draw on the fire!”

  Green light shimmered faintly along the shields as the Inquisitors obeyed, each man and woman pulling at the divine spark within. Vaylora coursed their veins, strength rushing into limbs like iron. The wall steadied; boots sank deeper into the snow as they planted themselves against the tide.

  The creatures hammered again. This time, the line held.

  “Spears!”

  The second rank thrust forward, tips flaring with Vaylora. Blades bit deeper than steel should have, cutting through muscle and sinew. One demonkin shrieked as a spear lanced its throat, but it seized the shaft anyway, wrenching it sideways with bone-snapping strength. The soldier holding it was nearly dragged forward until a comrade, glowing faintly with power, rammed his own point into the monster’s flank, punching through bone with the aid of divine fire.

  The shield wall jolted again. A demonkin clambered over the top, teeth clicking inches from a soldier’s face. The young man froze—until a voice rang out behind them, clear but strained.

  “Strike true!”

  It was Eryndor Vale. The boy Saint had stepped forward, his hand raised. Vaylora, spilled from his palm in a ragged burst of white-blue fire, raw and half-wild. That blue fire engulfed a handful of demonkin. The frozen soldier gasped as the words and the light cut through his fear. His spear shot upward, glowing brighter, piercing beneath the creature’s chin. It fell shrieking, black blood spraying across the snow.

  Eryndor staggered with the effort, but a steady hand caught his shoulder. Saintess Isolde stood at his side, her voice calm as stone.

  “Control it. Not all at once. Breathe.”

  The boy swallowed hard, his jaw tight, then nodded. His next breath came steadier, the fire in his hand pulling inward, shaping itself rather than spilling wild.

  "Saints… guide my hand,” he murmured, voice raw but determined.

  Still, the demonkin pressed hard. One smashed its fist against a shield until the wood split. Another barreled shoulder-first, nearly knocking two men to their knees. Vaylora flared as they heaved back, their muscles reinforced by divine fire.

  “Rotate!” Darius ordered. “Front rank back, second rank forward!”

  The wall shifted, timing faltering under exhaustion. Calder's voice cut across the din, commanding with the weight of a veteran :

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  “Hold! With me!”

  The line snapped back together just as another wave hit. Their shields rang like struck bells, but they did not break.

  The air grew suffocating—snow churned to slush, blood hissing where it fell on cold ground, green light glowing through the storm like embers. The Inquisitors grunted with each strike, veins alight, their breaths like smoke rising from coals.

  Arrows hissed overhead from the rear rank, shafts trailing faint gleams of sanctified fire. One demonkin stumbled under three, shrieking, smoke rising from holes bored into its chest. Another ripped an arrow out of its own flesh, but the wound glowed like a cauterized brand, and its strength faltered long enough for the shield wall to crush it down.

  Eryndor raised both hands once more, guided by Isolde’s firm grip on his wrist. His prayer cracked but carried:

  “By the flame—burn them down!”

  The next volley of arrows blazed brighter, being enchanted with blue fire, and sank deep. Half the charging wave collapsed, writhing as their corrupted Vaylora was consumed. The others faltered, shrieking in confusion.

  One last beast hurled itself forward, alone. The shield wall braced, spears shining faint green. It fell dead a hand’s span from the line, blood steaming into the snow.

  Silence followed—heavy, steaming, reeking. The Inquisitors stood, panting, weapons lowered, Vaylora guttering in their veins like dying embers.

  Eryndor’s glow faded as well. His knees bent, and Isolde held him steady, her presence quiet and unshaken. He leaned into her touch, pale but alive, while his lips moved in a prayer too soft for the others to hear.

  Darius let the quiet stretch, then said:

  “Not clean. Not quick. But enough.”

  They burned the bodies. Demonkin rot too fast to bury, too dangerous to leave. Flames climbed high into the dark, black smoke trailing. The unit sat in a half-ring, watching the fire, the reek of scorched Vaylora in their noses. A few murmured prayers. Others said nothing.

  Darius stood apart, arms crossed. These were not Garran’s veterans; they were green, uncertain, still testing their mettle against both blade and fear. Yet they had held. He felt the shape of something forming—a unit, fragile but real. It was his task to see it hardened, not shattered.

  By nightfall, the pyre burned low. They circled a campfire farther down the ridge, weapons stacked, cloaks wrapped tight. Stars bled faint silver above, and the air was thick with weariness.

  Kaelen finally broke the silence, firelight painting the restless anger in his eyes. His jaw was tight, voice edged like steel.

  “We should march straight to Alleve’s Hallow. End it before it spreads. Cut the heart from the witch-city and be done.”

  Murmurs rippled. Nods followed. Some spat into the dirt as if the name itself tasted foul.

  Aelun leaned forward, firelight glancing in his pale eyes. His voice was calm, but it carried.

  “That would be suicide. And worse—it would be slaughter. Alleve’s Hallow is not a nest of only monsters. There are innocents there. Families. Children.”

  “Innocents?” Calder snapped, her scarred mouth twisting into something between a sneer and a smirk. She leaned on her knees, voice harsh. “In a den of witches and demons?”

  The murmurs sharpened, half agreement, half unease.

  Tomas turned directly to the elf. He sat solid as stone, hands clasped before him, the picture of a soldier’s steadiness. “Then tell us, Aelun. What do you truly think of witches? Of Saints?”

  The fire hissed as sap burst in the wood. Aelun sat straighter, long fingers steepled.

  “I can understand both.”

  They leaned closer. He went on.

  “The witches seek freedom. They wish to walk the path they choose, unshackled by crown or creed. There is beauty in that—danger too, yes—but beauty nonetheless.” His gaze slid across the flames. “The Church, on the other hand, seeks order. It wishes to see the Gifted serve something greater than themselves, to safeguard humanity. That, too, has its merit.”

  Isolde spoke then, her tone quiet but firm. The firelight caught in her pale eyes, steady as a blade.

  “Freedom is a noble word, but freedom wielded with such power rarely stays pure. Without chains, fire spreads. It corrupts. And those who claim only to be free often end as tyrants.”

  Aelun inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her point without yielding.

  “And yet, bind that same fire against its will, and it smolders into resentment. Resentment festers—and festering leads to ruin no less swiftly than corruption. Which is worse, Lady Saintess? The tyrant born of freedom, or the monster born of chains?”

  The air grew taut, the crack of the fire loud in the silence that followed. Darius said nothing, but the words pressed at him. Freedom and chains—he had seen men break under both.

  Jareth scoffed softly, brows drawn, the fire reflecting in his earnest eyes. His voice carried the ring of doctrine. “You sound as if you admire both sides.”

  “I do.” Aelun’s tone did not shift. “My people share similarities with the church, but there are differences as well. Among my people, our dragon-blooded are guided into service—but never forced. Encouraged, yes. Never chained. Furthermore, where they see God…” he spread a hand to the stars overhead, “…we see nature. And nature’s chosen, its guardians are the dragons. How then could we call witches evil, when they too carry the blood of the favored?”

  The camp was quiet. Fire cracked.

  Darius spoke into that stillness. “Why dragons?” His eyes caught the flames, shadowed but intent. “Why call them nature’s favorite?”

  Aelun smiled faintly, as though the question pleased him.

  “Because mountains crumble when they roar. Seas dry when they breathe. Forests bloom from barren land at their passing. There is nothing they cannot shape. Tell me—how can such power be anything but favored?”

  The soldiers shifted, uneasy. Myrren leaned forward, eyes glinting with thought, his voice carrying a scholar’s edge.

  “If they are so strong… Where are they now? Why do we see only relics, bones, half-buried ruins?”

  Aelun chuckled, soft, low. He fed a twig into the fire before answering.

  “Some left this world to seek greater things. Some hide, watching, waiting for a moment when they are truly needed. And some… walk among you still.”

  That drew a scoff, half nervous, half derisive, from Kaelen, who shook his head sharply. “Stories.”

  “Perhaps.” Aelun’s eyes glimmered. “Or perhaps not. For all you know, I could be a dragon myself—wandering in boredom, following your commander to see how he makes use of my discarded legacy.”

  The fire cracked. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Aelun laughed, sudden and bright, and the sound rolled into the trees. Reluctant at first, then freer, the others joined him, tension spilling into the night sky. Even Darius allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.

  Their laughter cut off when the Saintess gasped.

  Her spoon clattered from her hand into the dirt. Her eyes had gone distant, pupils swallowed by white radiance. Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment before she whispered:

  “The Crown Prince returns to Valenfor.”

  The fire popped. No one spoke.

  Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest. “And he is not alone. He brings with him… a Princess of Altheryon. Selene.”

  Silence fell absolute. The only sound was the wind through the pine and the faint crackle of burning wood. Every face turned to Darius.

  He stood slowly, the firelight cutting sharp planes across his features. He was still for a long breath, then another.

  “At dawn,” he said, voice even, unshaken, “we ride for the capital.”