King stood on the Ratavabaros dock, watching the dark sea crash against the stone pillars. The wind carried that strong smell of salt and rotting seaweed, mixed with the ozone that still lingered after Malthazar's storm.
He gripped the handle of his axe, feeling the worn leather in his palm. The gem on his belt pulsed slightly, as if it had a life of its own. Ignis was beside him, quiet, but the tension in her eyes was visible – those eyes that always seemed to see more than the rest.
"He won't stop," she said softly, almost to herself. "Samael now feels real pain. This changes a lot. He'll want to find a way to get rid of it… or he'll want everyone to feel it too."
King snorted. "Then we finish him off first."
"It's not that simple. For example, the elves of Viceria know things about exiles like him. Runes that bind the essence, seals that exploit the weakness of the flesh. If he goes after that, we have to get there first."
King looked at the horizon. "Viceiria. The elves who think the rest of the world is trash. They only talk to dwarves because they need good iron."
"Exactly."
The two descended to the main dock. The "High Tide" rocked on the waves, its hull marked with old scratches, its sails patched with newer cloth. The captain was at the bow, arms crossed, his beard wet with sea spray.
"You took your time," he grumbled. "The city is recovering, but the rumors are already spreading. People talking about a child who came out from down there. And it seems old Grom was attacked in his forge."
King climbed the plank. The wood groaned under his weight. "We're going to Laranhas."
The captain scratched his beard. "Laranhas has a port that's quite large for an isolated country, full of people. Good for resupplying, bad for staying still. But yes, we'll follow the coast of Puszentia and Grarília, pass the coast of Lamatizia to the elven entrance. The elves don't let just any ship dock – but I have the trade seal. They tolerate me. You… will have to swallow your pride."
Ignis gave a half-smile. "I can handle it."
The ship set sail when night finally fell. The lights of Ratavabaros disappeared behind, turning into tiny yellow dots. The sea was too calm, almost suspicious. On the first few nights, low meows came from the hold, shadows stirred in the corners. Every time a fragment of Mephisto appeared, King descended with his axe, Ignis spat fire, the gem on King's belt grew heavier, hotter, as if it were drinking it all in.
"Will you stop spitting fire?! You'll set the whole ship ablaze!" the captain shouted at Ignis, who immediately obeyed the order.
They arrived in Sosia, on the coast of Grarília, on a gray morning. The port was chaos: ships of all kinds piled up, merchants shouting prices, the smell of spices, fish, and sweat. The captain quickly negotiated supplies, not letting anyone linger too long on the dragonborn or the goliath. "Don't stop," he said.
From Puzentia they sailed down the coast. The sea was rougher, but the wind helped. They passed fishing villages, old fortresses half-eaten by salt, empty beaches where seagulls cried out. Sometimes they saw smoke rising in the distance – burned villages, perhaps. No one commented.
They passed the coast of the Kingdom of Lamatizia, a quick stop for supplies and ship maintenance. They spent about two weeks in the capital Lamatize, a military port that housed most of the country's navy. After those days of docking, they set sail directly for the high seas, towards Laranhas.
When the coast of Viceiria appeared, the air changed. It became fresher, smelling of pine and damp earth. The trees were too tall, their canopies closed like a living roof. Elven sentinels appeared out of nowhere – tall silhouettes, pointed bows, cold eyes.
"Dwarf ship," said what seemed to be the leader, his voice dry. "Show the seal."
The captain raised his arm. The seal gleamed. "I am Jake of Puzentia. I bring a shipment of iron and gems, as well as two tourists."
The elves exchanged glances. One of them spat into the sea – a gesture that King found amusing coming from someone so "superior." But the seal spoke louder.
"Follow. And don't touch anything."
The path to Laranhas was strange. Roots sprouted on their own, vines turned into bridges, and fungal lights guided the way. Everything seemed too alive. King felt the elves' eyes on his back the whole time.
Laranhas was… different. Crystal towers growing inside giant trees, waterfalls cascading slowly as if time were lazy, vine bridges swaying gently. In the middle of it all, the Archdruidess's hall – a structure that pulsed with green light, as if breathing.
Elowen greeted them, standing at the entrance. Tall, with silver hair, a gaze that made one feel small. "Dwarf. You brought… company. Speak."
Jake told everything, short and direct. Elowen carefully picked up the gem, as if it were a snake. "Samael. Lilith broke him. Now he bleeds like us. Our runes can bind him forever… but Viceiria doesn't help strangers for free. There are shadows on the southern edges – echoes of that cat. Clean them, and we'll talk."
King inquired. "Who is Lilith?"
Elowen raised her chin, her silver eyes fixed on King as if he were a dirty stain on the crystal of the hall.
"You, gray giant with your crude axe, think you can come here, soil the sacred ground of Laranhas with your clay boots, and demand answers about Lilith?" Her voice was thin, sharp, laden with a contempt that didn't need to be loud to wound.
"Lilith is a name that shouldn't even leave your mouth. She is ancient, beyond what your limited mind can comprehend. Queen of Hell, mother of legions, she who shatters those who think themselves greater than hell." "And you... you're just a brute wielding iron and thinking that makes you important."
She stepped forward, her dress of living vines whispering on the ground. "If Samael bears her mark, it's because he dared to defy her. And if you think you can hunt him without paying the price she demands... then go. But don't expect Viceiria to clean up your mess. Here, impurities like you only serve to remind us why we keep the borders closed."
She turned her back slowly, as if King had already ceased to exist. "Prove you're worth something by clearing the shadows on the southern borders. Then, perhaps, I'll decide whether to waste more words on you."
They went to the edges of the forest, near the sea. The shadows were indeed there – black feline forms, claws made of darkness, trees twisting as if in pain. King cut, Ignis burned, Janclécio bound. The elves watched from afar, bows lowered, but eyes alert. When it was over, one of them even nodded – the closest thing to respect they were going to get.
Back, Elowen released the ritual. At the Fountain of Stars, a well that reflected the entire sky even in daylight. As they prepared the runes, a laugh came from the darkness.
The laugh came from the darkness like a silken thread wrapped around blades – low, controlled, laden with a pride that didn't need to shout to dominate the air. It wasn't the sound of someone arriving to fight. It was the sound of someone who had already decided that everyone there was unworthy of their full time.
The Fountain of Stars trembled. The water reflected for an instant something beyond the sky: outlines of folded wings, horns that looked like living crowns of shadow. The elven runes that Elowen was tracing began to pulse irregularly, green lines trembling as if trying to move away.
Before the figure was fully formed, the air filled with movement.
Dozens of silhouettes emerged from the giant trees surrounding the fountain. Clerics in emerald-green robes embroidered with leaves that seemed to breathe, carved wooden staffs gleaming with silvery light. Paladins in armor of hardened bark and elven metal, shields bearing the emblem of the Mother Tree raised, long, thin blades already drawn, points aimed at the center of the cave. Their eyes—silver, gold, intense green—fixated on the point where the darkness condensed.
They formed a perfect semicircle, without hesitation, without shouted orders. Discipline was older than the memory of the forest.
Elowen raised her staff, but did not advance. Her voice came out low and firm:
—Stay where you are.
The tallest paladin, a silver scar cutting across his face, replied without averting his gaze:
—Archdruiddess, this is desecration. She does not set foot here uninvited.
Lilith emerged then, unhurriedly. Tall, slender, dressed in layers of black that seemed to absorb the light around her. Hair like liquid night falling to her waist, red eyes that did not blink, but judged every soul present. She stopped a few steps from the fountain, completely ignoring the siege of weapons and magic.
Her eyes went straight to the gem on King's belt—and there they remained, as if the rest were dust.
"You multiply," she said, her voice soft, almost amused. "Like ants defending the anthill. Enchanting."
A younger cleric, luminous runes dancing in his hands, stepped forward, his voice trembling with indignation:
— Demon! You have no right to desecrate the Fountain of Stars!
Lilith turned her face slowly to him. The air grew cold around the cleric. He recoiled involuntarily, the glow in his hands weakening.
— Demon? — she repeated, tasting the word as if it were bitter. "I am older than the concept of a demon, child. And older than the tree you worship as a goddess. Call me what you will. I continue to exist."
She raised her right hand—slowly, without direct threat. Long fingers, nails as black as obsidian. She didn't touch anyone. She didn't need to.
A dry crack echoed, not in the air, but somewhere beyond visible reality. Invisible chains snapped with a sound that made teeth grind. Something broke free. Something that still remained of an ancient connection, an anchor he had carried even after fleeing.
Lilith lowered her hand.
"There," she said, her tone calm, almost bored. "The chains that still bound him to my blood… broken forever. He fled long ago, thinking freedom was escape. But freedom without a leash is only unfiltered pain. Now he feels every wound he inflicted on himself reflected in his body. Every soul he swallowed has become pure poison within him. Every drop of my fire that he stole now burns from the inside out. He bleeds. He burns. He dies slowly. This is what happens when you try to be like me."
She looked at King, ignoring the circle formed as if they were statues.
"I don't return what is rightfully mine. The souls he absorbed? They remain where they are—digested, transformed, trapped within him like thorns he cannot pull out. He carries them like a disease that consumes him. Foolish pride. It has always been his flaw."
A paladin stepped forward, blade gleaming with holy light.
"You freed him to attack us!"
Lilith smiled—a smile devoid of warmth, filled with serene contempt.
"I stripped him bare. I removed the last vestige of the crutch he used to pretend he still had control. He is weaker. More vulnerable. More desperate. If he comes after you now, it will be because pride won't let him accept that he is finite. And pride, my dears, makes fools commit marvelous errors."
She looked around, finally recognizing the encirclement.
"You can attack me if you want. You can try. But know this: I didn't come to fight. I came to correct an old mistake. His mistake. When I'm finished, you will have a fallen one bleeding, aching, hunting tooth and nail. And I… will be watching. Because no one equals me. Not him. Not you."
She began to dissolve into threads of shadow, unhurriedly, fearlessly. The paladins kept their weapons raised, but no one attacked. Something in her presence held them motionless—not fear, but the crushing weight of a pride that made theirs seem like child's play.
Before disappearing completely, her voice echoed one last time, low and sharp:
—Continue with your runes. Bind him while it still hurts. But remember: I didn't come for mercy. I came because he dared to defy me. And the price of audacity… is always paid.
Darkness closed in. The laughter faded.
The clerics and paladins slowly lowered their weapons, their gazes still fixed on the void where she had been. Some breathed heavily. Others murmured low prayers.
Elowen exhaled, her staff trembling slightly.
—She didn't give us a victory—she murmured. —She gave us a fallen one without a leash… and without protection. Weaker. More cruel. More dangerous.
King touched the gem, still warm, still echoing what had been stolen.
"Then we finish the ritual," he said, his voice hoarse. "We bind him while he's still reeling from the pain."
Ignis placed his hand on his shoulder.
"And when he comes…"
The scarred paladin, Tharion, turned to them. For the first time, there was something beyond contempt in his eyes—reluctant respect.
"If he comes," he said, "he won't come alone. The forest remembers debts. And Lilith just reminded us of one."
The light from the Star Fountain shone brighter.
Elowen looked up at the paladin, then shifted to King. Her eyes lingered on the gray giant, as if seeing him for the first time in reality.
"Lilith has many names. Depending on the civilization, the continent, the era. The same is true of the concept you call hell. It's not a fixed place, with iron gates and lakes of fire. It's an idea that molds itself to the fear of each people. For some, it's a realm of eternal ice and insatiable hunger. For others, a desert of ashes where the sun never rises. For you here in Viceiria, it's the shadow that forms between the roots of ancient trees. But the name… the name changes."
She paused, looking directly at King now.
"In the culture you come from, giant—in the frozen lands of the north, where the axe is law and winter is god—she's called…"
King blinked once. It wasn't a complete surprise—ancient stories, told around campfires in stone halls, always mentioned her, the guardian of the realm of the dead, the one who received those who died of illness or old age, not in battle. Hela, pale and beautiful on one side, rotten and black on the other. Hela, who neither forgave nor forgot.
But this also reminded him of when he was in the oracle's temple, in the Water Kingdom, that vision of his... it was something he would never forget.
But this also reminded him of when he was in the oracle's temple, in the Water Kingdom, that vision... it was something he would never forget.
"...Hela," he finished, his voice hoarse, almost a growl. "The Goddess of Death."
Elowen nodded slowly.
"Exactly. And if she is Hela to her people, then what you call hell is Niflheim—the realm of cold mist, of rivers of poison, of never-ending hunger. And the demon of darkness that prowls behind it... that would be Nidhogg, perhaps. Or something worse. The serpent that gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil, waiting for the day when everything collapses. Lilith—or Hela—knows that this void is bigger than her. Bigger than any name they give it. She can rule one hell, but not all nine."
Ignis crossed her arms, heat emanating from her in subtle waves.
— So why did she release his chains? Why didn't she let him rot in there, trapped in his own pain?
Elowen touched the gem on King's belt with her fingertips—a light, almost respectful touch.
— Because she sees in him what no one else sees. Potential. Not to be a servant. Not to be a dog. To be the new master. A king who can hold the throne she never truly wanted to occupy entirely. Ruling hell is tedious. It's bureaucracy of souls and torments. She prefers to be the queen who observes, the one who dictates the rules without getting her hands dirty. If he survives what she did—the raw pain, without a collar, without crutches—if he manages to rise from the bloodied ground… then perhaps he is worthy. A new hell. A Niflheim with a king who is not her.
King gripped the axe handle until the leather creaked.
— And if he isn't worthy? If the void swallows him first?
Elowen smiled—a smile devoid of joy.
"So the demon of darkness wins. And all the names—Lilith, Hela, queen of hell, lady of Niflheim—become mere echoes in a void that no longer needs kings or queens. She watches. Always watches. For her, this isn't defeat. It's… curiosity."
Tharion snorted, but this time the sound came out more tired than angry.
"So we're in the middle of a family feud between gods with different names. And the prize is the whole world turning to ash or ice."
King swung his axe once, the movement slow and deliberate.
"No. The prize is that we keep breathing. If he becomes king of hell, or becomes food for the void… it doesn't change the fact that he'll come after us first. With pain, with hatred, with everything that's left."
He looked at Elowen.
"Finish the ritual, Archdruid. Bind him while he's still bleeding." If Hela—or Lilith—wants a new king, let her look elsewhere. This one… we'll send him back to the ice he knows.
Elowen nodded gravely.
"The runes are ready. But know this: if he escapes… if he survives what she did… he will no longer be the fallen one who fled. He will be something that learned to hurt like a mortal. And mortals with pain and ambition are the most dangerous of all."
The green light of the Star Fountain enveloped the circle once more. The clerics resumed their low chants. The paladins formed a guard, blades pointed outward.
The green light of the Star Fountain pulsed powerfully, the runes etched on the floor and crystal walls vibrating in perfect harmony—until they no longer vibrated.
A dry crack cut through the air, like the sound of a bowstring snapping in absolute silence.
The green lines twisted, trembling like severed veins. One by one, the runes began to crumble: first the outermost, then the innermost, as if someone had wiped away ink with a damp cloth. The light didn't gradually diminish—it shattered. Fragments of green glow fell like shattered glass, evaporating before touching the ground. The fountain trembled once, the water rippling violently, then calmed. The reflection of the sky returned, clean, serene, empty.
Elowen stood motionless for a full second, her staff still raised, her silver eyes wide.
"The rune… it broke," she whispered.
Tharion twirled the sword in his hand, searching for a threat that didn't exist.
"How? Nothing touched here. No intruder, no shadow. The sentinels would have sensed it."
King tightened his grip on the gem in his belt. It didn't pulse. It didn't warm. It didn't respond. It was dead—not cold, not hot, just… absent. It was as if the thread connecting her to something distant had been severed with surgical precision.
Ignis exhaled thin smoke, his eyes narrowed.
"He did it. Even from so far away. Even without setting foot here. He destroyed the only way to track him."
Elowen lowered her staff slowly, her fingers trembling slightly for the first time since Lilith had appeared.
"Antimagic isn't enough to break elven containment runes. They're woven into the very essence of the forest. Only someone who understands the mechanism… someone who has felt their weight before… could undo them from a distance. He didn't attack. He undid them. Calmly. Intentionally. Like someone uprooting a root they no longer want."
Tharion sheathed his sword forcefully, the sound echoing in the now silent cave.
"So he knows we were expecting it. He knows we tried to contain him. And he chose to say: 'I don't need this anymore.'"
King looked at the inert gem. Then at Ignis.
"He didn't run away. He freed himself again. This time from us. From the gem. From anything that could point to where he is."
Ignis nodded slowly.
"And the girl… or what's left of her… is safe with him. They are one now. He no longer needs to be tracked because he no longer intends to be found. Not out of anger. Not out of ambition. Just… out of choice."
Elowen touched the surface of the fountain. The water was still, without ripples, without distorted reflections. As if the ritual had never existed.
"He destroyed the link. Not out of fear. For privacy. For peace. Or for something we don't even understand. Viceiria can remain closed. The sentinels can guard the borders. But the fallen one… or what he became… is no longer on the board."
She looked up at King and Ignis—the only ones who had seen enough to understand.
— You two carry the last piece that remains of him: the memory. And the gem that is now just a stone. If one day he decides he wants to be seen again… you will feel it. Until then…
King covered the gem with his large hand, like someone burying something that no longer needs to be unearthed.
— Until then, we move on. He moves on. And the world moves on, unaware that hell has gained a master who prefers to remain silent.
Ignis placed his hand on his shoulder, warm scales against gray skin.
— Better this way. At least for now.
The cave fell silent. The vines closed at the entrances. The Fountain of Stars shone softly, reflecting only the sky—no runes, no echoes, no promises of struggle.
Far away, in Ratavabaros, in the rebuilt forge, the two—one—sat near the low fire.
The bracelet pulsed slowly, a steady rhythm that stifled any attempt to search, any whisper of magic that tried to reach them.
They didn't look at the sea, they didn't need to. The link was broken, they were free.