"There are chains that tear the flesh, and others that break the soul."
The salt of the circle began to glow, embers burning under the light of an invisible fire. The air in the cell, stale and rancid, thickened like coal smoke; every breath Sett took was a rusted knife stabbing through his lungs. The runes painted across the walls shivered, stretched tight like strings about to snap, and the floor, blackened with dried blood, seemed to breathe.
Naèvira stood before the circle, chanting. It was no human song: a murmur woven from broken syllables, smooth and sharp at the same time, as if each word caressed and devoured in one motion. Her lips moved with hypnotic slowness, her eyes gleamed like white embers, and every curve of her body quivered with an impossible rhythm.
Sett hung from the shackles, body shattered. His broken arm dangled at a grotesque angle; dried blood crusted over his forehead and along the corners of his mouth. He tried to breathe deeply but managed only a groan that sounded like a wounded beast.
Then the pain began.
First came the heat in his gut, as if molten lead had been poured into him. It climbed into his chest, crushing his ribs, swelling through his lungs until he thought he would suffocate. He opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was light: a filthy, searing glow spilling from his throat, his eyes, his nose. His whole body trembled like a puppet on fraying strings.
- "Yes…" Naèvira whispered, breathless with excitement. "Open yourself. Let it in."
Black smoke began to rise from the floor, slithering like vipers, coiling around Sett's legs and crawling up his torso. The cell reeked of burnt flesh and rotten flowers.
Sett screamed—a cry no human throat could have produced. The smoke poured into him, through his mouth and eyes, a torrent of invisible insects tearing pieces from his soul. His mind started to unravel: memories, voices, the smell of fresh bread in Briholm, Rook's laughter in the fields… all of it dissolved into a viscous stream.
And yet, he resisted.
Clenching his teeth until they cracked, every fiber of his ruined body taut with pain, he spat at her:
- "I'm not your fucking vessel… bitch."
Light exploded in his eyes, violent and blinding. The smoke shredded into tatters, and the circle flickered. Naèvira staggered back, stunned.
- "What…?" she breathed, incredulous. "How…?"
The ritual had failed. The lesser demon, summoned to devour Sett, had not been able to enter. No human body should have survived such a strain, and yet this broken, bloodied boy had repelled it.
Naèvira smiled, and this smile was different: less cruel, more entranced.
- "Never… never have I seen anything like it." She leaned close, brushing her fingers over his bloodied cheek. "You are… exquisite."
Her tongue slid across his face, savoring the iron taste. Sett tried to turn away, but the chains held him.
- "Don't worry," she whispered against his skin. "This isn't over. Today it was a lesser demon… tomorrow it will be a lord. And when he comes, you'll cease to be human."
She rose, a shiver of pleasure running down her back. With one last glance, she slipped from the cell. The door groaned shut like a coffin lid.
Sett sagged in the chains, gasping. Pain gnawed at him, but worse was the flood of memories crashing inside: muffled screams from other cells, the faces of his neighbors, his brother-in-arms' laughter. The thought that Rook might already be dead tightened around his throat harder than iron.
He did not cry. He would not. Yet his eyes still burned with tears.
- "If I'm going to die…" he rasped, "then at least I'll take one of you with me."
The world unraveled into shadows. He slipped into them.
He woke to the slam of a door.
Naèvira had returned, followed by the hulking blue-skinned brute he already knew. Gorvak entered with a guttural snort that made the torches shiver.
- "Naèvira," he growled, his voice like grinding stone. "This is madness. No one has given you leave to summon a greater one. They'll tear us apart for insubordination."
Naèvira laughed, brittle and sharp, like a cracked bell.
- "And waste the chance to bring forth one of the Great Ones? To summon Belial himself? Did you see how this human resisted? He is unique. The perfect vessel."
Sett closed his eyes, feigning sleep. His heart hammered in his chest, but he caught every word.
- "This isn't our task," Gorvak snarled. "The witches commanded us to gather flesh, soldiers, easy shells. Not to open doors we can't close."
- "They could never grasp the magnitude of this." Naèvira's eyes burned as she stepped closer to the circle. "But if we bring Belial through… the world itself will bow."
Sett couldn't stop himself. A ragged laugh ripped from his throat.
- "Belial… that's your fucking master? Then let him come. I'll spit in his face the same way I spit on you, whore."
Gorvak's head snapped toward him, roaring.
- "Silence, meat!" He lifted his club, ready to smash Sett's other arm.
But Naèvira stopped him, pressing her pale hand against his chest. A strange shimmer rippled through the air; the atmosphere thickened, intoxicating, like the perfume of rotting honey. Gorvak froze, eyes clouded.
- "Lower your weapon," Naèvira commanded, her voice dripping with poisoned sweetness. And Gorvak obeyed.
Sett, hanging from the chains, smirked with contempt.
- "Look at you… can't even grow a pair without her permission. You're just a dog on a leash."
Gorvak's jaw tightened, his tusks jutting through his lips. A deep growl rolled up his chest. The club lifted a few inches, trembling with raw rage. His eyes burned with the simple, primal hunger to crush a skull.
Sett knew that look. He'd seen it before in taverns, in Briholm's back alleys: the brute who only needed the slightest shove to snap. And so he shoved.
- "Bet you even need her permission to take a shit," he spat, grin crooked and bloody. "Or your whore of a mother used to beat your ass for trying."
Gorvak roared, a sound so thunderous it shook the chains on the walls. He took a step forward, muscles taut as ropes, and for a heartbeat Sett held his breath. Maybe—just maybe—the beast would turn on her. If they tore each other apart, he might have a chance.
The club rose high, ready to fall.
But a pale, cold hand stopped him.
Naèvira, calm as ice, pressed her fingers against Gorvak's chest. Her cloying scent spread through the cell, wrapping around his fury like a net. His eyes glazed over, and the growl died in his throat.
- "Stand down," she whispered, her voice as soft as it was lethal. "This ritual is mine."
Sett let out a bitter, broken laugh. He had tried, almost managed it—but it wasn't enough. Not even his sharp tongue could save him from this demoness.
Naèvira stepped into the circle. The floor trembled. The salt flared bright, the runes blazed with green fire, licking across the stone like hungry tongues.
Sett convulsed again. Red light flared in his eyes, brighter than before. His skin cracked like shattered porcelain, leaking bloody glow. The wound on his broken arm tore wider. His screams filled the cell—inhuman, unending.
And then Gorvak stirred from her spell.
- "Whore!" he roared, charging with his club.
The circle shuddered. Naèvira spun, impossibly fast. The impact was deafening: the club smashed the altar, candles burst, salt scattered like ash. She swayed serpent-quick, but the ritual faltered.
Black smoke exploded, wild and ravenous. It spiraled around the chamber like a storm unchained.
Naèvira shrieked words in a forbidden tongue. Gorvak swung again, but she met him with a crimson blade of energy that pierced his chest. The brute bellowed, raised his weapon once more, and she slid like a viper, driving her strike into his throat.
Blue blood fountained. Gorvak dropped to his knees, eyes wide, then toppled dead.
The smoke, furious and starving, rushed into Sett.
It ripped through him. His blood boiled. His flesh stitched itself back together. His shattered arm realigned with a crack. From his fingers burst black claws, curved and sharp.
An explosion shook the chamber. The chains strained, then shattered. Sett collapsed to his knees, gasping.
When he raised his head, his eyes burned red like coals.
Naèvira stared, terror and awe tangled in her face. Slowly, trembling, she sank to her knees.
- "My lord…" she whispered.
Sett staggered to his feet. The strength inside him was no longer his own. Step by step, he closed the distance, seizing her throat with one clawed hand.
- "I told you, bitch," his voice thundered, layered with human and demonic echoes, "I'd tear your head off."
Naèvira whimpered, despair clouding her gaze. His grip crushed her neck with a strength no mortal could resist. For an instant, the cell seemed emptied of air; there was nothing but predator and prey.
Then—from beyond the door—a scream. Human. Desperate. Pleading.
Sett's head snapped toward it, red eyes blazing. In that heartbeat, Naèvira dissolved, her body unraveling into smoke, vanishing like torn shadow.
His fist clenched on emptiness.
He did not chase her. He didn't need to. Fire blazed inside him now: he could end her whenever he wished. She could flee a hundred times, and still, he would break her.
With a wrench he ripped away the last shackles from his wrists. The iron twisted like clay in his hands.
He stood, unsteady at first, then tall, firm—something no longer quite human. He drew in a breath. The dungeon stank of blood, fear, broken bodies. And for the first time, the stench didn't choke him. It tasted sweet.
- "Rook…" he whispered, barely audible.
His lips curved into something between a smile and a snarl.
He turned to the door and kicked. Wood exploded into splinters, hinges tore free, the crash echoing through the corridors like the roar of a beast unleashed.
Sett stepped into the dark. The hallway greeted him with screams, clattering chains, the stench of death. The shadows bent toward him as though they recognized their master.
His eyes glowed red, burning in the void.
And for the first time, he did not feel fear.