The Bastion was built where screams once echoed.
Thomas chose the site deliberately—a collapsed dominion on the edge of a lava sea, its towers broken, its runes half-erased by centuries of neglect. Hell had abandoned it. That made it perfect.
"Defensible," Eddric observed, hovering above the ruins. "Choke points. Limited approach vectors. Residual runic infrastructure."
"And symbolic," Liora added. "Nothing claims it anymore."
Thomas planted his claws into the cracked stone at the center of the ruin. He closed his eyes and reached—not outward, but down. Into the currents of Hell he had learned to feel, the pressure, the heat, the rules beneath the chaos.
The ground answered.
Runes flared to life, reshaping, reforging. Walls rose from molten stone, sealing fractures, forming battlements etched with sigils of containment rather than domination. It was not beautiful.
It was functional.
"This isn't a kingdom," Thomas said quietly. "It's a filter."
Mara watched from behind the Horde, arms wrapped around herself. Her new form felt wrong—too strong, too heavy, every emotion amplified until it hurt. She could feel the others like her, the newly fallen, drawn to the Bastion as if it were a lighthouse in a storm.
"Is this where we stay?" she asked.
"For now," Thomas said. "Until you learn to stay yourselves."
Training began immediately.
Not drills. Not formations.
Control.
Eddric taught them how to listen to the sin within them without letting it drive. Liora taught survival—how to strike, how to flee, how to choose when both felt the same. Kael taught brutality, unfiltered and honest, showing them exactly what Hell would do if they failed.
Mara struggled the most.
Her sin—envy—burned constantly, whispering comparisons, resentment, hunger. During sparring, it surged, overwhelming her control. She struck too hard, lost herself, nearly killing another initiate.
Kael intervened, slamming her into the ground. "Again," he snarled. "Or Hell takes you."
Mara rose shaking, rage and shame tangling inside her.
This time, she breathed.
She remembered the fall.
The screams.
Thomas pulling her back from nothing.
She struck again—clean, controlled.
Kael nodded once.
Her first real test came sooner than expected.
Scouts reported movement—feral demons drawn by the Bastion's activity, half-formed creatures driven mad by unprocessed sin. They attacked at duskless hour, howling, mindless.
Thomas did not intervene.
"Hold the line," he ordered the initiates. "Or die."
Mara stood on the wall, claws slick with fear.
One feral breached the gate.
It lunged.
Mara reacted without thinking.
Her claws pierced its chest.
The demon died instantly.
The sensation was… different than she expected. No pleasure. No horror.
Just finality.
She staggered back, staring at her hands.
"I killed it," she whispered.
Liora met her gaze. "You chose to."
The Bastion held.
But far beyond its walls, black banners rose on the horizon—perfect ranks, flawless discipline.
The Purge Legions had begun their march.
And Hell was about to learn whether mercy could survive a war.