DEMONS
A golden arrow soared through the air, slicing the darkened sky like a divine blade. It flew past Paul and buried itself in the demon's forelimb with a sharp, resounding impact.
"Stay away from my brother!" Grace's voice rang out, raw with defiance.
The arrow left only a shallow dent in the creature's scales, but dark, tar-like blood oozed from the wound. The demon hissed, its predatory gaze snapping toward Grace. She stood at the far edge of the formation, bow trembling in her grip, chest heaving with exhaustion.
"Child, isn't that toy a little too heavy for you?" it sneered, voice dripping with venom.
It reached for the arrow lodged in its limb—but the moment its claws touched the golden shaft, steam hissed and boiled. The demon howled, wrenching it free and flinging it aside. Its hate-filled eyes burned hotter than before as they locked onto Grace.
Grace flinched at her own success.
I knew those weapons were special! Paul's mind reeled. The golden blur passing so close had stalled his attack, stealing his focus for a heartbeat.
The demon—Squamura—decided to take its fury out on him.
With a guttural snarl, the creature lunged. Paul brought up his sword, parrying the first blow. The impact rattled through his arms, bone-deep. A second strike came, heavier, nearly tearing the blade from his hands. His palms burned, his knuckles screamed, but he held fast.
Claw met steel again and again, each clash driving him back a step, his boots gouging the earth. Fighting this thing was nothing like clashing with men. Its raw strength, its relentless hunger—it pressed on him like a storm. He gritted his teeth, refusing to yield.
A whistle cut the air. Another arrow.
Squamura twisted, wary now, but too slow. The shaft buried itself just below its chest.
The creature shrieked, its cry splitting the night. It clawed at the wound, frantic, but Grace's shot had struck true. The enchantment flared, spreading across its torso like wildfire. Its body convulsed as the holy light seared into its flesh.
With a roar of rage, grotesque wings burst from its back—purple, leathery, dripping malice. They beat with deafening force, throwing dust and wind in every direction as it lifted into the air, turning on Grace.
"Grace!" Paul shouted, panic spiking through him.
He lunged, desperate, sword raised.
The demon's tail whipped around, striking him square in the chest. He was flung like a ragdoll, crashing into a tree with bone-cracking force.
Air fled his lungs. Pain exploded across his ribs. His legs gave way, and he slumped to the ground, vision swimming. In the haze, he heard it: the low, building crackle of lightning gathering in the demon's maw.
No. No, no! "Grace, duck!" he roared, his voice raw.
Grace stood frozen, pale as death. Her bow dangled at her side. Every draw of the string had drained her; she had nothing left to give.
She saw the sparks dancing across Squamura's fanged mouth. The lightning was meant for her.
If it struck, she knew she wouldn't die outright. But the human body wasn't made to withstand such power. What would be left of her afterward?
The bolt tore free. A lance of blinding light ripped through the air.
Paul tried to rise. His body refused.
Grace turned her head toward him, and despite it all, smiled—bittersweet, trembling, with tears burning her eyes.
Paul's chest caved with despair. He had sworn he would protect her. And here he was, helpless.
The lightning struck.
But not Grace.
Nessa hurled herself between them, shield raised high.
"Nessa, no!" Franklin bellowed, sprinting toward his sister.
The blast slammed into the shield with a thunderous crack. Sparks exploded, tearing the air apart. Nessa dug in her heels, legs trembling as the current ripped through her. The shield shuddered, then splintered, glowing with fractures.
Franklin was nearly on them when the shockwave erupted. The force flung him backward, his body tumbling across the dirt. He landed hard, dazed, forced to watch in horror.
The barrier shattered.
The blast hurled Nessa and Grace into the air. They crashed down with sickening thuds, rolling lifelessly across the ground.
"Grace!" Paul's voice broke. He dragged himself forward, but his arms betrayed him. She lay still, crumpled like a rag doll. Nessa's body lay beside her, her shield split in two.
Something broke inside him.
Rage consumed him—a fury like wildfire, primal and unstoppable, tearing through every vein. His broken body knitted itself back together, bones snapping into place, muscles swelling with unnatural strength.
Something clawed at the walls he had built inside himself. The thing he had chained, denied, feared.
And this time, he did not fight it.
He tore the chains apart and let it in.
Vengeance filled him, burning hotter than blood. If it cost him his humanity, so be it.
The world bled red. His vision warped. His chest rose and fell with a beast's hunger.
Squamura turned, eyes widening. Fear flickered in its gaze.
It lunged, claws outstretched.
Too late.
Paul rose into the haze, the last thread of his restraint snapping.
The only thought left to him was simple.
Kill the beast.
…
Paul opened his eyes.
Darkness stretched for miles, a void without sky or ground. His body floated weightless, suspended in nothing.
Yet he could hear it—the clash of battle, the tearing of flesh, the shrill cries that followed. A stench seeped into his nostrils: rot, iron, something animal. His stomach churned, but his body did not retch. It wasn't his to command.
Even here, in this hollow world, he felt the sword in his hands. The rush of air on his skin. The intoxicating weight of power and the maddening taste of bloodlust.
Two places at once, he realized. One self drifting in the void, the other cutting, ripping, killing.
He closed his eyes, reaching for the meditation their father had drilled into them—clarity of mind, separation of thought, the wall that kept his inner demons at bay.
Clarity came like a crack in glass. He blinked, and the void shattered into vision.
The demon cowered before him, back pinned to a tree, body mangled. Limbs torn away. Chest carved into ribbons of blood and scale.
Paul's lips curled upward. A smile. His smile. Yet not his.
He was back, but not in control.
His arm rose, sword drawn back. His body lunged forward with precise, merciless aim. The blade punched into Squamura's chest. Hot, sticky ichor sprayed across the air, choking it with that same rancid stench.
Stop. Stop! He tried to pull back, but his muscles ignored him, moving like a puppet under alien strings.
He fought for minutes, wrestling against his own sinews, but the corruption pressed harder, drowning him.
"Paul!"
Grace's voice cracked through the haze. His body snapped toward it, head whipping unnaturally fast.
She stood, supporting Nessa with one arm. Her face was bruised, swollen. Her eyes glistened with tears—fear, relief, love, all tangled together.
"Paul, snap out of it!" she cried.
I'm trying! His thoughts screamed. His soul clawed at the bars of its cage.
And then his body moved. Faster than he ever could on his own. It blurred toward them, sword thrusting—not at the demon, but at Nessa.
"No!" Franklin's scream tore the night. He sprinted, reaching out—but the ground cracked under a blast of force, flinging him backward. He landed hard, helpless, horror etched across his face.
Grace didn't flinch. She stepped in front of Nessa, arms spread, shielding her with her own body.
Paul fought harder, panic crashing over him. Not her. Not them. Please—
The blade stopped. Just a breath from Grace's chest. His arm trembled, caught between two wills. His own eyes stared back at her, empty, void of him.
Grace's voice lowered, steady despite her shaking frame.
"Nessa. Think of the acronym. SRN. My pack. Now."
Nessa froze, confused, then obeyed. Her fingers fumbled inside the bag.
"I—I feel something," she whispered.
"Pull it out. Give it to me."
Nessa handed her a necklace, its faint glow trembling against the dark. Grace slipped it around Paul's neck. Her lips curved into a fragile smile.
"That should do it."
The red haze cracked. Paul's knees buckled. Darkness swept over him, heavier than the void.
The last thing he felt was his sword clattering from his hand, and the terror of how close he had come—how easily he could have killed the very one he swore to protect.
Then—nothing.