The Shroud pressed the obsidian shard against the door with the spiral.
The runes ignited—not with light, but with hunger. The darkness on the other side stirred, stretched, tasted the air that leaked through the crack.
The door groaned.
Not the sound of stone grinding on stone. The sound of something waking after centuries of sleep. The sound of a predator that had forgotten what it was like to be hungry.
The spiral pulsed once. Twice. Three times.
Then the door opened.
Beyond it was not a room.
It was a void. Absolute. Endless. A darkness that seemed to drink the torchlight, the shadows, the very concept of being. The Shroud stood at the threshold, its white armor glowing faintly against the black.
It did not step forward.
It was a weapon. Weapons did not walk into traps.
"You are not the one we expected," the void whispered.
Not with sound. With thought. The Shroud felt the words press against its consciousness—not invading, just touching. Testing.
"We have been waiting," the void continued. "Waiting for someone worthy. Waiting for someone strong."
The Shroud raised its blade. "I am here to wake you."
"You are here to serve us."
The darkness laughed. Or maybe it screamed. The sound was the same.
"Soon."
The Shroud never saw the spears coming.
They erupted from the void like blood from a wound—crimson, pulsing, alive. There were dozens of them, each as thick as a man's arm, each tipped with barbs that seemed to writhe.
They pierced the Shroud's armor like it was paper.
Through the chest. Through the throat. Through the visor where its eyes should have been. The Shroud didn't scream—weapons did not scream. It simply collapsed, its body dissolving into ash before it hit the ground.
The spears withdrew.
The darkness sighed.
"Pathetic," it said. "Demon kind has really fallen."
The Shroud's remains scattered across the floor.
The obsidian shard rolled to a stop at the threshold, still pulsing, still hungry. The darkness reached out—not a hand, but a presence—and pulled it inside.
The door remained open.
Waiting.
In the valley, Aurelion felt it.
A shift. A tremor. A wrongness that pressed against his chest like a hand.
He stood on the ridge, facing east. The Stain glowed on the horizon—brighter than before, angrier, hungrier.
"Something's changed," he said.
Ami was beside him in an instant. "The door?"
"Someone opened it."
"Who?"
He didn't answer. He didn't know. But he intended to find out.
Valeris called an emergency meeting.
"The secondary rift is destabilizing rapidly. We have reports of knights massing at the edge of the Stain. And there's something else."
She pulled up a satellite image—fuzzy, distorted, but clear enough.
A figure. Tall. Armored in white. Standing at the entrance to the castle.
Aurelion's blood turned to ice.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
His mind raced. He recognized that armor. He knew what it meant. One of them—the Demon King's personal assassins. Silent. Unstoppable. They didn't fail. They didn't retreat. They simply killed.
And one of them was here.
This is NOT good. That thing could wipe everyone out. Every hunter in this camp. Every refugee in the valley. Every—
"What is that?" Corrin asked.
Aurelion forced his face neutral. Forced his voice steady. "I don't know. Some kind of demon."
Thalia frowned. "It looks organized. Military."
"Whatever it is," Aurelion said, "I think it opened the door."
Silence.
Then Kael spoke. "Is it still there?"
Valeris zoomed in. The figure was gone. Only the open door remained.
"We need to go back," Aurelion said. "Now."