General Ryan's chest heaved as the shouts of rebellion thundered around him. Sweat slicked his brow, his hands trembling despite the mask of authority he tried to wear.
The soldiers—his soldiers—no longer looked at him with fear. Instead, their eyes burned with a fire he hadn't seen in years.
'This can't be happening…'
His pulse raced. He searched the crowd, desperate for some scrap of control, but the only thing he found was the contempt on their faces.
For the first time since taking power, General Ryan realized he had no idea what to do next.
Then, amid the clamor, a voice slid into his mind—low, oily, and unmistakably inhuman.
"If you want help… then reach out."
His blood ran cold. He recognized that voice. The benefactor who had given him the cursed contract years ago, the one who whispered promises of dominion.
Ryan's lips quivered as he muttered under his breath, hoping no one else heard.
"Help me… I need help. Now!"
The voice hummed, pleased.
