The hunters stepped from the shadows one by one, silver armor gleaming faintly in the twilight. Their leader raised a spear that shimmered with golden runes, his voice calm but edged like a blade.
"Zethra, son of the abyss. By decree of the concord , you are to be bound and carried to judgment. Resist once more, and your mortal shell will be broken."
Ezagone leaned over to his brother, whispering loudly, "Well, that's… comforting. Do we get a lawyer or…?"
"Eza," Zethra muttered, eyes never leaving the hunters.
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
Ezagone threw up his hands. "Rude. I'm just saying, their customer service sucks."
The hunters advanced, weapons humming with holy energy. Zethra felt the wings burn against his chest, the faint crimson mark Amethyst had etched onto his soul. His breath grew ragged, power clawing beneath the surface like a beast begging release.
'This is bad,' zethra thought. 'I am still badly wounded, this might end up lethal'
Ezagone stepped forward, trying to sound brave. "Hey, you shiny pigeons! If you want my brother, you're gonna have to—"
The hunter's spear shot out, a streak of golden lightning. Ezagone barely dodged, tumbling into the dirt with a curse.
"—not stab me mid-sentence!" he yelled, scrambling behind Zethra.
Zethra's heart pounded. He could smell blood already—their blood if he hesitated.
"You are going to have to follow you dark instincts if you are to survive, you must lose yourself, At least for a little while" Amethyst hissed
Cracks glowed across his chest like molten veins. His knees buckled. Ezagone caught him, panicked.
"Zeth?! What's happening?"
"…Get back," Zethra rasped.
The hunters raised their weapons as one. Holy light filled the clearing.
And then—
Dark fire exploded from Zethra's back, scorching the earth. Out of the blaze unfurled wings—vast, obsidian, and veined with crimson. Every feather shimmered with malevolent beauty, each edge sharper than a blade. The air itself recoiled.
Ezagone's jaw dropped. "Holy—no, actually—unholy crap."
Amethyst appeared beside him, visible only to Zethra, her scarlet dress clinging like liquid flame. Her smile was predatory and exquisite.
"Magnificent." She caressed his cheek, though no one else saw."Now show them why devils are feared."
The hunters hesitated, but only for a breath. Then they charged.
Zethra moved.
One wingbeat sent shockwaves across the clearing. Spears of holy light shattered against his feathers, sparks raining. He surged forward, talons of dark flame forming around his hands.
The first hunter didn't even scream—he was hurled back, armor cracking under the blow.
Ezagone gawked, caught between horror and awe. "Zethra… you look like the cover art of a very bad prophecy!"
Zethra didn't answer—he couldn't."
Amethyst's laughter echoed, sweet and cruel. "Yes, darling. This is what you were born for. Don't stop now—break them all."
The last words nearly drowned him. For a heartbeat, Zethra's vision blurred red, his body lunging forward with feral hunger.
But then—Ezagone's voice cut through.
"Zeth! Don't you dare lose yourself! If you go full monster, who's gonna keep me from eating poison berries again?!"
It was ridiculous. Stupid. Completely Ezagone.
And yet—it grounded him.
Zethra roared, wings blazing with restrained fury. He struck down the last two hunters in a storm of black flame, their weapons scattering like broken toys.
When the dust cleared, silence fell. The hunters lay groaning, broken but alive. Zethra's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his face.
The wings folded in, trembling. Slowly, painfully, he forced them back—sealing them once more with Amethyst's whisper guiding him.
Ezagone stumbled up, wide-eyed, dirt-streaked, and grinning like an idiot.
"…You're insane," he said, staring at the scorched clearing. "And terrifying. And possibly my favorite person alive."
Zethra smirked faintly, exhaustion dragging at his bones. "Don't tell Martha."
Ezagone threw his arms around him, laughing despite the wreckage. "Too late. She's gonna kill us both."
And though Amethyst still whispered promises in his ear, Zethra felt—for now—like he'd won.