The closer we got to the castle, the heavier the air became—thick with smoke, grit, and the copper tang of blood.

  The defenders were desperate now.

  Stones, broken masonry, even furniture rained down from the battlements. A shattered chair burst apart when it struck the ground near us, splinters flying. Someone screamed as a chunk of stone clipped his shoulder and sent him spinning.

  “Move! Don’t bunch up!” Lucius shouted, shoving past a pair of Devils who’d frozen under the barrage.

  I raised my shield instinctively as something heavy slammed against it, the impact jolting my arm numb. We pressed on, boots slipping on ash and rubble, until the castle walls loomed directly overhead—high, sheer, and blackened by smoke.

  That’s when I saw them.

  Marcel stood near the base of the wall, barking orders with brutal efficiency, blood streaked across his cheek like war paint. Faust was beside him, directing squads with sharp hand signals, his voice carrying even over the din.

  “Hooks out!” Faust roared. “Now!”

  The Devils surged forward.

  They drew strange iron hooks strapped into heavy leather gloves—curved claws designed to bite into stone. One after another, they slammed their palms against the wall. The hooks caught with grinding screeches, metal biting into mortar and cracks.

  Then they began to climb.

  Slow. Relentless.

  Hand over hand, boots scraping for purchase, bodies pressed tight to the stone as arrows rained down. One Devil cried out as a shaft punched into his thigh; he gritted his teeth and kept climbing until another arrow caught him in the neck and he fell, silent, tumbling past the rest.

  No one stopped.

  Below them, Darkwick archers had formed disciplined lines. Their bows sang in unison, arrows streaking upward in tight volleys. Defenders on the parapet dropped one by one, bodies slumping forward or vanishing from sight as they fell back from the edge.

  “Cover them!” Marcel shouted. “Keep the pressure on!”

  I looked up, heart pounding, watching the Devils inch higher, silhouettes against smoke and fire. Some reached halfway. Some nearly to the top. One managed to hook an arm over the parapet before disappearing in a spray of blood as something struck him from above.

  Still, more climbed.

  The castle walls shook with the sound of battle—steel on stone, men screaming, arrows thudding into flesh and wood. The siege had moved upward now, vertical and unforgiving.

  I tightened my grip on my weapon, eyes tracking the climbers.

  This wasn’t just breaking a gate anymore.

  This was tearing the Hollow out of the Empire’s hands—

  —stone by stone, body by body.

  The inner gate gave way with a shriek of torn iron.

  Beyond it, the castle courtyard opened up in a wide bowl of stone—and the defenders made their final stand there.

  Knights in battered plate locked shields with spearmen, forming a desperate wall of steel. They cut into the Darwick footmen with ruthless precision, blades rising and falling in brutal arcs. Men died screaming, boots slipping on blood-slick stone as the defenders fought like cornered animals.

  Then we hit them.

  The Red Devils crashed into the line with feral force, the impact shuddering through my bones. The sound was overwhelming—steel on steel, shields splintering, men shouting prayers and curses in the same breath.

  I lunged at a knight pushing through the press, his armor marked with holy sigils now blackened by soot. My mace slammed into his chest plate with a thunderous crash, the vibration rattling my arms to the shoulders.

  He staggered but didn’t fall.

  I roared and swung again, and again—hammering at his torso while he tried to bring his sword down on me. I caught the blade on my shield, sparks flying inches from my face, then smashed the mace into his ribs. The metal buckled with a wet, ugly sound.

  He swung wildly, panic bleeding into his movements. I blocked, shoved forward, and brought the mace down hard, over and over, until he collapsed under the weight of it, armor dented inward like a crushed shell.

  I barely had time to breathe.

  Another spear jabbed toward my side. I twisted away, felt it scrape my armor, then a Devil tackled the spearman from behind and drove a knife into his throat.

  Arrows screamed overhead, Darkwick shafts and imperial bolts crossing paths above the melee. Some fell short, punching into bodies already locked in combat. A man beside me took one through the eye and dropped without a sound.

  The courtyard dissolved into chaos.

  Knights fell back step by step, slipping in the blood of their own, their formation collapsing as Devils surged into every gap. The air was thick with smoke and dust, my lungs burning as I fought, blocked, struck, and fought again.

  This wasn't a strategy anymore.

  It was annihilation.

  And as I raised my mace once more, muscles screaming, ears ringing with the noise of death, I knew this was the end of Juniperhollow’s resistance.

  Not with a surrender.

  But with a flood of bodies and broken steel, swallowed whole by the Wolves they had tried—and failed—to hold back.

  The fighting faded—not all at once, but in pieces.

  A shout here.

  A final clash of steel there.

  Then nothing but the crackle of fire and the low moans of the wounded.

  The last of the defenders had been mopped up.

  I stood where I was, chest heaving, arms hanging heavy at my sides. My hands trembled—not from fear anymore, but from the sudden absence of it. The courtyard was slick beneath my boots, blood pooling in the grooves of the stone like rainwater.

  I turned and made my way back toward the shattered gate as Darwick forces poured in, disciplined now, banners rising as they secured the castle. Orders were shouted. Lines re-formed. The chaos began to settle into occupation.

  At the top of the steps, Lucius stood with Marcel and Faust, all three looking out over the city below.

  Juniperhollow burned.

  Smoke rose in dark columns from every quarter, blurring the horizon. Somewhere distant, a bell rang once—then fell silent.

  Lucius noticed me and rested a hand on my shoulder, his grip easy, almost proud.

  “You have fun, kid?” he asked lightly.

  I looked at him.

  Really looked at him.

  Then I shrugged his hand off and kept walking.

  I didn’t trust my voice.

  I descended the steps alone, past men hauling bodies into carts—some careful, some careless. Others knelt beside the dead, rifling through armor and pockets, prying rings from stiff fingers. A few laughed too loudly. One man gagged as he dragged a corpse by the ankles.

  I stepped around them, eyes down.

  Every sound felt too sharp. Every smell—smoke, iron, burned flesh—clung to me like it wouldn’t ever wash away.

  I didn’t want coin.

  I didn’t want praise.

  I didn’t want to look at the city anymore.

  I just wanted to go back to camp.

  Somewhere away from the walls. Away from the dead. Somewhere quiet enough that my breathing could slow, where the echoes in my head might finally stop.

  I tightened my grip on my weapon and kept walking.

  Behind me, Juniperhollow smoldered.

  Ahead of me, the road waited.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  ***

  By the time I reached the camp outside Juniperhollow, the battle already felt like something unreal—like a nightmare that lingered even after waking.

  The Red Devils trickled back in ones and twos, armor blackened, weapons red. Some laughed too loudly, showing off their “liberated” trinkets—rings, coins, a banner torn down and dragged through the mud. Others were silent, eyes hollow, moving only because their legs still worked.

  Near the edge of the camp, I saw Commander Yanna standing stone-still.

  An axe rose.

  Then fell.

  Again.

  Deserters and captured imperial soldiers were dragged forward, forced to kneel. No speeches. No prayers. Just the sound of steel biting into flesh and the dull thud of bodies hitting dirt. Yanna didn’t flinch. She watched until it was done, then turned away as if she’d been inspecting supplies.

  I couldn’t watch anymore.

  I staggered into the medical tents and collapsed onto a cot, the canvas sagging beneath my weight. My whole body ached now that the fighting was over—deep, bone-heavy exhaustion that made my hands shake.

  A moment later, Sophie was there.

  She didn’t say anything at first. She just dropped her satchel and wrapped her arms around me, squeezing tight like she was afraid I’d disappear if she let go.

  “Thank God you’re back,” she whispered, voice breaking.

  That was almost enough to undo me.

  She pulled back just long enough to start working, fingers already unfastening my chest plate. “Don’t move,” she muttered, all business now. “You’re bleeding through here—and here.”

  The armor came off with a scrape, and cool air hit raw skin. She pressed a clean cloth against a cut along my ribs, then moved to my shoulder.

  I hissed despite myself.

  She shot me a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warned. “You don’t get to be tough now.”

  I let out a shaky breath, something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Across the tent, Alyana was already tending to Lucius. He sat slouched on a crate, arm bare, blood drying along the edge of a nasty cut.

  “Thank you, my love,” Lucius said cheerfully.

  Alyana smacked him on the cheek, face flushing red. “Hold still, idiot.”

  He grinned wider.

  Despite everything—the screams still echoing in my head, the names I’d lost, the city burning behind us—I chuckled softly. The sound surprised me.

  Sophie finished wrapping my shoulder, then leaned forward and pressed her forehead into my chest, her breath warm and steady. I rested my chin lightly against her hair, eyes finally closing.

  For the first time since the gates fell, my hands stopped shaking.

  “Thank you, Father,” I whispered—not in triumph, not in certainty, but in relief that I was still here.

  Outside, Juniperhollow smoldered.

  Inside the tent, for just a moment, there was quiet.

  After they finished patching us up, Sophie and Alyana moved on to the other wounded, leaving Lucius and me sitting among the Red Devils—men nursing cuts, rewrapping bandages, drinking to forget or drinking to remember.

  The noise of the camp had softened into a low, restless murmur.

  I broke the silence.

  “So,” I said quietly, staring at the dirt between my boots, “can you tell me what this plan actually is? And why it bothers the Church so much?”

  Lucius’s usual bright grin didn’t come back right away.

  When he finally looked at me, something in his eyes had dulled.

  “No,” he said simply.

  I clenched my jaw. “Why not? I almost died out there. I did die a little, if I’m being honest. I faced that monster in black armor. I think I’ve earned at least that.”

  Lucius leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the thing, kid. It’s not my truth to give.”

  I turned toward him fully now. “Then whose is it?”

  He sighed. “Yours. And the Father’s.”

  I frowned. “You, Azazel, Raphael—you all dance around it. You guide me here, push me there, but no one tells me why.”

  Lucius looked at me for a long moment before speaking again.

  “That’s because we were never meant to be more than guides,” he said quietly. “Azazel. Raphael. Me. We weren’t the destination, Thomas. Just the road.”

  I swallowed. “Then what’s at the end of it?”

  Lucius’s gaze drifted toward the dark horizon, where Juniperhollow still smoldered.

  “I’ve seen the end of this plan,” he said. “Not all of it—but enough.”

  I waited.

  “And?” I pressed.

  His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

  That stopped me.

  “Beautiful?” I repeated. “After everything we’ve seen?”

  He nodded. “Especially after everything we’ve seen.”

  I searched his face. “Even someone like you believes that?”

  Lucius chuckled softly. “Kid, if a devil like me can be shown mercy… then maybe the world ain’t as broken as we think.”

  “What did you see?” I asked. “What do you mean by witnessed?”

  He laughed then, lighter, familiar, as if pulling himself back from something too close to the heart.

  “You’ll understand later,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Maybe when you get a little taller.”

  He reached out and gave my injured arm a playful smack.

  I hissed. “You’re an ass.”

  He grinned. “And you’re alive.”

  Lucius grabbed his sword and started toward the command tents. “I’ve gotta meet with the commander. But—” he glanced back at me, tone shifting just enough to matter, “good work today, Thomas. Truly.”

  He walked off, leaving me alone with the campfire’s dying embers and the weight of unanswered questions.

  I stared after him, my arm throbbing, my head aching—not just from the wounds, but from the growing sense that I was walking toward something vast and inevitable.

  Whatever the Father’s plan was…

  I was already too far in to turn away.

  I reached into my pocket and drew out the book.

  The leather cover was warm—too warm—like it had been waiting for my touch. My fingers hesitated before opening it, a quiet instinct screaming at me not to look.

  I looked anyway.

  The first page was wrong.

  Where there had once been names—carefully written, some familiar, some long forgotten—there was only black. Not ink. Not shadow. Something deeper, like ash pressed into the parchment.

  I frowned and tried to count.

  Twenty-four?

  No.

  Thirty.

  Or had it been more already?

  My head throbbed as I stared at the empty page, panic crawling up my spine. I couldn’t remember them. Not the names. Not the faces. There were gaps in my thoughts where memories should have been—like stepping into rooms I knew I’d lived in once, now stripped bare.

  “Was it already gone?” I whispered.

  The page began to glow.

  Not all at once—first a dull ember-red at the edges, then spreading inward like a slow-burning fire. The parchment curled, cracked, and then lifted away in glowing fragments. The embers rose silently from the book, drifting upward like dying stars before fading into nothing.

  I snapped the book shut, breathing hard.

  My hands were shaking.

  I forced myself to open it again.

  Still more pages.

  Too many.

  I flipped through them slowly, each page heavy with names I hadn’t yet lost—generations stacked upon generations. Forty pages left.

  Forty.

  A cold certainty settled in my chest.

  When those were gone—

  when the book ran out—

  The SIN wouldn’t take strangers anymore.

  It would take the ones closest to me.

  Sophie.

  Lucius.

  Anyone I dared to love.

  I closed the book and pressed it to my chest, as if that could keep the truth from escaping.

  Outside, the camp murmured on—laughing, drinking, living—unaware of the quiet tally being kept in my hands.

  The Father had given me power.

  But power, I was learning, always kept its own account.

  And one day soon—

  It would come to collect.

  Sophie found me later, long after the fires had burned down to embers.

  Her apron was soaked through—blood and ash darkening the cloth until it was impossible to tell whose it had been. She looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than muscle or bone, like someone who had spent the day holding the world together with shaking hands.

  She didn’t say anything at first.

  She just pressed a bowl into my hands—thin soup, steaming faintly—and a heel of bread. Then she sat beside me and leaned her head against my shoulder as if it were the most natural place left in the world.

  I wrapped an arm around her without thinking.

  “Lucius told me to tell you,” she said quietly, voice low and tired, “we’re marching again soon. Another battle.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of soup. “Yeah?”

  She nodded against my shoulder. “Darwick’s paid the Devils another million crowns for our service.”

  I looked down at her, stunned. “Already?”

  “Seems so,” she murmured. “They must be desperate.”

  The camp around us felt suddenly farther away—the laughter, the clatter of armor, the talk of spoils. None of it touched us here in the small circle of warmth we shared.

  I hesitated, then asked the thing that had been sitting in my chest all evening.

  “Stay with me?” I said softly.

  She didn’t even lift her head.

  “Of course,” she replied, brushing her fingers over my knuckles. Her touch was gentle, grounding. “Where else would I be?”

  The words loosened something tight inside me.

  “I love you, Thomas,” she murmured, barely louder than a breath.

  Before I could answer, her breathing slowed. The weight of her head grew heavier against my shoulder as sleep claimed her, sudden and deep.

  I held her there, careful not to move, soup cooling forgotten in my hands.

  Around us, the Red Devils prepared for war again—counting coin, sharpening blades, dreaming of the next fight.

  But for this moment, there was only Sophie’s steady breathing, the warmth of her body against mine, and the quiet, terrifying knowledge that loving her made everything worth saving—

  —and everything worth losing.