Viehl did not die.
That fact gnawed at Caera through the remainder of the night like something alive beneath her skin.
He lay where he had fallen, breath shallow and uneven, the wound in his chest still smoking faintly where light had burned through demonic flesh. The chain pulsed softly between them, its glow dim but steady—an unyielding reminder that she had bound his life to her will whether she liked it or not.
She did not tend to him.
She told herself she didn't care whether he lived until morning.
That was a lie.
Caera stood watch at the edge of their small camp, eyes scanning the darkness while her thoughts circled like vultures. Every few breaths, she felt the chain tug—not physically, but existentially—as though some part of her was aware of his continued existence whether she wanted to be or not.
When he finally stirred, it was subtle.
A shift of weight. A hiss of breath drawn too sharply.
She did not turn.
"I'm still alive," Viehl murmured hoarsely.
She tightened her grip on her blade. "Unfortunately."
A weak sound escaped him—half cough, half laugh. "You're bad at mercy."
"I wasn't being merciful."
"No," he agreed. "You were being honest."
That earned him a glance.
His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused with pain, but there was no accusation in them. No fear. Just an unsettling calm, as though the attempt on his life had clarified something rather than terrified him.
"You should sleep," he added.
Caera scoffed. "I don't take advice from demons I've just stabbed."
"You didn't stab me," he said quietly. "You tested me."
Her jaw clenched.
"You don't get to decide what that was."
"No," he conceded. "But I get to survive it."
She turned fully then, stalking toward him with predatory precision. She loomed over his prone form, light from the wardfire casting sharp shadows across her face.
"Listen carefully," she said. "You exist because I allow it. Nothing more."
"I know."
"You don't matter."
"I know."
"You are a thing," she continued, voice low and hard. "A blade I will throw away the moment it dulls."
His gaze sharpened, locking onto hers despite the pain. "Then why does it bother you when I bleed."
The words struck deeper than any weapon.
Her hand moved before thought—fingers closing around the chain, tightening it just enough to make him gasp. Light flared along its length, biting into his skin.
"Say something like that again," she warned, "and I won't stop next time."
Viehl's breath shuddered, but his eyes never left hers.
"I won't," he said.
She released the chain and stepped back, disgust coiling in her stomach—not at him, but at herself. At how close she had come to losing control. At how easily he had provoked her with nothing more than a quiet observation.
She returned to her post.
Sleep never came.
By morning, the sky had shifted again—no longer burning red, but bruised purple, as though the world itself had taken a blow it could not heal from. The air was colder, sharper, carrying the distant scent of ozone and rot.
Viehl was conscious when she approached.
He had dragged himself upright, leaning against a rock with visible effort. The wound in his chest had closed—not healed, but sealed, the flesh around it dark and angry. Demon regeneration, slow and imperfect without access to proper power.
She noted it clinically.
"You can walk," she said.
"Yes."
"Then walk."
He did.
Each step was a negotiation with pain. His movements were careful, economical, betraying a lifetime of combat training beneath the injuries. He did not complain. Did not ask for rest. He followed.
They marched.
The terrain grew harsher as they traveled—landscapes twisted by overlapping catastrophes. Forests petrified mid-burn. Rivers flowing upward, defying gravity in sluggish arcs. The remains of cities half-sunk into the ground, their towers jutting like broken teeth.
Caera did not slow.
Viehl learned quickly.
When he stumbled, he caught himself. When exhaustion threatened to claim him, he bit down on it and moved forward anyway. The chain did not need to punish him often—his own will did most of the work.
Hours passed in silence.
It was Viehl who broke it.
"Where are we going."
Caera did not answer.
"Not a destination," he amended. "A direction."
She considered ignoring him. Instead, she said, "Away from here."
He nodded faintly. "That's usually wise."
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.
"Don't."
He raised his hands slightly in surrender. "Noted."
Another stretch of silence followed—this one heavier, charged with unspoken things. Caera felt the pull of his presence at her back, like a thorn she could not dislodge. She hated that she was aware of him even when she tried not to be.
That awareness turned dangerous when they reached the dead valley.
The air here was wrong.
Sound dulled as soon as they crossed its threshold, as though the world itself had decided nothing spoken within should matter. The ground was smooth, glassy—once molten, now cooled into an endless black mirror that reflected the fractured sky.
Caera slowed at last.
Viehl felt it immediately. "This place is cursed."
"Yes."
"You've been here before."
"No."
He frowned. "Then how do you know."
"Because it wants me here."
That was enough explanation.
They crossed carefully, each step echoing faintly despite the deadened air. Caera's senses stretched outward, probing for threats. The valley felt… empty. Not abandoned—emptied. As though something had passed through and taken everything worth noticing with it.
Halfway across, the chain went taut.
Caera stopped.
Viehl stood frozen behind her, eyes locked on the reflective ground beneath their feet. His breath had gone shallow.
"Do you feel that," he whispered.
"Yes."
The reflection moved.
Not theirs.
Shapes rippled across the glassy surface—warped, elongated silhouettes that did not match the sky above. They writhed beneath the ground like things trapped under ice.
Outer Beings.
Waiting.
Caera drew her blade slowly, light spilling outward in controlled radiance. "Stay behind me."
Viehl hesitated. "I can fight."
She shot him a look. "You can bleed."
The ground cracked.
Hands—too many, too thin—burst upward, shattering the surface as creatures hauled themselves into the open. Their forms were skeletal, angular, etched with symbols that hurt to look at. They did not rush.
They watched.
Caera stepped forward.
The battle that followed was brutal, methodical, and unrelenting. She moved like a force of nature, light carving through shadow, each strike precise and lethal. The creatures adapted quickly, learning her patterns, forcing her to change tactics mid-fight.
One slipped past her guard.
It lunged for Viehl.
He reacted without thinking.
With a snarl, he wrenched the chain toward himself, using the pull to hurl his body sideways and intercept the blow. Claws tore into his shoulder instead of his throat. He roared in pain and drove a broken horn shard into the creature's core.
It screamed and dissolved.
Caera turned too late.
She killed the remaining creatures in seconds, fury lending her speed. When the last one fell, she spun on Viehl, blade raised.
"What did I tell you," she demanded.
He was on one knee, blood streaming down his arm, breathing hard. He looked up at her, eyes blazing despite the pain.
"That you didn't save demons," he said. "You protected tools."
She hesitated.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He saw it.
"You needed me alive," he continued quietly. "So I stayed alive."
Her blade hovered inches from his throat.
"Do not presume," she said.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm adapting."
That was worse.
She lowered the blade slowly.
They left the valley without speaking another word.
That night, as they camped beneath a sky split by distant lightning, Caera sat apart from the fire, sharpening her blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythm grounded her, kept her thoughts from spiraling too far inward.
Behind her, Viehl lay resting, his breathing steady despite his injuries.
She spoke without turning.
"You disobeyed me."
"Yes."
"Next time, I won't hesitate."
"I know."
The calm acceptance in his voice scraped at her nerves.
"Why," she asked suddenly. "Why do you keep doing this."
A pause.
"Because," Viehl said slowly, "you're the first thing in this war that feels inevitable."
She stopped sharpening.
"That's not devotion," she said. "That's madness."
"Probably," he agreed. "But madness survives longer than hope."
She looked up at the sky—at the burning fractures, the endless scars carved by gods and monsters alike.
The chain between them glimmered faintly.
And for the first time since binding him, Caera wondered—not with fear, but with cold clarity—whether she had chained a demon…
Or invited a mirror to walk beside her.