I wake to the sound of my own screams, the memory of Caleif's death still fresh and raw. My chest heaves as I sit up in bed, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around my legs. The gauntlet pulses faintly in response to my distress, its crimson glow painting shadows across the unfamiliar walls of my academy quarters.
"Just a dream," I mutter, but we both know it's a lie. Not a dream—a memory. One I relive every night since the battle.
Three weeks have passed since we buried Caleif in the academy's sacred grove. Three weeks of training until my muscles scream, of pushing the boundaries between Estingoth's consciousness and my own, of learning to control the transformation that nearly consumed me during the fight with the Purifier.
"You need rest," Estingoth's voice resonates in my mind, gentler than it used to be. We've developed a strange symbiosis since that day—his rage tempered by my grief, my weakness bolstered by his strength.
"Can't rest," I reply, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "Not yet."
The dark veins have spread across most of my torso now, a permanent reminder of what I'm becoming. They no longer pulse with pain, just a constant, dull warmth that flares hotter when I channel power through the gauntlet. Master Valen says the stabilization is holding—that I'm not in danger of being consumed like Estingoth's previous wielders—but the transformation continues, slow and inevitable.
I pull on training clothes and make my way through the silent corridors. The academy sleeps, but I've discovered the training chambers never truly close. There's always someone like me—someone running from nightmares, fighting their nature, seeking control.
The largest chamber is empty tonight, moonlight streaming through high windows to illuminate the combat circle. I step into its center, feeling the enchantments activate beneath my feet. The air grows heavier, resistant, designed to make every movement require twice the normal effort.
"Begin sequence seven," I command, and spectral opponents materialize around me—training constructs programmed to fight with increasing skill and ferocity.
They attack without warning, five of them converging from different angles. I don't activate the gauntlet immediately, forcing myself to rely on the combat techniques Valen has been drilling into me. Dodge, counter, redirect. My body moves with a fluidity that would have been impossible months ago, before all this began.
The first construct falls to a precisely placed kick. The second to an elbow strike that would shatter a human's sternum. I'm faster now, stronger, even without channeling power. The changes aren't just in the visible veins that mark my skin—they're in my muscles, my reflexes, my very cells.
The remaining three press harder, forcing me backward. One lands a glancing blow to my ribs, and I feel the familiar surge of anger rising. The gauntlet responds instantly, warming against my skin.
"Not yet," I mutter, pushing down the rage. Control is everything. That's what Valen teaches. What Caleif taught.
Her name sends a fresh wave of pain through me, sharper than any physical blow. The momentary distraction costs me as a construct's fist connects with my jaw, sending me sprawling. Before I can recover, another is on me, spectral blade raised for a killing strike.
Instinct takes over. The gauntlet flares to life, and crimson energy blasts outward, disintegrating all three remaining constructs. The backlash shorts out the training chamber's enchantments, plunging the room into darkness before emergency lights flicker on.
"Shit," I hiss, rising to my feet. That was exactly what I was trying to avoid—relying on the gauntlet's power instead of my own skill.
"You're being too hard on yourself," Estingoth observes. "The integration is progressing well. Our powers are meant to be used together."
"Our powers nearly got me killed against the Purifier," I remind him, flexing my hand as the gauntlet's glow subsides. "If I'd had better control, maybe Caleif wouldn't have—"
I can't finish the sentence. The wound is still too fresh.
"She made her choice," Estingoth says quietly. "As we all must."
Before I can respond, the training chamber door opens. Elara Marlowe stands in the threshold, her lean frame silhouetted against the corridor lights. Her presence at the academy has been another adjustment—Roshan's second-in-command, sent to "observe" me after news of the battle with the Purifier reached the demon hunters.
"Bit late for training, isn't it, Driscol?" she asks, stepping into the room. Her movements are precise, measured—always calculating distances, angles of attack. Old habits from her demon hunting days.
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, watching her warily. Despite weeks of proximity, I still don't trust her. Can't trust her. She represents everything I'm fighting against—the people who see me as a monster to be controlled or destroyed.
"Nightmares again?" Her tone is casual, but I know every interaction is being reported back to Roshan. Every weakness cataloged and filed away.
"Just restless," I lie, moving to retrieve a towel from the equipment rack. "What's your excuse?"
She shrugs, her short dark hair shifting with the movement. "Same as you. Too much on my mind." She gestures to the scorched circle where the constructs had been. "Training's not going well, I take it?"
"It's fine." I wipe sweat from my face, avoiding her piercing green eyes. "Just a minor overreaction."
"Hmm." She leans against the wall, studying me with that clinical gaze of hers. "Valen says you're making progress with the transformation control."
"Valen talks too much." I toss the towel aside, irritated that my private sessions are being discussed with the demon hunters.
"He's concerned about you. We all are."
I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Right. The demon hunters are deeply concerned about my well-being. Not at all waiting for an excuse to put me down."
Something flickers across her face—frustration, maybe even hurt. "Is that what you think we want?"
"Isn't it?" I step closer, letting her see the veins that crawl up my neck, the faint crimson glow that never quite leaves my eyes now. "Look at me, Elara. I'm everything you've been trained to hunt."
She doesn't flinch, doesn't back away. "If that were true, Roshan would have sent a kill team, not me."
"Maybe you are the kill team. Just waiting for the right moment."
Elara sighs, running a hand through her hair. "God, you're exhausting. Not everything is a conspiracy against you, Kamen."
The use of my first name catches me off guard. She's always been formal, distant—"Driscol" this and "the subject" that in her reports.
"What do you want, Elara?" I ask, suddenly tired of the dance we've been doing.
"To understand," she says simply. "What it's like. Having that thing bonded to you. Sharing your mind with... something else."
I study her face, looking for the trap, but see only genuine curiosity—and perhaps something else. Fear? Envy?
"It's..." I search for words that could possibly convey the experience. "Like having another heartbeat inside you. Sometimes in sync with yours, sometimes fighting against it. Estingoth isn't just a voice in my head anymore. He's becoming part of me, and I'm becoming part of him."
"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.
"Sometimes. Mostly when I fight it." I flex my hand, watching the gauntlet shift slightly with the movement. "The more I accept what's happening, the easier it gets."
"And that doesn't scare you? Losing yourself?"
The question strikes closer to home than she could know. It's what keeps me awake at night, drives me to these solitary training sessions.
"Terrifies me," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "But I'm not sure I have much choice anymore."
She pushes off from the wall, moving closer until she's standing directly in front of me. "There's always a choice, Kamen. That's what makes us human."
"But I'm not human, am I? Not entirely. Never was, according to Caleif."
The pain of saying her name must show on my face, because Elara's expression softens. "You loved her."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "I don't know. Maybe I could have, given time." I turn away, unable to bear the sympathy in her eyes. "Doesn't matter now."
"It matters," she insists. "Demons aren't supposed to inspire that kind of loyalty. That kind of grief. At least, that's what they taught us."
I glance back at her. "And now?"
She shrugs, a small, uncertain gesture that seems out of character for someone usually so composed. "Now I'm not sure what to believe. The lines keep blurring."
We stand in silence for a moment, the air between us charged with unspoken questions. Finally, I ask the one that's been bothering me since she arrived.
"Why are you really here, Elara? What does Roshan actually want with me?"
She hesitates, conflict evident in her expression. "Officially, I'm here to assess whether you're a threat that needs to be eliminated."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially..." She takes a deep breath. "We've been tracking angelic movements. The Purifier's defeat hasn't stopped them—it's just made them more determined. They're gathering forces, Kamen. Not just for you, but for something bigger. Roshan thinks they're planning an all-out assault on demon strongholds."
My blood runs cold. "Because of me?"
"You were the catalyst, but this has been brewing for centuries. The balance between realms has been shifting. Your bonding with the gauntlet just accelerated things." She steps closer, lowering her voice though we're alone. "Roshan believes you might be the key to stopping it."
"Me? The demon hunters want my help?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice.
"Not the organization. Just Roshan. And me." Her eyes lock with mine, intense and earnest. "We've seen enough to know the official stance is wrong. This isn't about demons versus humans anymore. If the angels succeed, everyone loses."
I shake my head, trying to process this revelation. "So what, I'm supposed to be some kind of weapon for you now? Point me at the angels and let me loose?"
"No," she says firmly. "You're supposed to be a bridge. Something neither fully demon nor human, with the power of both. You could help forge an alliance that might actually stand a chance."
The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. "An alliance? Between demons and demon hunters? Good luck with that."
"Stranger things have happened." She gestures to the gauntlet. "Like a human bonding with one of the most powerful demonic artifacts in existence and surviving."
I flex my fingers, watching the gauntlet shift with the movement. "I'm not sure 'surviving' is the right word for what's happening to me."
"Evolving, then," she suggests. "Becoming something new. Something that might actually stand a chance against what's coming."
I consider her words, turning them over in my mind like strange artifacts. The idea that I could be anything other than a ticking time bomb seems almost laughable. Yet there's a conviction in her voice that makes me want to believe her.
"You really think I can make a difference?" I ask, the question hanging vulnerable in the space between us.
Elara steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of weapon oil and something herbal – rosemary maybe – that clings to her skin. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
Something shifts in her expression – a softening around her eyes that I haven't seen before. For a moment, she's not just Roshan's spy or a demon hunter assessing a threat. She's just a woman, as caught up in this mess as I am.
"You should get some rest," she says finally, breaking the strange tension that's built between us. "Valen mentioned you have elemental training at dawn."
"Right." I run a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "Because sleep comes so easily these days."
Her lips quirk in what might almost be a smile. "Try. That's an order from your friendly neighborhood watchdog."
As she turns to leave, I find myself calling after her. "Elara."
She pauses in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"Thanks. For being honest with me."
Something complicated passes across her face – too quick to read. "Don't thank me yet, Driscol. The hard part's still coming."
After she's gone, I stand alone in the training room, the emergency lights casting everything in harsh shadows. Estingoth's presence stirs in my mind, thoughtful and subdued.
"She's right, you know," he says. "About what you're becoming. About what you could be."
I flex my hand, watching the dark veins pulse beneath my skin. "And what exactly is that?"
"Something neither realm has seen before." His voice carries an emotion I can't quite place – pride, maybe, or anticipation. "Something they should fear."
"I don't want to be feared," I mutter, making my way back toward my quarters. "I just want..."
But I can't finish the thought. What do I want? Revenge for Caleif? A return to normal life? Both seem equally impossible now.
The corridors are silent save for the soft pad of my footsteps against stone. Most of the academy sleeps, unaware of the cosmic forces gathering around them – around me. I feel the weight of Elara's revelation pressing down on my shoulders. An angelic assault. A war between realms. And somehow, I'm supposed to be the key to stopping it.
When I reach my room, I don't bother with the lights. I strip off my sweat-soaked training clothes and collapse onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep feels as distant as the life I left behind.
"You should consider what the hunter said," Estingoth says after a long silence. "About being a bridge."
"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious. "You wanted revenge on the angels. Isn't an all-out war exactly what you've been waiting for?"
His response comes slowly, measured. "Revenge is... less appealing when you've had centuries to contemplate its cost. I've seen what happens when realms collide, Kamen. No one truly wins."
I turn his words over in my mind, surprised by this new perspective. "So what, now you're advocating for peace?"
"Balance," he corrects. "The natural order requires both light and dark. Angels and demons. Destroy one, and the other becomes... corrupted."
"Like you did," I say, the pieces clicking into place. "When you tried to conquer the celestial realm."
"Yes." The admission costs him, I can tell. "Power without counterbalance becomes tyranny. I learned that too late."
I stare into the darkness, considering the implications. If Estingoth – who once waged war against heaven itself – now believes in balance, what does that mean for me? For us?
"Get some rest," he says, retreating to the quieter corners of our shared consciousness. "Tomorrow will bring its own challenges."
But sleep remains elusive. I toss and turn, my mind racing with visions of angels and demons locked in eternal combat, of Caleif's dying smile, of Elara's piercing green eyes asking me to become something impossible.
When dawn finally breaks, painting my sparse quarters with golden light, I rise with a strange new resolve forming in my chest. Not quite hope – I'm not sure I remember what that feels like anymore – but something adjacent to it. Determination, maybe.
If I'm to be a bridge between worlds, I'd better learn how to stand my ground first.
I dress quickly and head to the elemental training chambers, where Valen waits with his usual stern expression. But today, instead of dreading the grueling exercises ahead, I feel almost eager to test my limits.
"You look different this morning," Valen observes as I enter. "More focused."
I meet his burning gaze steadily. "I had an interesting conversation with our resident demon hunter last night."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "Did you now? And what wisdom did Ms. Marlowe impart?"
"That I might be more than just a ticking time bomb." I flex my hand, watching the gauntlet shift with the movement. "That I might actually have a purpose in all this."
Valen studies me for a long moment, his ancient eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable with. Finally, he nods. "Perhaps you're finally ready to hear what Caleif always knew."
"Which is?"
"That the gauntlet didn't choose you by accident, Kamen Driscol." He gestures to the training circle. "It chose you because of who and what you are – a perfect fusion of human will and demonic potential. The only being capable of wielding its full power without being consumed by it."
I step into the circle, feeling the familiar resistance of the enchantments activating beneath my feet. "And if Caleif was wrong? If I'm consumed anyway?"
Valen's expression doesn't change, but something like sympathy flickers in his burning eyes. "Then we all fall together. Now, shall we begin?"
As fire erupts from his palms, I feel the gauntlet respond, power surging through my veins like liquid lightning. For the first time since Caleif died, I don't fight it. I don't fear it.
I embrace it.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear Estingoth's approving rumble as our powers synchronize more perfectly than ever before.
Perhaps Elara is right. Perhaps I am becoming something new.
Something that might just stand a chance against what's coming. "There is still hope, Kamen. Remember this favor, for in time, The Creator will ask to talk to you." The voice echoes, resonating with a melodic purity that I cannot place, yet it feels angelic and somehow profoundly peaceful. A golden light begins to shimmer before me, its luminescence growing brighter and more radiant, casting warm, gentle rays across the surroundings. Slowly, a form begins to take shape within the glowing brilliance. "It can't be..." I whisper, my voice quivering as tears spill freely down my cheeks, my heart overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion.
In the heart of that golden, shimmering light stands... "Caleif." Her name bursts forth from my lips, unbidden and loud, as she turns her gaze toward me. Her eyes, deep pools of warmth and recognition, twinkle like stars scattered across a midnight sky, casting a gentle glow in the dimness. A soft, serene smile graces her face, radiating a beacon of comfort amidst the swirling uncertainty that surrounds us like a tumultuous stormy sea. "How… How is this possible?" I exclaim, my voice a mix of disbelief and joy, as I rush forward, my heart pounding wildly, to clasp Caleif in a fervent embrace, perhaps squeezing her too tightly in my overwhelming relief. I feel her playful slap on the back of my head, a gentle reprimand filled with affection and familiarity.
"It would seem that The Creator wants me to be with you," she murmurs, her voice a soothing melody, like a gentle breeze through the trees, as she leans in to plant a tender kiss on my cheek. "I guess The Creator knew how much I loved you. So he decided that it would be best if I was still alive to be with you. But don't worry, I'm not like Estingoth; I'm exactly like I was before. Maybe after all of this… I'll make you some pancakes and that apron won't be in the way."
I feel my heart go into a knot, "Wait… did-did you just say that you love me?"
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I stagger backward, my legs suddenly unsteady. "You... you love me?" I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
Caleif's smile falters slightly, uncertainty flickering across her luminous features. "I... yes. I do." She reaches out as if to touch my face, then hesitates. "Is that... is that wrong? I know we never had the chance to explore what was between us, but—"
"No," I interrupt, my voice cracking. "It's not wrong. It's just..." I run my hands through my hair, trying to process everything. "You died. I held you while you died. I've been carrying that guilt for weeks, and now you're here, glowing like some kind of angel, telling me you love me?"
The gauntlet pulses against my skin, responding to my emotional turmoil. Estingoth's presence stirs in my mind, but he remains diplomatically silent.
"I know how it must seem," Caleif says softly, stepping closer. The golden light around her seems to pulse with her heartbeat. "But this is real, Kamen. I'm real. The Creator... he showed me what would happen if I wasn't here. The darkness that would consume you, the path you'd walk alone." Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "He couldn't bear to see that future."
I want to believe her—God, how I want to believe her. But after everything I've been through, trust doesn't come easily anymore. "Prove it," I say, hating myself for the words even as they leave my lips. "Tell me something only Caleif would know."
Her expression doesn't change, but I catch a flicker of hurt in her eyes. "You talked in your sleep the night before the ritual. You kept saying 'I'm sorry' over and over. When I asked you about it the next morning, you said you'd been dreaming about your parents." She steps closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "But you weren't dreaming about them, were you? You were dreaming about me. About failing to protect me."
My breath catches in my throat. She's right—I never told anyone about that dream, about the vision of her death that had haunted me even before it happened.
"Caleif," I breathe, reaching out to touch her face. My fingers make contact with warm, solid flesh, and the last of my doubt crumbles away. "You're really here."
She leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Before I can stop myself, I pull her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. She feels real, warm, alive—everything I thought I'd lost forever. The golden light around her intensifies, washing over both of us like a gentle wave.
"I love you too," I whisper into her hair, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. "I was such an idiot for not telling you before. I was so afraid of what I was becoming, of what I might do to you—"
"Shh," she soothes, her fingers running through my hair. "None of that matters now. We have time. We have each other."
I pull back to look at her, taking in every detail of her face as if memorizing it. "But how does this work? Are you... are you still demon? Still yourself?"
She nods, her ember-red hair catching the light. "I'm exactly who I was before. The Creator didn't change me—he simply refused to let me go." A mischievous smile plays at her lips. "Though I suspect there might be some... interesting side effects to being personally resurrected by the divine."
"Such as?"
"Well, for one thing, I can sense angelic movements much more clearly now. And I seem to have developed a rather strong resistance to celestial magic." She flexes her fingers, and I notice a faint golden shimmer around her hands. "It might come in handy against the Purifier."
The mention of our enemy brings reality crashing back. "The Purifier. Elara said they're gathering forces, planning something bigger."
Caleif's expression grows serious. "Yes. I've seen glimpses of it—fragments of the future The Creator showed me. They're not just coming for you anymore, Kamen. They're coming for everyone who refuses to bow to their vision of cosmic order."
I feel the familiar weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders. "So what do we do?"
"We prepare," she says simply. "We train. We gather our own allies." Her eyes meet mine, blazing with determination. "And we show them that some things are worth fighting for."
The training room door opens, and Valen steps inside, his burning gaze immediately fixing on Caleif. His expression cycles through surprise, suspicion, and finally something like awe.
"Caleif Lynria," he says slowly. "You are... different."
"Hello, Master Valen," she replies with a slight bow. "I apologize for the dramatic entrance. Divine intervention tends to be rather... theatrical."
"Indeed." He circles us slowly, his ancient eyes taking in every detail. "The Creator's work, I presume? Most unusual. The divine rarely intervenes so directly in mortal affairs."
"These are unusual times," Caleif points out. "The balance between realms has never been more precarious."
Valen nods thoughtfully. "True. And your return certainly changes the dynamic considerably." He turns to me. "I trust this development won't interfere with your training?"
"On the contrary," I say, feeling more centered than I have in weeks. "I think it might actually help."
"Good. Because we have work to do." He gestures toward the training circle. "The academy's defenses need strengthening, and you need to master the full extent of your abilities. The Purifier's next assault will make their last attack look like a gentle breeze."
As if summoned by his words, the gauntlet pulses with eager energy. I feel Estingoth's consciousness stirring, no longer the angry, bitter presence he once was, but something more balanced—tempered by centuries of regret and newfound purpose.
"Are you ready for this?" I ask Caleif, taking her hand.
She squeezes my fingers, her touch warm and reassuring. "I've never been more ready for anything in my life."
Together, we step into the training circle, and I feel the familiar resistance of the enchantments activating beneath our feet. But this time, I'm not alone. This time, I have something worth fighting for.
The golden light around Caleif intensifies, and I realize with a start that our powers are resonating—the gauntlet's crimson energy intertwining with her divine radiance to create something entirely new.
"Fascinating," Valen murmurs, his voice filled with academic curiosity. "I've never seen anything like this before."