The wind in the ravine howled like a grieving widow. Ash and ember drifted through the sky, remnants of a ritual that had burned more than just incense. Raikuro crouched beside Ogrhul’s twitching form, his clawed hand wrapped tight in a restraining seal of ash-thread and salt. The demon’s breath came in ragged snarls, mouth foaming with infernal bile.

“Ogrhul,” Raikuro said, voice low but sharp. “Hold the line. You’re not gone. Not yet.”

But Ogrhul’s eyes had turned—a deep crimson, flickering with cracks of hollow light. The first sign of soul-disintegration. The rite with the Ash Priests had saved Raikuro, but the cost was catching up.

“It burns,” Ogrhul hissed, a voice like wet stone breaking. “I was reborn, but the fire eats backwards. Like I never was. Like I never chose.”

“You did choose.” Raikuro gritted his teeth. “I saw it. When you turned on your own to stand with me.”

“Then why do I feel him still?” Ogrhul’s gaze turned glassy. “Dreadvorr calls. Not in words. In ache.”

Suddenly, the earth split with a pulse—no tremor, but a spiritual backlash. Raikuro whipped around. The shadows twisted, birthing a thin, gaunt figure in robes of eel-skin and bone thread. A crown of broken antlers adorned his brow.

“Raikuro,” the figure said, tone serpentine. “How fragile your little court becomes.”

He stepped into the light—a rogue summoner, markings etched across his skin in arcane ink, his presence reeking of enslaved pacts.

“Name yourself,” Raikuro said, rising.

The man bowed slightly. “I am Veyl Tathis. The Brandwright. I have bound seventy-two souls beneath my flesh, and I’ve come for yours.”

With a flick of his fingers, chains made of soulsteel snapped into the air. They spun with predatory grace, racing toward Ogrhul like snakes scenting blood.

Raikuro moved—Hellsteel singing from his back, the black blade a scythe of regret. He struck the chains midair, sparks flying as they screeched against the cursed metal.

“You think to protect him?” Veyl sneered. “That one is breaking. Better he serve me, fully used, than dissolve into demonic waste.”

Ogrhul groaned, his body writhing. “Master… don’t… I am…”

Raikuro glanced back, blade held at guard. “You are free. And freedom means standing—even when you burn.”

Veyl extended a palm, revealing a sealed soul—a screaming mass of swirling red, encased in crystal.

“See this?” he said. “Your demon brethren. They begged for purpose. They screamed for a leash. I gave it. And now, I offer the same to you. Become the last of my circle.”

Raikuro laughed—a low, broken sound. “You misunderstand me.”

He stepped forward. “I am no master. I broke my chains in the blood pits of Cindraal. I fought beside devils because I had no gods left. And when they saw me… really saw me… they chose to stand. That makes them more than weapons. That makes them mine.”

Veyl spat. “Then watch them fall.”

With a guttural chant, Veyl slammed the soul-crystal into the earth. A rupture split the soil—and from it rose a stitched horror: a beast sewn from the limbs of tortured demons, its skull a polished obsidian helm, burning with pale green fire.

Ogrhul tried to rise. His knees buckled.

Raikuro turned. “Ogrhul—fight with me, or be devoured.”

The demon’s breath hitched. His claws flexed.

“I… remember. The child in the crater. You were broken. Like me.”

He stood, slowly—flames lacing up his spine. “Then let’s burn together.”

The soulbound beast charged—six limbs flailing, jaws snapping. Raikuro met it with the Hellsteel, slicing through a limb in one clean arc, the cursed weapon shrieking with soul-hunger. Ogrhul struck from the side, breath igniting into black fire, teeth plunging into the monster’s flank.

Veyl screamed, feeling the feedback through his binding.

The battle spiraled into chaos—arcane sigils colliding, screams lost in wind. Raikuro danced like a man possessed, every strike fueled not by rage, but by purpose. Ogrhul, even fading, moved with raw loyalty, his attacks no longer bestial, but deliberate.

Finally, with one last swing, Raikuro buried the Hellsteel in the stitched creature’s chest. The beast shrieked—then imploded, its captive souls scattering into the aether.

Veyl staggered, bleeding ink. “You… would rather let them choose? Even if they betray you? Even if they fall?”

Raikuro walked forward, blood steaming off his blade. “Yes. Because even a broken flame can warm another. Even a dying light can show the way.”

He plunged the Hellsteel through Veyl’s heart.

Silence fell. The chains clattered to the ground.

Ogrhul collapsed to one knee, but his eyes—clearer now—met Raikuro’s. “You… held me. When I would’ve fallen.”

Raikuro sheathed his blade. “And you rose, when I needed it most.”

The storm passed. And in its wake, two warriors stood—not master and servant, but brothers born in fire.