The sky was wounded.
The red moon had risen like an omen carved in blood.
Shanane walked deeper into the forest, far beyond the trails she had once known, into places where no animals stirred and no human voices ever reached.
The trees grew thicker here, ancient things gnarled by centuries, their bark streaked with black moss, their roots clawing through the earth like hands reaching up from graves. The air was wrong, too still, too heavy, as though the forest itself held its breath.
Her feet were covered in dirt and ash. She felt the forest watching her.
In her arms, the ritual bowl trembled faintly, filled with crushed obsidian, bone dust, her blood and herbs forbidden to grow outside these cursed lands.
Around her neck hung a stone carved with glyphs older than the moon. The talisman given to her by the woman would shield her from the early effects of the summoning, but only just.
She passed the final stone marker. She was in the heart now. The very center of the darkwood. This was the place where the veil between worlds was thinnest, where things could come through if one dared to call them.
This was where she would summon him.
She stepped into the circle she had prepared days before. Symbols carved into the earth, deep and exact. Candles made of tallow from cursed beasts flickered at the edges. All of it had been chosen precisely, from the orientation of the stones to the timing of the moon's rise.
She knelt. The dirt was cold, and damp with something that wasn't quite water.
She exhaled and then began the ritual.
The first syllables were older than language. They tasted like metal and ash, like rot and fire. Her voice cracked with each line, but she did not stop. She pressed forward, her heart racing. Her soul burned with every invocation, each tearing open the sky a little more.
And the forest answered. The wind screamed. The trees shook. And the veil tore.
It began as a whisper, a pressure in the air, like gravity shifting sideways. Then a ripple formed at the edge of the circle, blacker than night, swirling inward like a vortex of shadow and teeth. The candles exploded. The ground shook beneath her.
Flames erupted from the sigils, licking upward like claws. The wind screamed through the forest, spiraling up into a whirlwind.
Shadows bled from the edges of the clearing like ink spilled from the mouth of the earth. The trees, ancient and tall, seemed to shudder in place as if caught in a breath they could not release. The wind died, replaced by a low, rattling vibration that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The sky, once dark with stormclouds, deepened into something far blacker, a velvet void stretched thin above the trembling world.
And then, the forest tore.
The space between the trees twisted, bent, and groaned like the fabric of reality had grown brittle and cracked beneath invisible fingers. The air grew heavier, so dense it clawed at the lungs. Light itself recoiled, and a pressure like an ancient grief settled over the clearing.
From that unnatural fissure, Atheramond emerged.
First came a shadow, tall and vast, its form shifting with every blink of the eye. Then it solidified, revealing a figure that stood towering and inhuman. A beast cloaked in both regality and damnation. Horns, long and twisted, rose from his skull like war trophies, each one gleaming obsidian-black and streaked with the dried blood of ancient battles.
His body was carved from darkness and flame, rippling with sinew and power beyond comprehension. Smoke clung to him as if worshipping his form, curling along his limbs and bleeding into the ground he walked upon.
His eyes, if they could be called that were pits of cosmic fury, suns swallowed whole, their light twisted into something ancient and cruel. They burned with madness, torment, and the unspeakable truths of worlds long buried beneath the skin of existence.
And his mouth stretched far too wide, its corners pulled upward in a mockery of a grin. Inside were too many teeth, jagged, uneven, layered deep, and they gleamed wetly, as though each one had tasted countless souls. His smile was not one of joy, nor triumph, but of amusement, the kind that belongs to something who has seen the beginning and the end and found both beneath him.
There were no masks now, no disguises, no charm to wrap around the mind like velvet. This was his truth, raw, terrifying, primordial. The demon above all demons, the architect of damnation, the flame that once whispered at the birth of time and now howled at its end.
He stood over twice the height of a man, yet it was not his size that crushed the spirit, it was the weight of his being. Around his clawed hands, the air sizzled and warped, as if even time feared his touch. Reality frayed at the edges near him, and the world bent subtly in his presence, trying desperately to unmake what should not exist.
And still, he smiled.
Shanane's breath caught sharp in her throat, as if the very air had turned to glass. Her heart pounded a fractured rhythm beneath her ribs, and her body trembled from the weight of something ancient pressing down upon her.
Then the demon lord spoke.
__Atheramond: "You have done well, child. I felt your call through every layer of the pit. The offering is worthy. The moon approves. Speak the words, and become mine."
His voice uncoiled around her like smoke and silk, both seductive and suffocating. It was a sound forged in the deep, too low, too wide, too vast for any one mouth to shape.
She forced herself upright, every joint screaming under an invisible weight. Her knees nearly buckled as her legs straightened, but she refused to fall. Her lungs drew in shallow, searing gasps, as if the very act of breathing near him was a rebellion against natural law. And yet, she met his gaze. That terrible, endless gaze. But she did not speak.
__Atheramond: "Do not mistake awe for resistance. You have already been chosen. Your fate is written. The moment you called me, you ceased to be yours."
He took a step toward her.
Each stride was a calamity. The trees behind him shriveled and groaned, their bark blackening, branches curling inward like dying fingers. Leaves crumbled to ash in the windless air. The ground cracked beneath his steps as the grass hissed and turned to dust. It was as if his body carried the breath of the void itself, whatever lived near him simply ceased to be.
Even the moon seemed to dim.
__Atheramond: "Say the words, witch. Offer me your soul. I will make you eternal."
His final sentence was no longer a request. It was a command wrapped in the promise of ruin. He stood before her, towering, monstrous, divine in his monstrosity. The shadows stretched like worshippers at his feet. The stars above cowered. Shanane felt her lips parting, words curling, rising from the pit of her stomach like coiled fire.
But before her fate could be sealed, a third voice rose, chanting the old language of the dead. The syllables felt wrong, like bones grinding against metal, like a forgotten tongue scraping against the very fabric of reality.
The sound was not heard so much as felt, a rupture, a tearing, as if something buried beneath centuries of silence had just awakened and screamed.
The demon lord turned, his eternal grin flickering, just for a moment. The ritual had been interrupted. But something far more dangerous had just begun.
Atheramond's towering form froze, not out of fear, but recognition. His head turned slowly, those molten eyes narrowing in suspicion, then amusement.
From the edge of the circle, the woman in red emerged. She wore no armor, wielded no blade, yet the power around her hung like a cloak woven of storms and grave-dirt. Her talisman pulsed against her chest like a beating heart of light, holding back the creeping rot of the demon's presence.
She spoke again, her words sharper than any blade, dragging the syllables from the depths of the forgotten. The sky cracked open, not with light, but with shadow, veins of darkness streaking across the crimson moon like cracks in a dying eye.
Atheramond turned his body fully now, rising to his full and terrible height. The wind spiraled around him, tearing branches from trees, scattering ash and embers into the air.
__Atheramond: "You cannot bind me."
He growled, and the fire in his throat became a living torrent.
__Atheramond: "I am older than your gods. I am the flame beneath the sea, the rot beneath the tree. You are dust!"
As his voice thundered through the clearing, the world seemed to fracture. The sky rippled. The very air twisted, curling with heat and malice.
Then, in a sudden and terrifying movement, he turned his full fury upon the woman who dared stand against him. With a single outstretched hand, he released a wave of shadow, pure agony shaped into form. It struck her like a hammer from the abyss.
The talisman around her neck flared violently, trying to absorb the brunt of the blow, but it wasn't enough.
She was thrown backward with inhuman force. Her body crashed into the thick trunk of a tree, cracking it down the middle. The impact sent a gasp of blood from her lungs. She crumpled at its base, motionless for a heartbeat that stretched too long.
Smoke curled from her robes. Her chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths. Blood trickled down her temple, and her shoulder hung at an unnatural angle. Her eye was nearly swollen shut, her lip torn and bleeding. The forest around her held its breath.
The demon lord took a step forward, already turning toward Shanane, his mouth twisted into something that was not a smile, but a promise of destruction.
But then, a low, strained sound broke the silence. A gasp that turned into a groan of defiance. The woman's fingers dug into the soil.
She moved slowly, trembling, every breath a battle. With gritted teeth and blood in her mouth, she pushed herself onto her knees. Her injured arm hung limp at her side, but she used the other to steady herself against the tree. Her spine straightened, inch by agonizing inch, until she was upright.
Her legs wobbled. Her wounds leaked down her side. But still, she rose. She stood, battered, broken, but unbowed. And then, from her bloodied lips, the incantation began again.
It was quieter now, hoarse and rasping, but no less powerful. Each word she spoke felt torn from the depths of her being, dragged through pain and fury and ancient memory. Her voice called to the dead, torgotten gods, to the stars that no longer dared shine.
The shadows around her recoiled, hissing.
She was not finished. And the war for Shanane's soul raged on.
The circle ignited again. The runes she'd laced into the edges of the summoning field reactivated, glowing violet and white, a cage of pure intent.
Atheramond roared. The sound fractured the sky. Entire trees shattered. A murder of crows, once silent in the blackened canopy, erupted into the air and caught flame mid-flight.
The ground groaned beneath him, rejecting his presence and yet unable to push him back. The woman's voice faltered for a heartbeat as the demon raised a clawed hand and tore the air, unmaking part of the enchantment mid-cast.
Shanane stumbled back, nearly crushed by the ripple of his power.
The woman recovered instantly, stepping into the circle, her arms lifted high as she bellowed the final binding lines. The runes flashed again, brighter now, white-hot and pulsing with blood. Her shadow stretched unnaturally behind her, and her eyes glowed silver, burning like the moons of dead worlds.
And Atheramond still did not kneel.
Instead, he laughed, a sound that didn't belong in the world of the living. It was the laughter of something that had existed before laughter, before time. He raised his arms, and all the candles burst, plunging the forest into a whirl of smoke and shadows.
__Atheramond: "I remember your bloodline."
He whispered, voice now like rusted chains across bone.
____Atheramond: "The witches who danced beneath dying stars. You were thought extinct."
The woman stopped chanting for one breath. Then she smiled and spoke the final word.
A dome of flame burst from the earth.
The demon cried out, not in pain, but in insult. His monstrous form flickered, fractured at the edges like a broken mirror. He was no longer fully here, no longer fully whole. Smoke poured from his wounds. The ground beneath him trembled, scorched black by his presence. The world around them twisted, air splitting with unnatural shrieks.
Now was the moment.
Shanane surged forward into the roaring vortex. She ran past the circle etched in cursed ash, her hand raised high, the dagger gleaming like a sliver of night. She opened her mouth, the final incantation climbing up her throat like fire.
But the demon lord was not done. His fractured gaze snapped toward her, catching her mid-step. A snarl tore through the smoke.
He raised a clawed hand, and pain crashed into Shanane's mind like a tidal wave. Vicious visions tore through her thoughts without mercy. She saw herself cloaked in shadow, her hands soaked in Eoghan's blood. Her mouth curled into a grin so monstrous it no longer felt like her own. She stood above the corpses of children while flames consumed a village, and her laughter rang out over the fire. That was the future waiting for her, a path of cruelty, destruction, and darkness she could not escape.
She screamed and stumbled, clutching her head. Her knees struck the dirt. Tears streamed down her face as the demon's voice curled around her thoughts like chains.
__Atheramond: "This is what waits for you,"
He whispered in her skull.
__Atheramond: "This is what you truly are. The storm was not a theft. It was a homecoming."
And then he struck her body.
His shadow surged like a tidal wave and hurled her backward. She flew through the air and hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The dagger clattered from her fingers. Her breath left her. Blood filled her mouth. She tasted copper and earth. And Eoghan could only watch, fel powerless.
He stood just beyond the edge of the ritual circle, his body paralyzed not by fear, but by the sheer magnitude of what unfolded before him. The ground beneath him was cracked and steaming, the air thick with ash and shadow. His fingers trembled at his sides, clenched so tightly that blood seeped from his palms. But he could not step forward.
And beyond that wall, Shanane stood, bloodied and broken, barely upright. Her arm hung useless. Her hair was soaked in blood, both hers and the woman's. Her skin was slick with sweat and dirt. And still, she stood.
His heart ached at the sight. Not because she was weak, but because she had never looked stronger. Because in that moment, she was not just a girl he had loved. She was a force of defiance. A flame against the void. She was becoming something more, something terrifying and beautiful and beyond his reach.
With trembling fingers, she reached out and grasped the cold metal of the dagger. The weight in her palm was both anchor and weapon, a tether to the world and a key to salvation.
Her legs wobbled beneath her, knees buckling once, twice, but she steadied herself against the scorched bark of a nearby tree. Blood dripped from fresh wounds, mixing with dirt and ash on her skin, but she did not falter. She breathed through the fire in her lungs, silenced the screams in her head.
Her eyes, though blurred, fixed on the monstrous form before her. The demon lord loomed, his fractured figure flickering like a dying star, but still immense, still terrifying. His smile had vanished, replaced by a cold snarl as he prepared to strike again.
With the last of her strength, Shanane took a step forward. The earth beneath her feet cracked and hissed. The wind howled around them, carrying the echoes of forgotten wars. Time slowed, the moment stretching as if the world held its breath.
She raised the dagger high. Her voice shattered the silence, a scream torn from the depths of a soul forged in fire and defiance.
__Shanane: "By the blood that was spilled, the earth cracked and the sky bowed."
The moon above flickered, its red flame dimming, as if recoiling from the weight of her words. Darkness spilled from that wound in the sky like ink poured from a broken vial, swallowing the edges of the forest in a suffocating shroud.
__Shanane: "By the blood that fed the soil, the dead rose, and through them, all things shall perish."
Her steps quickened, each one a thunderous beat in the symphony of the ritual. The ground bled molten light, veins of power coursing through the cracked earth. The dead whispered beneath the surface, rising in silent accord with her will.
__Shanane: "Cursed Lord, broken god, return now to the veil that bore you.
Let the pit reclaim its child."
The words struck like thunder, rolling through the heavens and fracturing the air. The sky twisted into a spiral of black and red, the fabric of reality warping as the heavens fought to contain the unholy force unleashed.
Atheramond's eyes widened, recognition flashing through the torment and rage. His mouth opened, no longer grinning, but a cavernous void of fury.
Shanane lunged forward, every sinew burning, every heartbeat a drum of destiny.
She plunged the dagger deep into his core.
There was no blood. No scream. Only a shudder, a groan from the earth itself.
The sky twisted into a vortex of black and red, a spiral of chaos as if the very cosmos strained to hold back the undoing of a god. His body cracked down the middle, splitting light and shadow in perfect balance, not dying, but being erased.
His form unraveled slowly, like smoke fleeing a collapsing pyre, dissipating into nothingness.
For a heartbeat, the world was still.
Then, the moon's light shifted, turning cold, pure white.
The runes carved into the circle ignited all at once, flooding the clearing with a spectral glow before fading into quiet ash. The winds stilled, the trees ceased their mournful whispers, and the talismans pulsed once more before falling silent.
The storm had broken. The veil had closed.
The forest exhaled, a long, shuddering breath of release.
The great weight of Atheramond's centuries-long shadow lifted from the land.
Shanane stood motionless, the cursed dagger clenched tightly in her hand. The blade, once sharp and deadly, was now dull and lifeless, blackened by the touch of a god undone.
The demon lord was gone. Truly gone.
From behind the roots of a shattered tree, Eoghan emerged, his face etched with worry and wonder.
Without hesitation, he rushed to her side, gathering her into his arms as if shielding her from the very air itself. Shanane collapsed against him, her body trembling not from fear or pain, but from the flood of release, years of dread, sacrifice, and defiance burning away in a single, impossible victory.
Their bodies, once scorched by shadows and despair, now burned with a fierce, fragile hope.
They had won. Somehow, impossibly, they had won.