Stone crumbled beneath my feet. The heavy doors of the manor slammed open before I could reach them, torn from their hinges by the magic still surging through me. The hall beyond lay draped in shadow — elegant, silent — save for the echo of her voice still ringing in my ears.
My vision blurred at the edges. Everything felt sharpened to a blade's edge — the scent of blood in the air, torchlight flickering off polished stone, the distant footfalls of guards scrambling to respond. I could feel them coming, the way a predator senses its prey.
And somewhere deeper…I could feel her.
I tore through the corridors, every step leaving scorched footprints in my wake. My arm throbbed as the tattoos beneath my skin flared like brands. The raw power had no shape, no direction — it was becoming me. My sword lay forgotten. Magic poured from my hands in waves, melting weapons, collapsing pillars.
Then — a whisper in my mind.
The Hellforged are only stories, an old Warden had once said. Warriors consumed so utterly by purpose they become something else. Not man. Not monster. Something in between. Armor of flame. Eyes of fire. Rage made flesh.
A myth, I'd thought. A warning, maybe.
But now… now I feel it. Something stirring beneath my skin — not trying to escape, but trying to take over.
I braced a hand against the wall as pain roared through me. I staggered into a side hall, teeth clenched. A broken mirror caught my reflection — and it wasn't entirely mine.
My eyes glowed like twin coals. My skin shimmered with veins of metal beneath the surface — alive, shifting, almost like breathing armor. My lips curled into a snarl — not of choice, but instinct.
When a Warden's purpose burns hot enough, the tale went on, he doesn't summon the Hellforged. The Hellforged summons him.
A scream echoed from above — Auralia.
Everything inside me broke.
The thing I was becoming surged forward. Not fully changed, but caught mid-shift — skin lined with smoldering plates, eyes blazing, voice a growl that shook the stone.
The guards didn't even have time to raise their weapons.
I tore through them.
Steel shattered against my arm — the tattoos shielding my flesh like tempered plate. One man screamed as fire danced from my fingers, devouring his blade. Another flew back as a pulse of force cracked the floor beneath him.
No hesitation. No mercy. Just purpose.
And the path ahead — to her.
The child's hand was trembling in mine, small and cold. She said nothing — just followed, barefoot and afraid, as we slipped through the half-lit stone corridors of the manor. The explosion from earlier had cracked the world open like an egg, and I could feel it — Eiran, somewhere below, losing control.
Focus, I told myself. Get the child out. Get back to him.
We passed two guards lying motionless in the hall, their bodies still warm. I didn't stop to check if they were unconscious or worse. My instincts told me the answer. The shadows stretched long across the walls as if recoiling from something deeper still rising in the manor's bones.
A trickle of blood ran down my shoulder from a shallow cut — a souvenir from the escape. I ignored it.
I rounded a corner into an arched passage — and stopped.
Someone stood at the far end of the corridor.
He didn't move. He didn't need to.
He simply was.
Tall, impeccably dressed in tailored black, with silver embroidery coiling like ivy across his coat. His skin was pale — not with the chalky pallor of fear or illness, but like moonlight wrapped in velvet. And his eyes…
Gods, his eyes.
Silver like polished steel. Cold. Old.
I stepped in front of the girl. My dagger was in my hand before I'd even realized it.
"Move," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
The man's lips curled faintly. Not a smile — something older, more practiced.
"You've come far, little mouse," he said, his voice soft and musical, like a lullaby sung beside a grave. "Through shadow and blood. For what? A stolen child? A half-tamed spellsword? Your cause is… noble. But misplaced."
I didn't answer.
He took a slow step forward.
"Tell me, what did you think you would find in my city?" he continued. "Salvation? Or simply another villain to run from?"
"...Who are you?"
A small laugh.
"Ah. Forgive me. Lord Silas Calgrace, at your service." He bowed slightly, as though we were meeting in a ballroom. "Keeper of Kithra, steward of the southeastern coast, patron of prosperity... and the last name your friend will whisper before the fire devours him."