The first thing Dexter felt was the cold.
Not the chill of wind or winter—no. This was deeper. A cold that coiled beneath the flesh, that seeped into bone and settled behind the heart like a blade. It was the cold of absence, of betrayal, of a silence so absolute it rang louder than any scream.
One moment, he had stood among the Ashborn in the ruins of the old chapel. Their eyes had met his with solemn unity. The warlock had begun chanting—a low murmur in a language older than light—and Dexter had felt the pulse of the earth shift beneath his feet.
Then the world tore away.
He was alone now.
Transported.
Or exiled.
The air here was wrong—too still, too thick, as if it mourned something forgotten. A place carved from obsidian and sorrow stretched around him. Towering spires jutted like shattered spears from the earth, some twisted as if warped by flame, others coated in frost that shimmered with a lightless gleam. Cracks in the ground revealed veins of pulsing crimson, glowing faintly, as though the land itself bled beneath the surface.
Dexter stood at the heart of it. Silent. Listening.
The Ring of Cindergaze at his side trembled—its warmth flickering like a dying heartbeat. His blade, sheathed at his back, whispered faintly as if sensing danger beyond comprehension.
Then he saw it.
A raised circular platform, smooth as if worn by time, rose before him. Around its edge, sigils blazed with faint amber light, winding in delicate, infernal scripts across the stone. At the center stood a pedestal—blackened, cracked—and resting upon it, a single ring.
Dexter's breath caught.
Not just a ring.
The ring.
Unlike the others, this one shimmered with violent beauty—a swirling fusion of molten red and liquid silver. It pulsed with the rhythm of something ancient and alive, as though it breathed, hungered.
He approached slowly.
As he neared, the script on the pedestal flickered to life—letters burning into view as if lit by unseen fire.
"The Seventh Shall Complete the Circle."
His brow furrowed.
Another ring?
No. The final one.
The last of the Seven.
He reached for it, but something deep within him screamed—a primal warning. Not fear. Something else.
Recognition.
His fingers brushed the ring.
And the world shattered.
The air split with a crack like thunder being torn apart. Shadows exploded into light, and time seemed to buckle. The sky fractured—splinters of darkness spreading like broken glass across a storm-lit canvas.
And then—she arrived.
She did not walk.
She glided.
A vision of terror and majesty, draped in black silks that shimmered with molten shadow. Her body was impossibly tall, gaunt like ancient statues eroded by centuries, yet fluid in movement. Her crown—if it could be called that—was a jagged halo of bone and ember, hovering inches above her scalp.
Dexter took an instinctive step back.
Her presence warped the very air around her. Reality recoiled.
Her voice followed. It was not sound, but sensation. Like rot. Like the scent of death buried beneath stone. Like the whisper of something that should never have learned to speak.
"Welcome, Dexter. You've come for your crown."
He squared his shoulders, drawing his blade in one smooth motion. "You're not the warlock."
A smile curled her lips—cruel, cold, knowing.
"The warlock is a key. I am the door. And now, you have stepped through."
Her name surfaced in his mind like bile.
Thyatira.
The last of the demon elders.
Her name had haunted scrolls, echoed in the Ashborn's old campfire tales. She had refused Astaroth's call during the Great Betrayal. Had vanished during the Collapse of the Obsidian Deep. Most believed her long dead.
She was not.
She was very much alive.
And she had lured him here.
"Why?" he demanded, stepping onto the platform. "Why fake the location of the ring? Why drag me here?"
She descended slowly, eyes never leaving his. "Because you are the ring."
Dexter froze. "I'm what?"
"The others were forged from betrayal, from the ashes of dead gods, from the bones of fallen kings. But you—" she stepped closer "—you were forged in war. You were tempered by blood. The circle was never meant to end in metal. It was always meant to end in you."
As she spoke, the ground beneath them rumbled.
Seven pedestals emerged from the stone in a wide ring. Each bore one of the Demon Rings—Cindergaze, Hollowbrand, Veincoil, Flamevein, Abyssorrow, Dreadthorn—and the final, the one Dexter had just touched.
At the center, beneath Dexter's feet, a glowing sigil flared open like a wound.
He stepped back, realization dawning.
He wasn't the wielder of the final ring.
He was the final offering.
"You plan to sacrifice me," he growled.
"I plan to awaken what sleeps beneath," Thyatira answered, raising her arms. "The rings are keys. You are the lock. Once opened, the true Flame shall return."
Energy surged around them.
The rings began to spin in the air, forming a blazing circle. Ancient chants filled the air—demon voices from a realm long buried.
Dexter's heart pounded.
"No," he whispered. "I won't let you do this."
"You don't have a choice," she replied.
Then the flames erupted.
Dexter's blade sang free.
They collided in an instant.
Thyatira's weapon was a jagged blade of bone and darkness, howling with the screams of the long-dead. Her strikes were precise, elegant, cruel. She moved like someone who had studied war since the beginning of time.
But Dexter did not fight alone.
He fought with the rage of the Ashborn.
With the grief of every friend buried beneath ruin.
With the fury of every flame stolen from him.
"You were never meant to win," Thyatira snarled, pressing him back. "You were meant to become. Like Astaroth. Like the Primal before him."
Dexter bared his teeth, blood dripping down his chin. "Then let me choose what I become."
With a scream, he drove his blade into the pedestal bearing the final ring.
The stone cracked.
The ring shattered into ash.
The swirling energy above faltered. The sigils dimmed. The voices stilled.
Thyatira reeled back in fury. "You fool! Do you realize what you've undone?"
Dexter collapsed to one knee. "Yeah," he gasped. "I broke your prophecy."
The platform trembled.
The city began to collapse. Magic unraveling. The rings, now powerless, fell to the floor like broken relics.
Thyatira's form shimmered, turning to smoke.
"This is not the end, Dexter. Only the delay. The true Flame still stirs beneath the ash."
And then she was gone.
Silence returned.
Dexter rose slowly, staggering out of the burning ruins. His hands were empty. His soul, frayed.
But his will?
Unbroken.
Somewhere, just at the edge of sound, a voice whispered:
"You have broken the ring. But the fire still seeks you, Flamewalker."
He turned sharply.
No one stood behind him.
Only flame.
And the echo of something that refused to die.
He returned to the chapel two days later—covered in soot, exhausted, eyes hollow.
But his fury had not faded.
He kicked the warped chapel doors open.
Inside, only two figures waited: the warlock... and Nyara.
The moment his gaze met theirs, something inside him broke loose.
His demon self surged to the surface.
Eyes flared red. Horns pushed from his skin. His voice became a roar of fire and vengeance.
"HOW DARE YOU BETRAY ME, WARLOCK? AND YOU, NYARA!"
The warlock raised his hands in surrender. "Dexter—please—listen—"
"You led me into her trap!"
"She threatened to destroy everything," the warlock said quickly. "She came to me in the Rift. Said she'd erase the Ashborn, burn their village, if I didn't send you."
"She had my husband!" Nyara's voice rang out, defiant despite the tears in her eyes. "She took him. Held him over the Abyss. I did what I had to. Don't you dare judge me—you would have done the same."
Dexter's breath came in shudders.
He wanted to rage. To burn. To scream.
But behind the fury was pain. Hurt.
And underneath it all—he knew they were right.
The warlock stepped forward. "We don't have to kill each other, Dexter. We can still fight her. Together."
Dexter looked away.
Thyatira had escaped.
The rings were broken.
And the prophecy… rewritten.
But she wasn't gone.
She would return. Stronger.
And he would be ready.
Two Nights Later
Thunder tore across the sky.
The warlock burst into the room, breathless, soaked with sweat.
"I found her!" he shouted.
Dexter stood up from the shadows.
His eyes no longer burned with rage.
But with purpose.
"Where?" he asked.
The warlock's voice trembled.
"She's building a new gate. In the Scorched Wastes. Something older than the rings. Older than flame."
Dexter reached for his blade.
Then for the armor he had sworn never to wear again.
His voice was calm now.
Unbreakable.
"Then we go."
And behind his words, the whisper of flame stirred once more.