High Atrium of the Hunter's Council – Somewhere beneath Zurich
Stone walls hummed with consecrated glyphs, some older than humans themselves. Twelve seats formed a ring, carved from obsidian dragged from the floor of the Mariana Trench.
Each was occupied by a figure cloaked in gray — the Elders of the Bloodhound Crest.
And at the center, chained in radiant sigils that made his bones ache, stood Ramiel.
His hands were unbound, but his power was leashed. The room bristled with anti-djinn wards — like a coffin too aware of its purpose.
The lead elder rose.
"We know who you are. You are the last of the First Flame. We do not care."
Ramiel said nothing.
Another elder leaned forward.
"Your kind are extinct. You, a myth unworthy of reverence. Still, you've stirred — and we find you in the grip of a corpse-herder, trapped in ritual filth."
Ramiel smiled faintly. "You dragged me from a cage only to mock the rust."
A few murmurs followed. One elder stood, younger, more prideful.
"He dares to speak as if he still matters."
Ramiel's eyes found him.
"I spoke with stars long dead when your bloodline still knelt to fire."
Tension thickened the air. The First Elder raised a hand.
"Enough."
"You are not free, Ramiel. Nor are you prisoner. You are.....useful."
"Centuries ago, an artifact of this council — the Seal of Nine Names — was stolen. By a demon who dared to walk our vaults unnoticed."
"Retrieve it. In exchange, we grant you autonomy "
Ramiel looked up slowly.
"Hell."
"Yes."
"Then say it plainly. This is no request. You want a pact."
Twelve heads nodded.
"You will bind your essence to it. Break it, and your soul will rupture into the Void Between. Not even death will find you there."
Ramiel hesitated.
He hated pacts. Djinn were pacts.
But he raised his hand.
A flame coiled around his wrist, burning the mark into being: a symbol of obedience, ancient and ugly.
"It is done," he muttered.
The elders sat in satisfaction. Then the First spoke again.
"You will not go alone."
From the shadows stepped a boy.
No taller than Ramiel's chest. Black jacket, iron-threaded gloves, and silver bands circling both arms. Innocent eyes that concealed cunning.
"This is Alec. Eleven. He is yours to protect, and his word will be our eyes."
Ramiel blinked. "You send a child."
"We send a witness."
"Should you flee, falter, or fail, the pact turns inward."
Ramiel looked at Alec, who didn't flinch. Brave. Or foolish. Maybe both.
He sighed. "Then I need to find the artifact's place. And for that..."
He stepped back from the circle.
"I must call the Sisters."
A hush rippled through the council.
One elder stood. "They don't speak to the bound."
"They'll speak to me," Ramiel said. "Because I remember their names."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * *
Later — inside one of the councils oldest rooms.
Ramiel knelt in a ring of old dust and dying light. Alec watched nearby, silent, wide-eyed.
The shadows thickened. A chill fell. The candles burned faintly.
Then they arrived.
Three voices spoke as one, but staggered — like a chant heard through a broken mirror.
"You return to beg, Ash-Walker?"
"No," Ramiel said. "To ask."
The Sisters shifted into view. Not women. Not exactly.
One wept molten silver. One bled sand. One wore the faces of everyone Alec had ever known.
"The Seal of Nine Names," Ramiel said. "Where?"
"What will you offer Ash-Walker" They hushed
"A favour in return"
The Sisters whispered in riddle.
"He who names himself.
The Lord of empty thrones.
Seek the one who names himself"
Ramiel bowed his head.
"Lucarion."
The candles burst into ice. The Sisters vanished with a hiss.
Alec stepped forward. "What did they mean?"
Ramiel rose, heavier somehow.
"They meant Hell has teeth. And we're walking into its mouth."