The figure was taller than any human, its robes moving in a wind that didn't exist. Slowly, deliberately, it turned its hooded face toward Ash.
"You called, and I answered. I am Moros." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Some call me the Death Bringer."
Ash's mind reeled. Demon. The word surfaced from somewhere in his hindbrain, carried on the same instinct that had given him the summoning words. This was a Demon King. A ruler of some nightmare realm beyond reality. And he'd called it here.
"Please," Ash gasped, forcing the words through a throat raw from screaming. "They're killing everyone. The monsters. My sister, the staff please help them."
Moros tilted his head, considering. Though Ash couldn't see his face, he felt amusement radiating from the demon lord like heat from a forge.
"You beg Death's herald to preserve life? How deliciously ironic." That terrible voice carried a hint of something that might have been laughter. "Very well, summoner. I shall end the threat."
He raised one skeletal hand toward the estate grounds.
"Dominion of the Grave."
Red light exploded outward.
Ash felt it wash over him cold, absolute, final. Like being submerged in freezing water, if water could drain the very concept of life from your body. It swept through the estate like a tsunami, through walls and floors and every living thing it touched.
The sensation lasted an eternity compressed into a single heartbeat.
When the light faded, when Ash could see and breathe and think again, the world was silent.
Perfectly, terribly silent.
He scrambled to the balcony edge on legs that barely held him. Below, the estate grounds were still. The fires still burned, but nothing moved through the smoke.
The creatures were dead. Their bodies lay scattered, already beginning to decay at an accelerated rate. Flesh sloughing off bone, bone crumbling to dust, as if time itself had condemned them to centuries of rot in seconds.
But they weren't the only bodies.
Movement near the east wing caught his eye. The door burst open and his sister emerged, white hair with black tips unmistakable even through the smoke. She was alive. Behind her came more staff—Chen's husband, Sarah from housekeeping, David who managed the wine cellar.
Survivors.
But not enough. God, not enough.
Ash's eyes found the other bodies. Thomas, who'd run past them with the crowbar dead at the garden entrance. Two more security guards died near the fountain. Others he couldn't identify from this distance, but he knew them. Had known them.
They'd survived the monsters. Hidden, maybe, or barricaded themselves somewhere. Waiting for rescue.
And his power had killed them anyway.
"Thirteen," Ash whispered. "Thirteen dead from the monsters."
"Eight more from me," Moros said from directly behind him.
Ash spun. The Death Bringer stood far too close, looming over him. Up close, Ash could see hints of what lay beneath the hood bone white as bleached ivory, eye sockets that held not fire but absence, a void where eyes should be.
"Twenty-one souls departed," Moros continued in that measured, clinical tone. "An acceptable ratio, I think. Though if you prefer, next time I can be more... selective."
"Next time?" Ash's voice cracked. "There won't be a next time. I didn't—I didn't know it would—"
"You called for an end to the threat. I ended all of it." Moros's voice carried that terrible amusement again. "I cannot help that I am thorough. Be more specific in your requests, summoner. Words have power, especially to beings like me. I am... literal in my interpretations."
The demon lord reached out with one skeletal hand. Ash flinched but couldn't move. Those bone fingers grasped his wrist gently, almost tenderly, and turned his palm upward.
The summoning circle was no longer just drawn there. It had burned into his flesh, a permanent scar of intricate patterns and symbols that pulsed with faint red light.
"The mark is set," Moros said. "You bear the mark of a summoner now. When you call, I shall answer. We are bound, you and I."
"I don't want to be bound to you." Ash tried to pull his hand back but might as well have been pulling against a mountain. "You killed them. My people. I asked you to help and you—"
"And I did precisely what you asked." Moros released his wrist, and Ash stumbled backward. "I ended the threat. All of it. The fact that you lack the vocabulary to command Death properly is not my concern. You will learn, summoner. Or you will continue to pay for your imprecision with blood."
The demon lord began to fade, his form dissolving like smoke in wind. His voice echoed across the balcony, casual and almost friendly.
"I look forward to our next meeting, Ash Sinclair. You have such... potential."
Then he was gone.
Ash stood alone on the balcony, the summoning mark burning in his palm, and stared at the bodies below. His sister was calling his name now, her voice distant and desperate. Survivors were gathering near the main entrance. The immediate threat was over.
Twenty-one people dead. The estate in ruins. And he'd done this. He'd called something worse than the monsters to save them, and it had killed indiscriminately.
Mrs. Chen groaned behind him, stirring. She'd missed the worst of it, unconscious through the demon's departure. Small mercy.
Ash looked at his palm, at the mark seared into his flesh. It pulsed with his heartbeat, a living reminder of what he'd done. What he'd become.
He'd wanted power to save them. He'd gotten power to kill.
The world had fallen. The age of hunters was beginning. And Ash Sinclair had just learned that his power came with a price written in blood.
Far away, in a realm beyond human comprehension, the Death Bringer returned to his throne of bones.
The demon lord traced a skeletal finger along the armrest of his throne, already envisioning the next call. The summoner was young, frightened, powerful, and wonderfully imprecise. He would call again. They always did.
And each time, the bond would deepen. Each time, the mark would grow stronger.
For now, Moros was patient. He had waited millennia. He could wait a little longer.
Death, after all, always claimed everything in the end.