Yvain had seen enough demonic possessions in his life to recognize one the moment it unraveled. The way the creature distorted the man's body from within, the way it rejected form and yet held it together with sheer malice, it could only be a thing of the Outer Void.
Demons were not native to Malkuth. They were born in the formless dark beyond the Veil, and their presence in the world was unnatural. Without a host to anchor them, they would wither or unravel in hours. But while housed in flesh, they were dangerous beyond measure, more so when the host was willing.
"This is not our fight," Yvain said sharply, already turning from the chaos.
Celeste didn't argue. She understood the stakes.
To banish a demon required its true name, a secret tangled in the syllables of the Void and often hidden behind pacts older than memory. Killing one outright was possible, but loud, messy, and all too revealing. If he or Celeste drew too deeply on their art here, they would expose themselves. And there were eyes in this city they did not wish to attract.
The demon lunged, claws cleaving a nearby actor in two before snatching another and tearing through him like wet parchment. Screams rippled through the square. Blood sprayed across the painted stageboards, staining the bright festival colors crimson.
Panic erupted into stampede. People ran in every direction, some toward safety, others simply away. Lanterns were overturned, and the warm light of celebration turned into fire and chaos.
Then the bells rang', sharp and heavy.
The Knights Chevalier arrived moments later, descending from the ramparts and alleyways like steel rain. Their armor gleamed beneath the lantern fire, long crimson sashes fluttering behind them as they charged, halberds lowered, incantations glowing along their blades.
They met the demon in force, striking with trained precision.
It roared, lashing out with shadows and teeth and limbs that shifted and reformed in bursts of black smoke. Even as they fought valiantly, the knights were clearly overmatched. This was no simple rogue spirit or shade. Even lesser demons, like this one, were chaos made flesh, and chaos was hard to kill.
"They're going to die," Minerva muttered, her voice barely audible over the screaming and clash of steel.
Yvain didn't disagree. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were already searching for an exit. "We should go," he said flatly.
Minerva turned toward him, distressed. "Maybe… maybe we should help."
"To do what?" he asked, his tone as sharp as the blades ringing in the square. "You've only just survived your rite. You barely have control over your own breath."
She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came. The weight of his words crushed whatever protest had formed.
Darien stepped in beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He's right," he said gently. "There's nothing we can do. Not here. Not against that."
Even as he spoke, a hush fell over part of the crowd.
Another knight had entered the square. He was clad from head to toe in pitch-black armor, polished to a mirror sheen that caught the firelight. The edges of his plate shimmered with the faint glow of sanctified script, and emblazoned across his breastplate was a blazing golden sun, the unmistakable symbol of the Sanctuary.
Darien's voice dropped into a fearful whisper. "An Inquisition knight…"
Even more reason to disappear, Yvain thought grimly. The Inquisition was as ruthless as they came. They were the one of the reasons his family's name was dragged from the halls of power and scrawled instead in the margins of outlawed texts. If one of their number so much as looked at him too closely, the hunt would begin, and it wouldn't end until his head was mounted in some sanctified reliquary.
The knight moved like a storm given form. With a blur of motion, he waded into the battle. His sword was broad, radiant with light, and inscribed with prayers that flared each time it struck. Unlike the other chevaliers, who fought with desperation and honor, this knight fought with divine precision. He was not there to defend; he was there to cleanse. A master of swords.
The demon reeled under the force of the new onslaught, its limbs severed with contemptuous ease, only for them to regrow and be hacked apart again.
"He's… incredible," Minerva breathed.
The man was certainly incredible, there was no denying it, but raw power was never the true reason people feared the Inquisition. That fear came from something far colder, far more enduring than strength. Impunity.
The Faith of the Endless was the dominant religion across Malkuth, its reach extending into every city, every village, every home. And the Sanctuary, its holy arm, was judge, jury, and executioner. Knights of the Inquisition did not ask permission. They did not answer to kings or councils. They interpreted the will of the Endless as they pleased, and none dared gainsay them.
To be accused by an Inquisition knight was to be condemned.
Yvain said nothing, his jaw tense. He had already turned from the square, one hand on Celeste's back to guide her. "We need to move," he murmured.
There were too many eyes here. Too much light.
Celeste glanced back once. "The gods really know how to ruin a party."
She could feel the pressure in the air, the heat of that knight's breath. It radiated across the square like a furnace, and it was potent. Not equal to her own, but far beyond what she'd expected from someone in this province. Brother Lome's presence, while refined, had been a drop in the sea.
The battle ended swiftly. With a single, seamless arc of his radiant blade, the knight severed the demon's head. Its corrupted flesh writhed, then crumbled into ash.
Holding the smoking skull aloft, the knight turned to face the crowd.
"Fear not, people of Adwini!" his voice boomed across the square, echoing against stone and soul alike. "The Sanctuary has heard your cries and sent me, Ser Hardron, Knight of the Inquisition. By the will of the Endless, I swear. I will root out all evil in this city, be it demon, heretic, or traitor. None shall escape the fire of judgment."
A moment of silence passed. Then the cheers erupted.
As they turned to disappear into the crowd, Yvain's eyes caught on a figure lingering just at the edge of the square, half-shadowed by a column, still as stone.
He wore the garb of the acting troupe, colorful and dust-smeared from performance, but something was off. His posture was too rigid, too watchful. His porcelain mask, painted in the stylized grin of a comedic character, reflected the firelight with an eerie glint. It did not move, even as the cheers rose.
Yvain felt it. A pulse of power beneath the disguise, like heat rolling off a furnace banked behind thin silk. Breath. Potent, coiled, and patient. The kind that only came with years of mastery.
The masked figure did not approach. He simply watched Ser Hardron.
And then, without sound, he vanished into the alleys beyond the crowd, gone like smoke on the wind.
Something was stewing beneath the skin of Adwini, and whatever it was, it was layered. Too many powers circling the same flame. And in Yvain's experience, when too many predators gathered, the only wise thing to do was disappear before the blood started to flow.
"We need to leave," he said again, voice harder now.
He didn't wait for a reply.