Dawn broke over the Dunzel estate like a bruise spreading across pale skin—purple and gray, reluctant to commit to full light. The manor's silhouette remained dark against the gradually brightening sky, its windows empty eyes that had witnessed too much and remembered nothing.
In his barred chamber, Blake lay motionless.
His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, each breath barely disturbing the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to his frame. The blue veins that had glowed so violently hours before had faded to faint tracery beneath his skin, visible only when moonlight—now retreating before dawn—caught them at certain angles. His face was pale, drawn, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like bruises. Dried blood crusted one nostril where vessels had burst under the strain of his transformation.
The system window hovered above him, its glow dimmed to barely perceptible, displaying a single line:
[User Status: Recovery Mode - Do Not Disturb]
Even in unconsciousness, his body twitched occasionally—fingers spasming, eyelids fluttering as dreams or nightmares played behind them. Inside, three forces continued their uneasy dance, settling into patterns that defied nature's laws, finding balance in imbalance.
Blake did not wake. Would not wake for hours yet.
His borrowed body demanded payment for what had been forced upon it, and payment would be extracted in full.
The main hall of the Dunzel estate had seen better centuries.
Vaulted ceilings stretched overhead, their grandeur undermined by water stains spreading like maps of forgotten continents. Dust motes danced in the shafts of early light piercing through narrow windows. A long table dominated the center—oak, once magnificent, now scarred by age and neglect. Chairs lined both sides, their cushions moth-eaten, their frames creaking under even the slightest weight.
Ferolina sat at the head of the table, posture perfect despite the uncomfortable seat. Her white cloak draped over the chair's back, the crimson fire crest catching morning light like fresh blood. Before her, a clay cup steamed with bitter tea—the only hospitality Corren could manage from the estate's depleted stores.
She had not slept. Sleep was a luxury High Inquisitors learned to abandon when duty called.
Her fingers drummed against the table's surface in patterns only she understood, mind reviewing the events at Redfront. The ritual circle. The tower of corpses. The demon's claw marks gouged into reality itself. Something massive had tried to force its way through—and nearly succeeded.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Heavy. Purposeful. Multiple pairs.
Sir Gareth appeared first, holding the door open. "Ms. Ferolina. The Chief Inquisitor has arrived."
She straightened slightly, though her expression remained carved from stone. "Show him in."
The man who entered commanded space simply by existing within it.
Chief Inquisitor Aldric Varn stood well over six feet, shoulders broad enough to blot out doorways. His armor was not the ceremonial silver of pageantry but battle-worn steel, dented and repaired countless times, each scar a story of survival. A great cloak hung from his shoulders—not crimson like Ferolina's, but deep purple edged with gold, the colors of the Grand Inquisitor's direct authority. His face was all hard angles and weathered leather, a gray beard trimmed close, eyes the color of storm clouds that had seen too many horrors to be shocked by new ones.
He carried a sealed letter in one gauntleted hand, the wax stamped with an unfamiliar crest.
"Aldric," Ferolina greeted, voice neutral but respectful. She did not rise. To rise would be to acknowledge superior rank, and within her jurisdiction, they were equals.
"Ferolina." He moved to the opposite end of the table, deliberately choosing distance over intimacy. The chair protested his weight but held. "I see you've made yourself comfortable in this tomb."
"The Baron's hospitality leaves much to desire." Her red eyes tracked him with predatory focus. "Though I suspect you didn't ride through for an hour to discuss interior decoration."
"No." He placed the letter on the table between them, sliding it forward with one finger. "This reached me at dawn. A runner from the eastern checkpoints. Baron Mathiel sent a squad to collect his son three days ago—escort him safely back to the capital for the Harvest Festival. They should have reached the estate, Yesterday . And I was waiting to meet them here."
Ferolina's expression didn't change, but her drumming fingers stilled. "And?"
"They were attacked. Two days' ride from here, on the forest road." Aldric's voice was gravel grinding against stone. "Ambush. Professional work. Twenty men hit them—maybe more. The Baron's guards fought well, but they were outnumbered and unprepared."
"Casualties?"
"Seven dead. The rest injured badly enough to be useless." He leaned back, the chair squealing. "Only thing they managed to relay before the runner left was that the young master—Blake Dunzel—somehow escaped during the chaos. Fled toward the nearest town."
"Redfront," Ferolina said quietly.
"Exactly." Aldric's storm-cloud eyes narrowed. "Which brings us to why you're here instead of pursuing black mages in the southern territories like your orders specified."
Ferolina lifted her tea, sipping once before setting it down with deliberate care. "Plans changed. We received reports of unusual activity in this region—whispers of demon summoning, blood rituals, entire livestock herds vanishing overnight. I diverted to investigate."
"And what did you find?"
The question hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
Ferolina's fingers resumed their drumming, a tell she permitted herself only in private company. "Redfront is gone."
Aldric's jaw tightened. "Gone."
"Every soul. Men, women, children, elderly—exterminated. We arrived to find the town empty, blood dried in the streets, and a ritual site in the central square." Her voice remained clinical, delivering horror as fact. "Mass sacrifice. Hundreds of bodies stacked in concentric circles around a summoning array. The kind of power required for that..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "They weren't summoning an imp or lesser demon. This was an attempt to breach the veil entirely. To drag something ancient through."
The Chief Inquisitor's hand curled into a fist. "Did they succeed?"
"Partially." Ferolina's red eyes gleamed in the morning light. "The summoning failed—the world's laws rejected the intrusion, tore the demon apart before full manifestation. But..." She leaned forward slightly. "Something got through. The least its fragment of a Greater Demon or might be of a Demon King. A piece of demonic essence small enough to slip past the veil's defenses before it sealed."
"And where is this fragment now?"
"Unknown. Likely attached itself to a vessel, a living host. It would need one to survive in our realm." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "We found no survivors at Redfront. If anyone escaped that massacre, they would have been exposed to the ritual's culmination—prime candidates for possession."
The implications settled over them like ash from a funeral pyre.
Aldric stood abruptly, pacing to the narrow window. Outside, the estate grounds lay quiet, morning mist clinging to overgrown hedges. "The boy. Blake Dunzel. If he reached Redfront during the ritual..."
"Then he's either dead, or he's carrying something inside him that shouldn't exist." Ferolina finished the thought with brutal efficiency.
"Wonderful." Aldric's voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. "The queen sends me to retrieve one spoiled noble brat for her prophecy nonsense, and instead I'm chasing a potential demon host through the countryside."
"The queen's prophecy?" Ferolina's interest sharpened like a blade finding its edge.
Aldric waved dismissively. "You didn't hear? The old shaman died delivering her final vision three nights ago. Collapsed right in the throne room after screaming one name to the heavens." He turned from the window, face grim. "Blake Dunzel. The prophecy claims he'll either raise the Olura Empire to unprecedented glory or burn it to ashes. No middle ground. No maybe. Just salvation or apocalypse."
Ferolina absorbed this information with visible calculation. "That explains the assassination attempts."
"What?"
"We were attacked eighteen times on the road here. Mercenaries, brigands, what looked like professional assassins—all targeting the carriage where I was holding prisoners." She gestured vaguely toward the upper floors. "One of those prisoners is currently locked in a chamber upstairs. A young man matching Blake Dunzel's description, though he was dressed as a commoner and claimed no name when we found him."
Aldric's eyes widened fractionally—the closest he came to showing surprise. "You have him? Here?"
"Possibly. He's certainly someone important, given how many people want him dead." Ferolina stood, moving to stand beside Aldric at the window. "But there's something wrong with him. Last night, I heard him screaming—not pain, exactly. Something else. Like his body was being rewritten from the inside out."
"Possession."
She glanced sidelong at the Chief Inquisitor. "If he survived Redfront, if he witnessed the ritual's culmination and lived, he would have been bathed in demonic energy and raw mana simultaneously. That combination..." She shook her head. "It should have killed him instantly. Torn his body apart at the molecular level."
"But if it didn't?"
"Then we're dealing with something unprecedented." Ferolina's voice carried equal parts fascination and dread. "A human vessel containing demonic corruption without being fully possessed. A hybrid existence that shouldn't be possible."
Aldric was silent for a long moment, staring out at the misty grounds. Finally, he spoke, voice heavy with decision. "I need to see him. If there's even the slightest chance he's alive—if he's truly Blake Dunzel—I have to confirm it. The queen's orders were explicit."
"And if he's dead? If he died at Redfront and this boy upstairs is just some survivor we picked up by chance?"
"Then I relay that information to the capital and let the queen's seers tear their hair out over failed prophecies." Aldric turned from the window, decision made. "But I don't believe in coincidences. Too many threads converging on one point—assassination attempts, demon rituals, prophecies. Something's orchestrating this."
"Which means we have a leak in the palace. Someone with access to the throne room, someone who could get word out before the queen's agents mobilized." Aldric's expression darkened further. "This goes deeper than demon summoning. This is treason, conspiracy at the highest levels."
"Your problem, not mine." Ferolina moved back toward the table. "My jurisdiction is hunting black mages and sealing demonic breaches. Court politics can rot for all I care."
"Fair enough." Aldric followed, boots heavy on worn floorboards. "But if that boy upstairs is Blake Dunzel, he's my responsibility now. The queen wants him brought to the capital alive."
"And if he's possessed?"
"Then we purge the demon and hope enough of the boy survives to fulfill the prophecy." Aldric's voice was cold, practical. "If not... well, destruction was always one of the options anyway."
Ferolina's lips curved into something resembling dark amusement. "You're a pragmatist. I appreciate that."
"Twenty years hunting heretics and demon cultists will do that." He moved toward the door, then paused. "I'll need one of the Baron's surviving guards—someone who can identify Blake Dunzel by sight. Can't trust description alone when dealing with possible shapeshifting or possession."
"I'll have Sir Gareth arrange it." Ferolina called after him.
Aldric stopped in the doorway, not turning around. "If the boy is alive, if he's truly the one from the prophecy, and if he's carrying demonic corruption... Ferolina, this could start a war. The Holy Empire, the Magic Tower, every faction with an agenda will want to either control him or eliminate him."
"I know."
"And if we have to fight black mages to keep him safe—or to kill him ourselves if he's too corrupted—are you prepared for that?"
Ferolina's red eyes burned with cold fire. "I've been fighting black mages since before you finished your inquisitor training, Aldric. One more battle won't make a difference."
He finally turned, offering her a grim nod of respect. "Then we're agreed. I'll verify the boy's identity, assess his condition, and if he's Blake Dunzel and still salvageable, we move him to the capital under maximum security. If he's a demon host beyond saving..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
"When do you leave?" Ferolina asked.
"Within the hour. I'll take twenty knights, one of the Baron's guards, and enough holy relics to burn down a demon lord if necessary." Aldric's hand rested on his sword hilt. "With luck, we'll have answers by nightfall. Without luck..." He shrugged. "Well, the black mages won't be the only ones dying today."
He strode from the hall, cloak billowing behind him, purpose radiating from every step.
Ferolina remained at the window, watching the sun fully crest the horizon. Light spilled across the estate grounds, driving back shadows but revealing only decay and abandonment.
Somewhere upstairs, Blake Dunzel—or whoever he truly was—lay unconscious, his body housing forces that should have annihilated him. Three souls bound in one flesh. Human, demon, and something from beyond this world entirely.
The prophecy claimed he would raise the empire to glory or burn it to ashes.
And she would have a front-row seat to watch which fire burned brightest.