The ruin swallowed sound.

  The Inquisitors of the Thorned Path moved in silence through the bck stone halls, torches hissing against the damp. The deeper they marched, the heavier the air grew, pressing against their lungs. Old symbols, jagged and curling, crawled across the stone. Dust fell in thin curtains when the Inquisitors brushed against the walls, and more than one man muttered that the ruin was breathing.

  Everyone was quiet, though they felt it too. The weight. The watching. As boys in the Sanctum’s barracks, they had heard the whispers — ruins were not pces of stone, but wounds in the world. Scars left behind by wars humanity was never meant to survive.

  At the head of the company strode Darius Veyle—young in years, but already battle-hardened. Dark brown hair brushed his brow, green eyes sharp beneath the hood of his red cloak. He carried himself with the weight of a man who had seen too many battles to still be called young.

  Beside him walked his mentor, Sir Garran, a scarred veteran whose voice carried like a war drum. His scarred jaw and storm-grey eyes had steadied Darius through countless campaigns. In the barracks, Garran was spoken of in the same breath as Saints — a man who had sin witches, monsters, and Iwon spawn with the same grim efficiency. To Darius, he was more than a commander.

  Around them marched thirteen others. Brother Caldus whispered scripture under his breath, a boy barely past twenty. Marek, broad-shouldered and grim, carried his hammer as if eager for an excuse to swing it. Old Bren, grizzled and missing two fingers, kept to the rear, muttering curses at every creak of stone. They were not brothers by blood, but they were bound by oath — and the ruin would test the strength of that oath soon enough.

  Fifteen cd in bck, entered the ruin together. All bore the golden crown-of-thorns crest upon their chest. All knew what they sought:

  A Demon’s Heart.

  A blood-red crystal, one of seven scattered across the world, remnants of the Iwon’s invasion centuries ago. To the Sanctum of Thorns, only by destroying them could humanity prevent the demons’ return. To leave them untouched was to invite another war.

  The first scream came when the walls groaned and split, spilling stone that shaped itself into hulking golems.

  The creatures came with grinding jaws and voices carved from nightmares. They tore free of the walls, dust and shards falling from their hulking forms, and swung massive fists that shattered shields as if they were toys. Brother Caldus was the first to fall, his prayer cut short as a fist crushed him against the wall. Blood sprayed, bck against the torchlight.

  Darius darted forward, his bde glowing faint green as he channeled Vaylora, the energy that breathes magic to life, cutting through stone with effort. Garran roared beside him, driving his axe through a golem’s knee until the creature toppled, crushing another Inquisitor beneath its colpse.

  They pressed deeper, only to be met with fire.

  The floor sigils bzed suddenly, a ttice of red across the stone. One Inquisitor screamed as his body was swallowed by fire, flesh, and armor dissolving into nothing but ash. Another leapt clear only for a dart to thud into his neck — his veins bckened before he could even cry out. They pushed onward, their formation fraying.

  The air thundered as the corridor shook. Stone ground open, and a boulder the size of a cottage barreled toward them. They scattered, some diving aside, others not quick enough. The crushing impact filled the corridor with screams that ended in silence, bodies reduced to pulp beneath its weight.

  By the time the survivors staggered into the central chamber, their torches sputtering low, only five remained: Darius, his mentor, and three others. Their armor was cracked, their faces gray with exhaustion. The ruin had cimed the rest.

  The sealed chamber was vast, its walls carved with glyphs that writhed faintly in the torchlight. At its farthest edge, a figure stirred.

  A woman.

  She sat slouched against the wall, long bck hair spilling over dusty clothes that marked her as a traveler, perhaps even a schor. She blinked as the torchlight touched her face, then smiled as though greeting old friends.

  She looked utterly out of pce among the ruin’s decay — no fear, no wounds, not even dust on her pale skin. Her eyes caught the light and held it, golden and sharp. Her posture was too rexed, as though she had been waiting, confident they would come.

  The Inquisitors reacted like hounds scenting blood. Some muttered curses, others made signs of warding against evil. One, trembling, half-lifted his bde as though to cut her down before she could speak. Garran’s voice snapped like a whip: “Hold.”

  Selene only smiled, as if their fury amused her.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  Steel rasped from scabbards. Darius’s mentor stepped forward, bde raised. “Who are you? How did you come this far?”

  The woman stretched nguidly, brushing dirt from her sleeve. “Selene,” she said. “An archaeologist. I’m the reason your Sanctum even knows there might be a Demon’s Heart here.”

  Murmurs rippled through the Inquisitors. Anger sparked in their eyes.

  “If you knew the way,” one spat, “you should have guided us! Ten men are dead. Their blood stains your hands.”

  Selene only shrugged. “I offered. The church refused me. So I came alone. I reached this door, but cked the strength to break it. You, however…” her golden eyes gleamed, “…you might succeed.”

  Darius frowned. “Some of those traps—like the golems—no one could have passed alone.”

  Her smile sharpened. “I’m skilled in earth magic. To you, they’re death. To me, they’re cy. But this door?” She gestured at the glyphs. “This demands raw Vaylora. More than I can muster.”

  His mentor stepped closer to the etched stone, tracing the runes with calloused fingers. His face darkened. “This script… It’s witch-tongue.”

  Selene met his gaze without flinching. “I’m a historian. Knowledge is not a crime. Or has the Sanctum begun burning schors as well?”

  The Inquisitors withdrew to confer, leaving Darius to guard her. His bde gleamed in the half-light, angled toward her throat.

  Selene leaned her head against the wall, unbothered. “You’re gring so hard I’m surprised the stone hasn’t cracked.”

  “You speak too freely for someone trespassing in sacred ground,” he said. His voice was sharp, but his stance betrayed weariness.

  “You speak as though this ground belongs to you.”

  She tilted her head. “Strange. For all your torches and steel, I see no gods here. Only stone and blood.”

  His jaw flexed. “Do you deny the faith?”

  She shook her head, slowly. “Not the faith. Never that. The gods are real—anyone with the Gift knows it. Every time I draw Vaylora through my veins, I feel their presence.”

  For the first time, Darius’s grip eased, just slightly. “Then you should know what the Saints are—blessed above all, chosen as vessels of the divine.”

  A faint smile tugged her lips. “Blessed? Or… descended? You know the truth as well as I do, Inquisitor. Saints and Witches — the same root, the same stain. Somewhere in their bloodlines, someone drank dragon’s blood, or feasted on dragon’s flesh. That is why the Gift burns brightest in them. Not because of holiness, but hunger.”

  His eyes fshed with anger. “Bsphemy.”

  “Bsphemy? No, Inquisitor. Truth. Your church dresses one child of dragons in white and crowns them a Saint, while burning the other alive for the same blood. Tell me — is the fire any less red in either vein?”

  “Enough.” His knuckles whitened on the hilt.

  Selene leaned forward, her golden eyes glinting. “I believe in the gods, Inquisitor. But those men in their marble halls, cloaked in scripture and thorns? They are not gods. They are men. And men crave power more than faith.”

  For a moment, the ruin was silent save for the drip of water. Darius could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to call her a liar. He wanted to run her through. But part of him remembered Caldus’s crushed body, Bren’s scream as he fell into darkness, the hollow-eyed corpses left behind. If she died, the rest of them might as well.

  He wanted to refute her, but could not find the words. He was not a schor; he was a warrior. He was told the Saints were meant to protect them. The Church promised they were holy, fwless. It's what he based his faith and life on. Yet Selene’s words cut deeper than a bde: both Saints and Witches born of dragons.

  His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles went white. If she was wrong, why did doubt burn like truth?

  The debate ended when the others returned.

  “We do as she says,” the mentor decided. His eyes locked on Darius. “If this is treachery, and we fall… kill her.”

  Darius gave a sharp nod.

  Together, the four surviving Inquisitors pressed their hands to the glyphs. The runes fred, first a faint glow, then a blinding white. The air vibrated like a drum, and heat surged across their palms until flesh blistered. Garran’s jaw clenched, sweat running down his brow as he forced Vaylora into the glyphs. Darius gritted his teeth, feeling as if the stone itself was sucking life from him.

  The door groaned, cracks spiderwebbing through it. Dust fell in heavy sheets, and a roar like a beast in pain echoed through the chamber as it surrendered. When it split open, the air that poured through was thick and metallic, like blood that had never dried.

  Beyond, a crimson glow pulsed like a heartbeat.

  At the center of the chamber hovered a crystal the size of a man, its surface bleeding red light. The crystal pulsed with life, not inert stone but something alive. Every beat of its glow rattled Darius’s bones. He swore he could hear whispers crawling across his mind, promises of strength, of fire, of wings blotting out the sun.

  The others staggered under its pressure, sweat pouring down their faces.

  It was far rger than the tales had promised, five times the size of any recorded Demon’s Heart. Its crimson light painted the chamber as though the world itself had been drowned in blood.

  “The Demon’s Heart is,” whispered one of the Inquisitors.

  Selene’s golden eyes widened, not in awe, but in delight. “No,” she breathed. “That… is a Dragon’s.”

  The words had barely left her lips when an unseen force sliced through the chamber. Four heads fell in perfect unison, blood spraying across the stones.

  “Mentor!” Darius’s cry tore through the silence. His master’s body crumpled, lifeless.

  Rage roared through him. He spun, bde fshing toward Selene. Steel cut her down—only for her form to dissolve, fading like smoke.

  Her real self now stood before the Heart, bathed in its glow. The dusty archaeologist’s garb had vanished. In its pce was a dress woven from dark, earthen fabric, with a wild, untamed edge as though stitched from nature itself. The hem was torn for movement, its yered folds practical for travel through forest and ruin alike. Soft leather boots ced up her calves, scarred with wear. The attire was not regal, nor ceremonial—it was functional, survivalist, made for someone who walked the old paths of the world.

  Her skin gleamed pale against the torchlight, her eyes molten gold. Slightly pointed ears betrayed a trace of elven blood. She looked less like a schor now and more like something born from the wild pces men feared to tread.

  The crimson glow of the Heart pulsed, painting her pale skin blood-red.

  “The seal,” she said, her voice carrying a calm that chilled Darius’s veins, “was never meant to be broken by force. It demanded four lives willingly poured into it. Warriors with Vaylora strong enough to feed the runes. Four sacrifices to open the door.”

  Her golden eyes slid to the headless corpses scattered across the floor. She smiled faintly.

  “So I made sure the Sanctum sent me what I needed. Inquisitors, zealous enough to walk into every trap I set. Loyal enough to die at the command of their leaders. Duty-bound enough to y down their power when I told them it was required. Every trap you fought through, every death along the way, it was meant to narrow your numbers until only the strongest remained—the perfect offering to the seal.”

  Selene stepped forward, her voice steady, her expression calm — too calm.

  “You call yourselves hunters, but you were prey from the moment you stepped inside. Fifteen Inquisitors, and not one of you questioned the path id before you. You march when commanded. You bleed when commanded. You die when commanded. Predictable.”

  She looked at Garran’s fallen body and tilted her head. “Even your captain. Brave. Loyal. Blind. Perfect sacrifices.”

  “Monster!” Darius spat.

  Her eyes cut back to Darius, sharp as knives. “You see Witches as monsters. But you, Insiquistor, have killed countless Witches simply for existing. I did not sy innocents. I culled enemies. And if you cannot see the difference, then perhaps you are not so different from your leaders after all.”

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed again, crimson light washing across her features. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking only to him.

  “I don’t waste lives. I spend them.”

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed once, and her form shimmered. She and the crystal began to fade, dissolving into light.

  “Face me!” Darius roared, fury raw in his throat. “Fight me!”

  Her ughter lingered in the chamber, echoing like bells.

  “Why waste such an attractive man?”

  And then she was gone.

  Darius stood in the hollow dark, chest heaving. The ruin was silent now, save for the slow drip of water across stone. His brothers were gone. His mentor was gone. Only he remained — the sole witness to betrayal, to failure, to a truth the Sanctum would not want to hear. He forced his shaking legs to move, dragging himself back through the corridors of ash and ruin. Whatever waited beyond these walls — judgment, scorn, or disbelief — he would face it. For the church would demand an answer, and he would give it.