Chapter 1

Marielle

I tread over scorched earth and broken cobblestones, the acrid scent of burnt wood and charred flesh lingering in the air. Everything around me carries the memory of bright flames that tore through the night only days ago. I still taste ash on my tongue as I weave around collapsed walls and splintered timbers. My home—what once passed for a quiet little settlement on Protheka’s northern continent—is little more than smoldering wreckage.

My gaze settles on a fallen cart with one broken wheel, overturned where the blacksmith’s shop used to stand. Embers glow faintly beneath a heap of debris, as if the place itself refuses to let the fires die. Whenever I pause, I hear the wind blowing through what remains of the watchtower. It makes a hollow, mournful sound drags like static along my nerves.

I was never a soldier, never a mage—just a girl with callused hands and a knack for coaxing carrots from rocky soil. Now, I’m the only one rummaging through what’s left. The others, those who survived, have fled toward distant farmsteads or hidden in the hills. We all believed we might rebuild, but the roving horde of beasts that came through stole that certainty.

My breaths deepen, and I shut my eyes to steady myself. I am of average height, with a frame made sturdy by years of labor, not by training in arms. Brown hair falls around my shoulders in uneven locks. I usually braided it before heading to the fields, but I haven’t had the time—or the spirit—to manage that in the midst of chaos. My skin is smudged with soot, the green of my eyes dulled by the grief I’ve carried since the first screams shattered our peaceful routine.

I spot the old chapel ahead—a battered structure of dark stone, half of its roof caved in. Light streams through jagged openings where stained-glass windows once glowed with dawn’s brilliance. The chapel was a gathering place for our small community, a place to pray for a good harvest or gather to celebrate new births. Everything we cherished about it has turned to rubble and ashes.

A soft crunch underfoot makes me stiffen. My boot dislodges a scorched prayer bench, the wood black and brittle. I lean down, lifting a hand to shift some of the debris. A faint sense of reverence stirs in me, a ghost of old beliefs. Though I’m no devout worshipper of the Thirteen—dark elven gods who rarely concern themselves with human pleas—this chapel was still a haven.

The once-sturdy door hangs crooked on its hinges, and I squeeze past it, gaze scanning the interior. Slivers of sunlight illuminate swirling dust motes. Broken pews are shoved aside. An altar stands cracked and defiled. I swallow hard. Even in ruin, the chapel has a quiet dignity that stings my heart.

Then something catches my eye—a ragged book poking out beneath a fallen candelabrum. I push aside splintered wood, freeing the battered tome. Its leather cover is singed at the edges, but the binding holds. I trace a hesitant fingertip across the cover, trying to read the faded text. Gold lettering peeks through the soot, letters twisted and archaic.

I step back, letting daylight fall across the pages. Inside, thick parchment is scrawled with swirling script, diagrams that look suspiciously like summoning circles, and runes I can’t decipher at a glance. My chest tightens. Is this some relic of dark elven worship? The Thirteen’s magic often deals in shadows and blood. Our village never had illusions of grandeur—why store something so dangerous here?

I inhale, fighting a surge of unease. Then I remember the fresh graves out back, the missing faces from my childhood, and a grim determination seeps into my bones. Something dreadful tore through here. Monstrous creatures— twisted orcs from the deeper wilds—stormed in, leaving devastation. We survivors had no means to repel them. If they return, the handful of families hidden away in barns or behind half-collapsed walls won’t stand a chance.

My fingers tighten on the book’s cover. If this text holds a key—any key—to driving those beasts away, I have to use it. I can’t endure that helplessness again. I can still feel the trembling ground as our attackers roared through the night. No swords or pitchforks could stop them. If there’s power here, maybe I can harness it. Maybe.

My heart hammers as I sift through the pages. A chill passes over me when I glimpse spidery runes describing a ritual circle, and next to it, a rough translation in cramped handwriting: “Binding of lesser fiends to mortal will.” I stare. A lesser fiend? A demon? The lines of text mention a contract, a summoner’s intention, and a warding sigil.

I’m not well-versed in magic. Humans rarely are, especially humans who grew up in farmland. The dark elves have always hoarded their arcane knowledge, lording it over other races. Yet here in my hands is something that might tip the scales of survival—if I can make sense of it.

I chew on my lower lip, glancing around. The chapel is vacant, but sunlight reveals open floor space near the altar. My mind conjures the memory of those monstrous marauders. They left behind such carnage. If a “lesser fiend” can be forced to guard us from future raids, then maybe I can give the surviving families a chance to rebuild or escape.

My pulse races. I know this is reckless. I’ve heard stories: demons stand taller than mortal men, their strength beyond reason, their hunger for chaos legendary. But the scrawled note in the margin says, “For minor demon, the cost is small. Summoner’s will must be firm.”

Small cost? I almost laugh at the absurdity. But the alternative is waiting for the next horde to tear through what remains of our lives. I swallow my fear, brush soot off the battered pages, and step to the altar. The ground is strewn with shattered pottery and scorched drapery, but there’s enough space to draw a circle if I move debris aside.

I set the grimoire on a stone ledge. Kneeling, I push burnt scraps away, clearing a circle on the stone floor. I can’t read every word of the runes, so I follow the diagrams as faithfully as possible. Each line must be precise. My finger trembles as I mark the edges with charcoal from a fallen rafter. Even though I lack formal training, a primal certainty floods me: if I do this incorrectly, the consequences will be dire.

When I finish, I brush my hands on my skirts. They’re tattered and stained, a reminder of the life I once had. My reflection in a shard of broken mirror near the altar shows me a gaunt face smudged with soot, hair tangled. Green eyes that once held naive optimism now reflect a grim sense of purpose.

I check the text again. “Speak the incantation with conviction. The demon will answer the call if your intent is pure.” My intent is to protect. That’s pure enough, right?

Wind gusts through the gaping hole in the roof as I rise. My stomach churns. The book demands a small offering of blood—just enough to forge the link. I dig a flint blade from my belt pouch, draw it lightly across my palm. Crimson dots well up. I press my hand onto the edge of the circle, letting the blood bead and trickle into the etched lines.

A flicker of movement in the runes catches my eye. Is it just my imagination, or do the lines glimmer? My pulse hammers as I open my mouth to speak the words. They’re harsh, syllables scraping against my tongue:

“By the pact of mortal will, I call on a fiend to stand guard. Let our contract be sealed under my vow of protection. Come forth, lesser demon, and obey.”

My voice quivers, but I keep going. The chapel suddenly feels suffocating. The air thickens. In the stained glass opening above me, the light dims as if a shadow has passed across the sun. Dust swirls, forming small eddies around my feet. I sense something stirring beneath the surface of reality. The runes pulse with a dull red glow, and the lines of the circle begin to shine.

The chant draws to a close. I press my bleeding hand more firmly, ignoring the sting. My mind focuses on the word “lesser.” That’s crucial. I don’t want some unstoppable force I can’t control. Just a bodyguard to watch over the few survivors left.

A tremor shakes the floor. A low rumble echoes in my ears. I stagger back, nearly tripping over a chunk of debris. All at once, a crack splits the air in front of me—a jagged seam in the space above the circle. My eyes widen, breath hitching as raw heat pours out, carrying the smell of sulfur and burnt steel. Crimson light arcs across the circle, forming a swirling vortex.

“Wait—that seems... bigger than expected,” I mutter. My heart hammers, but I hold my ground. I can’t abandon the ritual now.

The swirling red intensifies. Then it explodes outward with a thunderous boom. I raise my arms, shielding my face from a wave of scorching air. When I blink past the glare, I see a towering silhouette in the circle. He stands easily a head taller than any man in the village, with broad shoulders and limbs rippling with latent strength. His skin has the deep charcoal hue that marks a demon, etched with faint, glowing patterns. Two horns curve from his temples, each ridged and formidable. Dark hair frames a face that could almost be described as refined, if not for the sharp angles that speak of inhuman origins.

I stare, momentarily paralyzed by the raw energy radiating off him. Then the swirling light subsides. He lifts his head and fixes me with golden eyes. They flare in outrage, as if he immediately grasps what has happened.

“Who dares?” His voice is low, carrying a lethal edge. My stomach twists. This is no minor fiend. This presence fills the chapel as though it can hardly contain him.

My voice comes out in a trembling whisper. “I—I do. Marielle. I called you to—”

He steps forward, his bare feet moving beyond the circle’s boundary. I hastily lurch back. “Release me,” he growls, eyes narrowing. “Whatever petty mortal pact you attempted, undo it. Now.”

I force myself to breathe, to remember I initiated this. “I needed to summon a demon. Just a lesser one. You can’t be—” I keep my mouth shut when I realize how foolish that sounds. This demon is anything but lesser. The intense red brand across his chest flares. At the same moment, something on my wrist glows. I glance down to see a shimmering mark etched into my skin, shaped like jagged lines entwining.

He notices too. His scowl deepens, and I almost see something like panic flash across his features. “No,” he hisses. “A contract brand?” He presses a hand to the mark on his chest, then shoots me a venomous stare. “You dare bind me, mortal?”

“It was an accident,” I say in a rush. “I found the grimoire— the text promised a lesser fiend. I’m trying to protect what’s left of my village.” My words feel small in the face of his rage.

His lips curl back. “You want me as a guardian? I am no guard dog.” He moves in a blur, towering over me. I gasp, back colliding with the half-shattered altar. His presence is a furnace of anger and caged power.

I fight the urge to crumble, forcing steel into my spine. “I wouldn’t choose... this,” I stammer. “But my people are dying. Orc raiders—maybe worse. We have nothing. No weapons that can hold them off. I tried to do something to save them.”

He snarls, revealing fangs. For a moment, I think he’ll strike me down. Then he steps back and takes in the circle scrawled on the floor. His horns glimmer with faint embers, and the air around him crackles. “You performed the ritual incorrectly,” he states through clenched teeth. “You intended to summon a lesser demon. Your incantation opened a link to a different tier. Me.”

A wave of cold dread trickles through my veins. “So there’s no way to fix it?”

“Demons don’t simply leave once bound.” His tone is scathing. “We have an honor code—once a contract brand is forged, neither party can break it alone. By our law, it can only be dissolved if both sides—”

I feel my stomach clench. “You mean we’re stuck? That’s not possible. I only... I only wanted help.”

He glares, frustration radiating from him. “Help?” he repeats, voice dripping scorn. “You’ve tethered an unwilling demon. I can’t stray from you without pain, and I must answer your summons. Did you think I’d be pleased?”

I shake my head, chest tight. It’s becoming clear that I’ve snared a warrior of formidable rank, not some mindless underling. His aura alone is enough to suffocate me. “I didn’t know,” I whisper. “But if the contract is binding, can’t you just help? At least until I figure out how to free you?”

“Help you?” The demon snorts. “You aim to protect a ruined cluster of hovels. That’s all this place is now.” A flash of regret stirs inside me, but I hold my ground.

He lifts his chin, golden eyes raking over me. “Release me,” he repeats, though his voice trembles with controlled fury, as though he already suspects I can’t.

“I told you, I don’t know how. The grimoire’s pages are half-burnt, and the instructions for reversing this are missing. But the people... they need protection.” My words come out in a tumble. “If you keep them safe, I’ll search the world for a way to release you. I swear it.”

His nostrils flare. I see the swirl of emotions in his gaze—outrage, caution, confusion. Finally, he glances down at the brand on his chest, then back at mine. A moment passes in stillness.

“I despise this,” he murmurs. “But a demon’s honor is no small thing. If the brand is sealed, I must see this contract through—though do not expect me to be gentle about it.”

My heart thuds. Relief wars with dread, because the fury on his face remains potent. “Then you’ll... stand guard?”

His laughter is a cold rasp. “Stand guard. Yes. I suspect I can crush a few wandering brutes if that’s the price of regaining my freedom.” He drags his gaze across the chapel, surveying the destruction. “It seems you have nothing else to offer as payment.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I can promise one thing: I’ll do everything in my power to end this contract. I don’t want you chained to me any more than you do.”

“Chain,” he repeats. “That’s precisely what it is.” He rolls his shoulders, an animalistic gesture, and the torch brackets on the chapel walls tremble. “You should know: my name is Vareth. I was once... no, it hardly matters. Understand this: the bond compels me to protect you, but don’t confuse it for benevolence.”

I swallow, meeting his scorching gaze. “Marielle,” I say, voice faint. “We can at least exchange names if we’re forced into this together.” My heart clenches as a pulse of heat radiates from the mark with a mild ache. There’s an otherworldly resonance there, reminding me that he is no mortal, no mere soldier. This is something lethal bound into my orbit.

I watch him, trying to calm the panic in my chest. He’s scanning the chapel’s remains, perhaps gauging how best to keep watch or if an immediate threat looms. My thoughts spin. I thought I was summoning a small ally, an imp or something just strong enough to stand between the raiders and my people. Instead, I’ve called forth a demon whose presence nearly tears the air apart.

I see the imprint of every muscle on his arms. The glowing patterns on his skin give him an imposing and exotic air, though I sense seething resentment beneath his controlled posture. He looks ready to slice through solid steel if it means winning his freedom.

Gathering courage, I take a step. The movement causes me to stumble on a loose stone, but I catch myself, refusing to show weakness. “If you’re as powerful as you seem, maybe you can keep them safe for a while,” I say softly. “In return, I swear, I’ll search for a counter-spell. I’ll go to every ruin, speak to any arcane scholar if needed. All I ask is time—and your protection.”

His eyes flash, gold swirling with grudging acceptance. “I don’t trust your promise. Mortals are known to break vows when it suits them.” He lifts a clawed fingertip, brushing the brand on his chest as though it stings. “But the contract compels me as much as it compels you. And I have no desire to remain in this... arrangement forever.”

Suddenly, he raises his hand. A swirl of heat radiates from his palm, then he clenches his fist. The glowing lines on the floor fade, the summoning circle fracturing. I gasp.

“What—?”

“Sealing the circle,” he explains curtly. “So no more stray magic seeps through. We don’t want to invite anything else unplanned, do we?” There’s a mocking glint in his eyes. “Though it would be amusing to see you attempt another summon and bungle it.”

Anxious energy churns in my gut. “Thank you,” I offer quietly. “If that’s the right thing to say.”

He scoffs, turning away. “You owe me far more than thanks.”

I clench my hands, unsure how to respond. The corners of the chapel lie in broken shards, and I catch sight of sunlight pouring in from an open gap in the roof. My own brand throbs. The warmth of that silent vow resonates through me: I’ll free him, or I’ll die trying.

As we stand among the ruins, I sense a shift in the air. The tension remains, thick as smoke, but we have a fragile understanding—one that might hold if we don’t push each other too far. I glance outside at the rubble-littered paths and collapsed homes.

“I need to gather the survivors,” I murmur. “They’re scattered around the outskirts. If orcs or anything else come back, I need you to keep them from slaughtering us. Once everyone is safe, I can start looking for answers.”

Vareth narrows his eyes. “You speak as though commanding me.” He steps closer, and I feel a wave of heat radiating from him. “Don’t forget your place. You summoned me by accident and forced my hand. I will handle any threat how I see fit. If I tear my enemies apart and you decide you don’t like it, that’s too bad.”

A tremor passes through me. I recall how viciously demons are said to fight. Maybe a part of me knew this was the cost, but hearing him spell it out makes my spine prickle. Still, I tilt my chin up. “I just ask you not to harm innocent people. The ones who remain are frightened and desperate. Nothing more.”

He observes me for a moment, then exhales. “Fine. So long as they don’t challenge me.” His gaze drifts toward the gap in the wall, and he almost looks bored, as if murder or mercy are equally valid choices in his eyes.

For a few heartbeats, neither of us speaks. I sense the brand’s hum at my wrist, a constant reminder that we’re tethered. My mind keeps repeating the warnings about demonkind. They’re cunning, proud, and swift to anger. Yet if we have any hope of survival, I need him to stand with us.

I gather the battered grimoire from the floor. Its pages are singed, the spine hanging by a thread. There must be something in these texts or in the rest of Protheka that can reverse a demon-human contract. I know the dark elves of Orthani or the Soz’garoth sorcerers might have knowledge about these pacts. They’re infamous for bartering with fiends. But venturing to a city controlled by dark elves is as treacherous as dancing on quicksand. Humans have no place in their halls except as thralls.

I press the book against my chest and turn to Vareth. He stands near the collapsed doorway, scanning what remains of the street. Though I can’t see his expression, I sense the tension in his posture. He’s caged, and he knows it.

A pang of guilt stirs in me—guilt that I dragged him here, even if it was never my intent. Yet I can’t regret trying, not when so many innocents are at risk.

He glances back. “You’ll show me the rest of this place.” It’s not a question. “Then we’ll do what must be done.”

I nod slowly. “There’s not much left, but yes.”

He strides forward, steps silent for such a large presence. I sidestep a piece of fallen archway, my heart thudding with each footfall. My village’s remains look even more desolate now that a demon paces through it. The midday sun casts harsh shadows, exposing all the cracks in the roads. The shops that once bustled with trade are splintered husks. I recall children laughing by the well. I wonder if any of them are still alive.

We pass the charred skeleton of a barn. Vareth scans the ground, eyes narrowing. “Fresh footprints,” he says, voice low. “Several humans, headed that way.” He jerks his chin toward a slope leading out of the village’s boundary.

My pulse quickens. That must be where the survivors went. “They might be hiding. Probably thought it was safer to be near the hills.”

He grunts. “I sense fear in the air. We need to gather them or at least confirm they’re still alive. Lead me.”

My heart twists at the word “lead.” I never asked to direct anyone, let alone a demon. But he’s right. We have no time to waste. If orc raiders return, we’re sitting ducks.

I clench my fingers on the grimoire’s cracked cover and guide Vareth around the old well, stepping over rubble. The wind has kicked up ash, and it stings my eyes as we move. I glimpse a collapsed roof that used to be the local bakery, the aroma of bread replaced by burnt cinders. The stark reality claws at me: The place I called home might never truly rise from these ruins, yet I can’t walk away. Not yet.

We continue until we spot movement in a small orchard that was half-spared from the flames. I raise a cautious hand, indicating we slow. A handful of figures huddle behind a thick stand of trees, scanning the horizon. I recognize Tomas, a fisherman who rarely left the docks, and Celene, her young son clinging to her skirts. They notice me, relief flickering in their eyes—until they see Vareth. Then their faces twist with terror.

Celene steps back, cradling her son. “Mari?” she calls, voice shaking. “What is that?”

I swallow and approach with palms raised, keenly aware that Vareth’s towering presence must look monstrous next to my mortal frame. “He’s... with me,” I manage. “I needed someone strong to protect us, so I... used an old text.”

Their horror is palpable, but so is their desperation. Tomas’s eyes flick from my face to Vareth’s horns. “You summoned a fiend? Are you mad?”

Vareth crosses his arms, a faint sneer on his lips. I can almost feel his amusement at their reactions. I answer quickly, “He’s... bound by a contract. He won’t harm you. We just need everyone to stick together so I can focus on finding a real solution.”

Celene clutches her son. “A real solution? Mari, we’re farmers and traders, not sorcerers.” She looks close to tears. “All we wanted was to survive.”

A pang of sympathy and regret hits me. I recall how close Celene was to her sister, how they used to sing while picking apples from these very trees. The orchard was a peaceful spot. Now, it’s a hiding place from nightmares.

I step forward. “We’re going to survive,” I say firmly. “With Vareth’s... help, we’ll keep any new threats at bay. In the meantime, I’ll do everything in my power to ensure we can break the pact and find a safer life.” I glance at Vareth. He’s silent, though the curl of his mouth betrays mild annoyance.

Tomas rubs a trembling hand over his brow. “If he keeps those beasts away, I suppose it’s better than nothing,” he mutters, voice hollow. The others nod, subdued. They’re frightened enough to accept any lifeline, even a demonic one.

“Gather what supplies we can salvage,” I say, forcing authority into my tone. “We’ll regroup and figure out a plan. I promise we’ll find a way to make it through this.”

Vareth snorts softly. “We’ll see about that.” But he doesn’t contradict me in front of them. Instead, he stalks around the orchard perimeter, scanning for any sign of danger. In the sharp midday light, his skin appears carved from obsidian, the glowing patterns stirring whenever he tenses.

Celene and Tomas nod, urging the others to follow. They cast wary glances at Vareth but begin rummaging in the scattered bushels and broken crates. The orchard’s leaves are scorched in places, but some remain green, as though clinging to life in defiance.

A young boy—maybe eight or nine—stares at Vareth with wide eyes. I gently herd him back toward his mother, murmuring reassurance. My mind tumbles with possibilities. We can’t stay here forever; the farmland is ruined, the gates battered. We might relocate, but traveling with children and wounded elders is risky. And if the orcs are still in the area, or if other monstrous threats lurk...

I glance at the demon in our midst. This arrangement is precarious at best. But it’s all we have.

A flicker of something crosses Vareth’s face as he catches the boy’s stare. For a breath, I think I see the faintest hesitation, like he’s not used to the fearful curiosity of small humans. Then the hardness in his gaze returns. He pivots away, scanning the orchard’s edge.

The mark on my wrist tingles again, as if acknowledging the vow I’ve made. I can’t help replaying the moment that monstrous light filled the chapel. My attempt to call on a lesser demon ended up tethering someone far more powerful—and far more dangerous.

Soot drifts through the orchard, and we stand in the hush that follows tragedy. I see the weight of sorrow on every villager’s face, the same heaviness I’ve carried since the fires consumed our world. But I also sense the faint spark of hope. If Vareth is as strong as I suspect, perhaps we can fight back. Maybe we can avoid total annihilation.

I rub the brand, ignoring the slight throb. As the last of the orchard’s leaves crackle overhead, I realize the truth of our situation: sometimes the chains we hate might be the only chance left to cling to life. If that means forging a pact with a demon, so be it.

“I’ll protect them,” I whisper to myself, voice shaking with determination. “Even if it means carrying this brand until I find a way to break it. We won’t be helpless again.”

The words echo in my chest. Vareth glances my way, his expression unreadable, as though he hears a fraction of my conviction. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and prowls away, scanning the horizon for threats. The tension thrums between us.

Shaken but resolute, I lower my gaze to the battered grimoire still clutched in my arms. My next steps won’t be easy. I’ll likely have to leave these ruins, lead the survivors across dangerous territory, and beg for knowledge from beings who despise humans. But a flicker of fierce resolve burns within me.

“Marielle,” Celene says softly, stepping near. “Is this truly our best hope?”

I meet her eyes. “Yes. It might be the only one.”

She exhales, nodding. “Then we’ll follow you. We don’t have much choice, do we?” She glances at Vareth, shuddering. “May the gods—any gods—help us.”

In that moment, as the scorching wind carries the scent of charred wood and sorrow, I let the brand’s faint warmth remind me of the vow I made to Vareth—and the vow I’ve made to these people. For better or worse, we’re bound by shadowy magic neither of us fully understands.

I can feel the weight of every life on my shoulders, and a demon’s furious presence mere steps away, tethered by a contract brand that shouldn’t exist. The fear in my veins is real, but so is my determination. Somehow, in the swirl of despair, a new certainty begins to form: if these chains are all we have left, maybe they’ll be enough to save us.

I look at the horizon, a ragged line of half-burnt trees and collapsed buildings.

We survive by forging fragile alliances and defying the cruelty of a broken world. I have to believe that. I have to believe we can endure the darkness that lies ahead.

Vareth’s golden eyes flick back to me, and I see the simmer of resentment there—resentment at being summoned, resentment at being forced to ally with a mortal. Yet I also sense the faint tension in his stance that betrays something more complicated. Perhaps he wonders, as I do, if this brand might become more than just a prison.

“Fine,” he finally says, stepping closer with slow, deliberate menace. “I’ll guard them. But don’t imagine for a second I’m doing this out of kindness. If I see a chance to break this bond, I’ll take it. And you’d better not get in my way.”

I hold his gaze. “I won’t,” I say quietly. “As long as you don’t abandon us to be slaughtered. We can help each other.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms. “We’ll see which of us ends up needing help first.”

A shiver trails down my spine, but I remain steady. “I won’t let fear rule me anymore,” I reply, though my stomach twists. “We’ll find a way.”

He doesn’t answer, but the contract brand pulses once again, like a second heartbeat thrumming in my wrist. My life changed the moment that spell completed, and I have no idea where this path will lead. All I know is that I must walk it, carrying hope for my people—and the promise I made to the very creature I brought here.

I clutch the grimoire. The orchard rustles as the villagers begin to gather what remains of our supplies. Vareth prowls along the orchard’s edge, casting a dark silhouette against the battered skyline.

In this moment, I realize I’ll do whatever it takes to see our homes safe again, even if it means forging an alliance with a demon who looks at me like I’m nothing but an inconvenience. And a  tiny-weensy part of me suspects that maybe, just maybe, he’s more than that monstrous fury. I sense shadows in his stance, deeper secrets that swirl behind his molten eyes. But such thoughts can wait. Survival comes first.

I straighten my shoulders. “We’ll start here,” I tell the survivors, voice steadier than I feel. “Gather everything you can. Food, blankets, tools. Then we’ll decide our next move.”

Above us, the sun shines through a smoky haze, turning the sky a pale, washed-out gray. Broken though we are, we’re still alive. And I’ve bound a demon—a dangerous stranger—to our cause.

As the day’s light wanes, I lead them back through the battered streets, Vareth following a short distance behind like an ominous sentinel. We have a perilous road ahead, but for now, we hold onto our chance.

I can almost hear an echo in my mind: Sometimes the chain we hate is the only thing stopping the rest of the world from tearing us apart. If that’s our reality, then I’ll carry it, no matter how heavy. Because for all his arrogance and lethal power, Vareth is here. In some twisted way, he’s ours. And until we find a way to free him, he’s the shield that might keep this handful of people alive.

We walk through the remains of my village, taking stock of what we can salvage. Soot coats every surface, and scraps of scorched canvas flutter in a faint breeze. The sigil on my wrist flickers with each step, a reminder of the demon’s presence at my side.

I breathe in the smoky air and swear to myself that I will see this through. Our fates are entwined. One day, I might regret it—but today, it’s the only hope we have.