The Blades flood the battlefield to meet them while Zyphoro takes to the skies in a flash of silver, her wings igniting like burning steel. She dives through the swarm, twin daggers slicing clean arcs that trail smoke while below her, Orios wades through the fray, his sword cleaving through flesh and shadow, his armor already slick with black blood. Beside him, Ronin’s blade hums, precise and merciless.
The ground beneath my feet trembles, whispering my name. I drop to one knee and press my palm to the ashen soil. “Rise,” I whisper, and the land obeys.
From the cracks and scars of An’kel’s wasteland, vines burst through, blackened roots turned green by my touch, sprouting thorns sharp as blades. They lash outward, wrapping around the demons, impaling them, dragging their shrieking bodies down into the crooked earth that birthed them.
For every one that falls, three more rise. But I am no longer afraid. The Grove lives within me now, even here, where life was never meant to be.
And through it all, Daed.
He is death incarnate, a storm of shadow and smoke. Death Singer gleams in his hand, cutting through the void with every swing. The smoke around him takes form, tendrils and wings, the echoes of Emranth’s power surging through him. Shadows bend at his will, wrapping around the enemy like chains.
The great doors of the temple groan open, and from the depths emerges a gargantuan demon, black armor fused to molten flesh, each breath a furnace roar. Reon turns toward it, cutting down the last of the creatures between them. Then he spins his blade, grip tight on the hilt, his gaze locked on the oncoming goliath.
He darts left, too fast to follow, but the demon’s claw catches him mid-stride. It hurls him like a rag doll across the field, his body slamming against jagged rock. He crumples to the ground, blood dark against the ash. The demon closes in, forming a spike of hardened bone in its smoky hand. Reon lifts his head, eyes widening as the spike plunges toward him and then time stops.
The air stills. The demon freezes, spike suspended inches from his chest, golden sparks dancing from Reon’s trembling fingers. His lips part in disbelief, then curve into a slow, feral smile.
He pushes to his feet, the power blazing gold around him. In one bound he scales the demon’s arm, boots striking sparks against its armor. He vaults onto its shoulder, then onto its head, his sword raised high and drives his blade straight through its skull.
Light bursts from the wound. The demon convulses, fractures, and collapses into a storm of ash. When the dust settles, Reon lands lightly on his feet, hair wild, sword gleaming, eyes alight and behind him, the battle roars on.
“Get to the temple!” Reon bellows, his voice cracking like thunder over the battlefield. “We’ll take care of these pitiful demons!”
I nod once, breathless, and Daed and I push forward, shoulder to shoulder through the carnage.
We reach the base of the temple steps just as fresh horrors pour forth. Demons wrapped in smoke and sinew, claws like hooked blades, their fangs dripping trails of venom. They surge toward us in a tide of shrieks and gnashing teeth.
Daed and I exchange a single glance. No words, only the grim understanding that this is what we were made for.
I draw in a breath and let the power build. My veins blaze with light, throbbing with living fire until the energy burns behind my eyes. When I raise my hands, they are wreathed in emerald flame. The nearest demon lunges, too slow. I hurl a blazing sphere into its chest, and it detonates, bursting the creature into ash. The explosion ripples outward, catching the others in its wake. Those who survive stagger, burning, their shrieks echoing up the black steps. The stone runs slick with their blood, thick, oily, and dark as tar.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Daed. He’s not moving, just watching. Still as a statue in the storm.
“Daed?” I call.
He doesn’t answer. He lifts Death Singer high, both hands wrapped tight around the hilt. Then, with a roar, he drives it down.
The blade strikes stone with the force of a quake. Sparks burst out, white-hot, and the ground cracks in spiderwebs beneath our feet.
Then the world inhales.
Smoke floods upward, coiling around him, cloaking him. When it clears, wings of shadow erupt from his back, unfurling banners of night that stretch wide enough to blot out the dim light of An’kel’s sky. The wind howls as they snap open, the sound like a scream torn from the void.
And then Emranth.
The demon tears free of Daed’s chest in a torrent of shadow and smoke. His form is monstrous, tattered cloak whipping like a storm as his tentacles writhe, his white eyes gleaming with hunger. He swoops upon the oncoming horde, a specter of horror, swallowing everything in his path. Screams cut short. Bodies vanish into his gaping maw.
We push forward, side by side. The steps climb and climb, each one a drumbeat in my chest, each corpse a promise that we are closer. Estra hangs at the edge of every breath I take, a name like a prayer on my lips.
The horde crumbles. Demons shriek and unmake beneath green fire and void, bodies unspooling into smoke. For a moment, the world settles. Then, at the top of the stairs, new danger lays itself bare.
The creature is not like any demon we’ve faced, but something other. I’ve never seen such armor. Heavy plates etched with impossible filigree, ribs and runes carved into black steel that seems to swallow the light. The helm is forged into a snarling maw, a demon’s face twisted in eternal hunger, and within the hollow sockets burn two white, furious eyes.
Daed’s mouth quirks. “Is this all that’s left?” he calls.
Emranth laughs. He vaults from Daed in a column of smoke, a ravenous silhouette that plunges toward the armored figure.
The demon reaches to the sheath at its back and draws a blade slender and silver, a line of moonlight forged in steel. Emranth slashes. The demon meets him in midair.
