The city of Nexora sprawled like an open wound upon the world, its corpse of obsidian towers jutting skyward like broken teeth. The remnants of ramparts sagged inward, half-consumed by centuries of decay, the stone sunk deep into the black canyon that cradled it. Above, no stars dared pierce the veil of smoke and shadow, and the moon—when it appeared at all—hung like a dim ember, smothered by ash. The air was thick, almost viscous, carrying whispers that slithered across the ear as though the countless dead who had once dwelled here had left their voices behind. Beyond Nexora stretched wastelands without end: a desert of soot beneath a sky bruised purple and gray, where ash fell in ceaseless drifts like snow and the ground split with hairline cracks that bled faint molten light.

At the city’s heart loomed the Citadel of Thorns, a fortress that seemed less constructed than exhumed from some abyssal depth. Its battlements were not stone but strata of hardened shadow, veins of darkness winding through it like arteries. The walls pulsed faintly, each throb like the beat of an unseen heart. From afar, one could swear the fortress was alive—and from within, none could doubt it.

The throne chamber within was vast as a cathedral, its height vanishing into a canopy of smoke. Rivers of green fire burned in suspended braziers, their light casting no warmth, only sickness. There, upon a throne forged from blackened dragon skulls and latticed with ribs of ancient titans, sat the Demon King. He was tall, a figure draped in shadow that writhed and shifted like living smoke. His helm was wrought from jagged obsidian, obscuring half his face, though no mask could hide the twin eyes that burned from within—cold and colorless, white like stars drowned in the void. To meet that gaze was to feel one’s mind scrape against madness. His presence pressed upon the chamber like the pressure of the ocean’s deepest trench, an endless weight that made even the act of drawing breath feel poisonous.

Across the wasteland, Kaelith staggered through the desolation. His glaive dragged a furrow through the dust, its once-glorious blade chipped and scarred. His armor hung from him in twisted, broken plates; his flesh blistered and burned beneath. Every step sent pain spiking through his body. Every breath clawed at his lungs, full of smoke and humiliation. The fire still clung to him, crawling beneath his skin—not his own fire, but theirs.

The Heroes.

Children. Barely trained. And still they had wounded him. Still they had left their mark.

Kaelith’s snarl was bitter as iron. Shame churned like acid in his gut. “Summoned brats… and yet—” He cut the thought short, forcing himself forward, toward the fortress gates.

The obsidian towers clawed upward before him, their spires etched with scars of flame and claw, each stone vein pulsing faintly like some malignant organ. The air thickened the nearer he drew, pressing against his shoulders, the magic of the place cloying with the stink of ancient blood.

Two guardians stood at the entrance, demons of grotesque stature, four-armed and armored in carapace thicker than iron. They bowed as he approached, lowering their monstrous heads, but their eyes did not rise to meet his. They already knew. Word traveled faster than Kaelith himself.

He ignored them, shoving past into the throne hall.

The chamber swallowed him whole. Pillars of bone spiraled upward, ribcages and femurs fused into unnatural columns, carved with runes so old they hummed faintly with each breath. The molten rivers cut channels through the floor, glowing red beneath lattices of obsidian. At the hall’s far end, the throne awaited him, and upon it, the king who was less a man than a wound in reality.

The Demon King did not need to move, or even look, for Kaelith to feel himself unraveling before him.

“You have returned,” the King said, his words like the grinding of tectonic plates, the shifting of mountains, the groan of a world breaking.

Kaelith dropped to his knees, his body screaming with each motion, his forehead pressed to the cold stone. “My lord. I faced them. The summoned ones.”

A silence stretched across the chamber, heavy and endless, as though the world itself held its breath.

“And?”

Kaelith clenched his jaw until his teeth cracked. “They… live.”

The air grew colder. The molten rivers dimmed, the fire shrinking inward as though in fear of their master. The silence pressed tighter, until Kaelith’s chest burned for air.

“You let mortals—newborns—strike you down?” The words were soft, yet each syllable slid deeper than any blade, cutting not flesh but pride.

Kaelith pressed himself lower. His humiliation bled into the stone. “Forgive me, lord. I underestimated them. Their powers are raw, but dangerous. One wields fire born of the soul. The other… bends time itself.”

The throne shifted. The Demon King leaned forward slightly. Shadows thickened, dripping from his frame like tar.

“Good.”

Kaelith’s head snapped up despite himself. “Good…?”

“Their strength feeds the world’s despair. Hope must flare, if its death is to be exquisite. When they fall, the ashes of their dreams will be sweeter.”

The sound that followed was no mere laughter—it was the earth breaking, the void itself exhaling. It shook Kaelith’s bones, rattled his teeth, set his wounds to weeping.

“Do not fail me again,” the Demon King said, the words final as a tomb. “The next time you stand before them, you will bring me their broken bodies. Or I will take yours instead.”

Kaelith bowed so low his lips brushed the floor. Blood filled his mouth. “Yes, my lord.”

The shadows recoiled, dismissing him. He rose, humiliated yet breathing, hatred blistering through him hotter than the fire that had scarred his flesh. He clutched his glaive tighter, the promise burning in his chest.

“Next time,” he whispered through gritted teeth, “I will tear their hope apart with my own hands.”

In Wolfbreach Village, dusk settled heavy. Smoke still curled from ruined cottages, embers glowing faint in the skeletal remains of homes. Ethan sat on a shattered wall, his hands wrapped in linen, staring blankly at the bruised sky. His body was battered, but worse was the gnawing doubt in his chest.

Knights combed the rubble for survivors. Villagers clung to one another, weeping amid the ruins. For them, it was salvation. For Ethan, it was survival—and survival felt too much like failure.

Maya sat nearby, pale and exhausted, a blanket across her shoulders. Her journal lay open, her hand trembling as she wrote. She didn’t just record strategies—Ethan knew. She wrote to force order on the chaos, to wrest meaning out of terror. If she stopped writing, it would all unravel.

He couldn’t shake Kaelith’s laughter. Couldn’t shake the memory of losing control, of nearly burning everything—including Maya—alive. If she hadn’t pulled me back…

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Ethan asked, his voice cracked.

“Yes,” Maya said, without looking up.

“Great,” he muttered, anger rising to smother his fear. “Something to look forward to.”

She closed the journal, meeting his gaze. Her voice was steady despite the dark circles under her eyes. “We survived. That’s enough, for now.”

For a moment, Ethan almost believed her. Almost. But then fury boiled up. He leapt to his feet, exhaustion twisting into anger. “Enough? We’re supposed to be Heroes! We barely survived against one of them! We shouldn’t have even revealed ourselves yet!”

“Relax, Ethan,” she said coolly. “We’re wasting strength by—”

“Don’t tell me to relax!” His Soulfire flared, scorching the earth beside him. “I was torn apart in that fight while you just stood back and scribbled notes—”

“Enough.”

Sir Aldric’s hand fell heavy on Ethan’s shoulder. His voice was iron. “Both of you fought admirably. Infighting is the Demon King’s victory. Do not gift it to him.”

Maya’s eyes glistened with hurt she refused to show. Ethan bit back words, shame twisting inside him, but pride forced him to lash out at Aldric instead. “What if the Demon King doesn’t even exist? What if this was just some random half-demon in a nowhere village? What if all this is a lie?”

“You are a fool,” Aldric said simply.

“What?”

“Kaelith is no random half-demon. He is one of the Demon King’s warlords. You faced his general. And lived.”

The words struck harder than any blade. Ethan blinked, stunned. Maya’s mask cracked, shock clear in her eyes.

“But Veylan never told us,” Ethan said, voice rising. “Why wouldn’t he tell us? We’re the ones fighting!”

Aldric’s sigh was heavy. “Details matter little. The Oath bound you not just to slay the Demon King, but to help those who suffer. That is what it means to be chosen. To stand where no one else can.”

Maya’s voice was soft, but resolute. “He’s right. Even I thought we should only focus on the bigger war. But… if we can save lives, shouldn’t we? Isn’t that what matters?” She gestured to the villagers huddled around fires, their eyes filled with fragile gratitude. “They’re alive because of us.”

Ethan stared at them, at the people clinging to hope he didn’t feel himself. He looked at his bandaged hands, the fire inside them, the weight of expectations. His throat tightened. “You’re right,” he said, too quiet. “As usual.”

Maya heard but let him keep his pride. “I forgive you.”

Morning came gray and damp. Ash clung to the air like frost. Ethan woke restless, shame still gnawing at him. Outside, he found Maya already writing, eyes shadowed but steady.

“You’re still writing?” he asked hoarsely.

She gave him a faint smile. “If I don’t, I’ll lose the patterns. I need to understand.”

He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

She met his gaze. “I told you—I forgave you.”

For a moment, they weren’t Heroes or pawns. Just two strangers far from home, holding on by a thread.

In Arathen’s palace, marble halls gleamed with lamplight. King Gravell sat at the head of the council table, silver circlet bright against dark hair, his face grave and calculating. Advisors whispered like vultures circling carrion.

“The Oath holds,” said High Magus Selora, voice sharp as glass. “They faced Kaelith and lived. That alone is proof.”

Another lord scoffed. “And nearly died! What good is power if it limps from battle?”

Selora’s eyes cut like blades. “What good is impatience, if it squanders the only weapons we possess?”

Gravell raised a hand. His voice was calm, but iron lay beneath. “The people rejoice. Songs spread already of fire raining from the sky, of time itself bending. That is what matters.”

“But sire,” Veylan pressed, “should we not accelerate their training? If the Demon King has loosed his warlords already, time is against us.”

The king leaned back, fingers steepled. “Time has always been against us. But stories grow in the telling. Let hope swell. When the final battle comes, belief itself may tip the scales.”

Selora’s gaze narrowed. “And the Heroes themselves? Do they know they are pawns in this larger game?”

Gravell’s smile was thin as a knife. “Heroes need not know they are pawns. So long as they move where we guide them.”

The silence that followed was heavy with unease. Not all in that chamber shared his certainty. Not all shared his ruthlessness. But none challenged him aloud.

Outside, whispers spread through the palace: whispers of the Heroes, of Kaelith, of destiny.

In the wastelands, Kaelith’s hatred sharpened.
In Wolfbreach, Ethan and Maya struggled with fear, guilt, and the weight of hope.
And in Arathen, politics spun its web tighter around them.

Three fronts. One war.

The Demon King was patient.

And the first blood had only just been spilled.