The news of Crowmere's fall did not spread slowly.
It spread like wildfire carried on the wind—priests whispering in fear, soldiers muttering in taverns, nobles staring at broken wax seals. Every corner of the continent now trembled with the echo of a single name: Neil, the Demon King reborn.
But while the Church panicked in its marble halls, I sat in the ruins of Crowmere, surrounded by ash, corpses, and silence.
The silence was mine.
It pressed against the ruins, a blanket that weighed on every living soul. My demons did not speak. Even Selena, who usually thrived in chaos, leaned on her halberd without a sound. Rena stood behind me, blades still dripping with elf blood, her breathing heavy. Clarissa was kneeling, feeding her own cold blood into the wounded to keep them alive. Zereth sat slumped on a broken pillar, his face pale, his body trembling as he tried to hold the pieces of his shattered soul together.
And me, I was simply listening.
