The smell of smoke still clung to Zethra's clothes even after a day's walk. Ash and scorched earth followed him like a second skin, a cruel reminder of the farmhouse they'd left in flames. Ezagone, however, seemed determined to move on—his head bobbing as he hummed tunelessly, swinging a stick as though it were a knight's blade.
"Brother," Ezagone chirped, smashing his stick against a rock with a resounding clack. "Do you think if I practice long enough, this twig will evolve into a holy sword? Or maybe a demon-slaying blade? No, wait—a twig of destiny!"
Zethra grunted. "It'll evolve into splinters in your hand."
Ezagone gasped dramatically. "Cruel words from a cruel heart! And here I thought family was supposed to encourage one another." He clutched his chest like a wounded bard. "Do you know how much damage you've done to my fragile spirit?"
"Fragile?" Zethra raised a brow. "You survived me throwing you into a river last year when you stole my bread. You're not fragile. Just irritating."
Their banter echoed through the quiet country path, oddly comforting despite their circumstances. Yet beneath the jokes, Zethra's mind churned.
He hadn't told Ezagone about the voice—the velvet-smooth whispers curling through his thoughts since his awakening. He hadn't told him about her.
That night, when Ezagone finally dozed off by the campfire, Zethra sat awake, staring at the embers. His body still felt heavy from expending Aetherion in the fight with the hunters. Worse, he could feel something restless under his skin, coiled tight, waiting to break free.
"You're suppressing it wrong."
The voice slid through the dark like honey and smoke. Zethra's jaw tensed. "You again."
And then she was there.
From his shadow, a figure rose—curves sculpted as though temptation itself had taken form. A dress of blood-red silk clung to her body like flame captured in fabric, each ripple of cloth hinting more than it concealed. Her hair fell in glossy waves the color of midnight, cascading over bare shoulders, while her eyes gleamed like twin amethysts, hypnotic and sharp.
The firelight caught her form, but the flames bent toward her instead of illuminating her, as though even fire wished to worship.
Zethra's throat tightened. He had seen angels described in scripture and demons painted on ruined church walls—but neither compared to this. She was majesty and ruin in the same breath.
"You again?" he muttered.
Her lips curved into a smile that was equal parts indulgent and cruel. "Of course." She walked—or perhaps glided—around the campfire, the air thickening with her presence. "Don't you like what you see, little devil?"
"I didn't ask for you." His voice was low, defiant, though his pulse betrayed him.
"No," she purred, kneeling gracefully so that her violet gaze locked with his. "But you awakened me when you awakened yourself. I am your devil given flesh, your inner truth given voice. I prefer it when you call me…" She paused, tilting her head in mock thought. "…Amethyst."
The name rolled through Zethra's mind like a command. He swallowed. "I see."
Her smile widened. "Good boy."
He hated the way the words tugged at something inside him. He hated the shiver of satisfaction he felt in pleasing her.
"What do you want?"
"Only to help," she said smoothly, circling him again. Her red dress whispered like fire across stone. "Your power is raw, clumsy. You bleed Aetherion without realizing. Seal it properly, or hunters will smell you from leagues away."
Zethra narrowed his eyes. "And you'll just… teach me? Out of kindness?"
Amethyst's laugh was low, sultry. "Kindness is an angel's lie. But I am yours, Zethra. My existence depends on you. I cannot betray you, even if I wished to. You are my master and my mirror both."
Zethra almost spat at the word master, but the sincerity in her gaze unsettled him more than her beauty.
"…How?"
Amethyst leaned closer, her breath brushing his ear like velvet. "Breathe. Imagine your wings folding inward, the shadows retreating beneath your skin. Focus on the core where Aetherion pools. Picture it as a flame, and snuff it to embers."
Zethra obeyed. He shut his eyes, drew in a slow breath, and followed her instructions. Heat flared across his back—the mark of his wings glowing faintly—before dimming, curling inward until the pressure in his chest eased.
When he opened his eyes, Amethyst's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Approval gleamed in her gaze.
"Well done," she whispered. "You learn quickly."
For a dangerous moment, Zethra thought she might kiss his temple. Instead, she straightened and looked toward Ezagone, who snored loudly by the fire.
"And him?" she asked.
Zethra stiffened. "What about him?"
"Your brother's Aetherion stirs," Amethyst said, her tone shifting to something sharper. "A hybrid spark is volatile. If it erupts unchecked, you may lose him—or worse, draw every hunter in the region."
Zethra's hands curled into fists. "…Then teach me to protect him."
Amethyst's smile returned, softer this time. Almost… proud. "Ah, devotion. So unlike the devils I've known. Very well. I will show you how to seal him—when the time comes."
Before Zethra could respond, she stepped back into the shadows, her form dissolving like smoke into night.
The campfire crackled. Ezagone snorted in his sleep and rolled over, muttering about bread.
Zethra sat rigid, heart racing, every nerve alive.
He knew she was much more now. He had her guidance.
Tomorrow, when Ezagone asked how he suddenly understood so much about Aetherion, Zethra would lie. He would smile, shrug, and say, "Instinct."
Because how could he explain Amethyst?
How could he explain the devil in red?