We found the demon again behind a meat curtain.
That's not metaphor.
There was a literal curtain made of something that might've once been edible, or might've been a punishment, hanging like a flap over a side passage near the central miasma vents.
"I hate this place," Lyra muttered as we stepped through it.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the sounds of the hive dulled. The light dimmed. The air thickened—but not with smoke or heat.
It was quiet.
Controlled.
Which was new.
---
The demon from before stood at the edge of a long stone room, candlelight flickering from bowls filled with black oil. His armor was less polished now. The blade at his hip was etched in reversed runes—possibly upside-down on purpose.
He turned, slowly.
"You came."
"Technically we wandered in by accident," I said. "But I'll take the credit."
Velis stepped forward, arms crossed. "You said there were others."
"I did." He looked toward a side hall. "Come."
We followed him deeper into the carved-out chamber system, until we reached what looked like an old archive—racks of scrolls burned half to ash, records etched into slabs too cracked to read.
There were more demons here.
Some were large. Some small. A few looked almost human—except for their eyes, or their teeth, or the fact that they were discussing rebellion strategy in whispers while stirring soup made from shadow mushrooms.
All of them turned to stare at us.
And then they nodded.
"You've caused quite a stir," said one—tall, female, cloaked in chains that shimmered with suppressed runes. "Vermilion, is it?"
"Please don't call me that," I said.
"But you wield power," she said. "You hold rank. You broke the forge-line supply runes."
"That was an accident."
"That makes it better."
Velis murmured, "They don't care how you did it. Only that you did."
The male demon from earlier stepped into the center of the room. "We call ourselves the Unshaped."
"That's... dramatic," Silas muttered.
"Our kind have lived too long under one mind," the demon continued. "The Demon Lord binds us all. Mind, soul, purpose. This hive, this war, this conquest—it is all one thought. We want to think differently."
Iria looked interested now. "You would disobey the command of your Lord?"
He met her gaze. "He is not our Lord. He is a tyrant. He claims dominion over entropy, but rules like a stagnant god. He has forgotten what demons truly are."
"Ugly?" I offered.
Velis jabbed her elbow into my ribs.
The demon didn't even blink. "We've seen what you've done. You speak without reverence. You warp systems. You cause ripple... and leave collapse. That is demonkind at its core."
Silas grinned. "He's not wrong."
Lyra muttered, "You're not helping."
---
They made their offer.
Not allegiance—yet.
But an alliance.
A temporary one. They could smuggle us through the lower hives. Feed us maps. Disguise our movement. Even give us access to leyline roots beneath the fortress, where the Demon Lord's influence is weakest.
In return?
They wanted proof that we weren't just a fluke.
They wanted to see how far we could bend the system.
"There's a festival," the chained demon said, sipping her black mushroom broth. "A rite of dominance. A mock tribute to the Demon Lord where lower imps bring offerings and beg to be stepped on."
"…I'm sorry, what?" I asked.
"You'll understand when you see it," she said, dead serious.
"If you can disrupt it," added the male, "without being executed or flayed... we'll consider you one of us."
Lyra groaned. "There's always a catch."
Velis: "It's a test."
Silas: "It's a party."
Iria: "It is a proving ground."
Me?
I just sat down, stared at my shield—still faintly glowing pink—and whispered, "I'm going to die in this stupid armor."