The rift screamed.
It widened above the obliterated clearing, its edges tearing and reforming in violent pulses of light and shadow. Wind howled upward, dragging ash, broken branches, and fragments of stone into the sky as if the world itself were being peeled open.
Elira struggled to her feet, vision swimming.
Every breath burned. The shadows around her recoiled, restless, as though sensing something far worse than the god they had slain. The chain between her and the King felt… strained. Stretched thin.
"Something's wrong," she whispered.
The King didn't answer.
He stood several paces away, sword lowered, shadows writhing around him in jagged bursts instead of smooth control. His armor was cracked, blood soaking through multiple rents. One knee buckled before he caught himself.
Elira felt it immediately.
Pain lanced through her chest, sharp and sudden, stealing her breath. She staggered toward him as the bond flared violently, heat flooding her veins.
"You're bleeding out," she said, voice trembling.
"Later," he growled. "Eyes up."
The rift pulsed again.
This time, something *fell* from it.
A spear of blackened light punched into the ground between them, detonating in a blast that hurled Elira backward. She hit the earth hard, rolling as heat scorched her skin. The King barely avoided the impact, shadows flaring as he skidded aside.
From the smoking crater, figures rose.
Not godsent.
Humanoid. Armored. Their forms were wrong—too sharp, too deliberate. Shadow and light fused into rigid silhouettes, their helms carved with symbols that hurt to look at. Each carried a weapon humming with restrained annihilation.
The King went still.
"Harbingers," he said quietly. "Azrael's hounds."
The name hit Elira like ice.
The Harbingers moved as one.
The first blurred forward, crossing the distance in a heartbeat. The King met it head-on, blade crashing against its weapon in a deafening clash. The impact sent a shockwave ripping across the clearing, throwing Elira off balance again.
She forced herself up just as another Harbinger lunged for her.
Instinct screamed.
The shadows surged—but stuttered.
They hesitated, slipping from her grasp like water through her fingers. The Harbinger's blade sliced through the darkness effortlessly, cutting straight toward her throat.
Elira threw herself aside, the blade grazing her shoulder. Blood bloomed instantly.
The Harbinger turned, expressionless helm tilting.
It *learned*.
The King roared, tearing through his opponent with a savage strike that split armor and shadow alike. Black ichor sprayed—but the fallen Harbinger did not dissolve.
It *twitched*.
And behind it, the others advanced.
Unhurried.
Certain.
Above them, the rift pulsed once more.
And something unseen watched with approval.
The Harbingers did not rush.
They advanced in measured steps, weapons raised, movements perfectly synchronized. Each footfall sent a low vibration through the ground, a pressure that crawled up Elira's legs and settled in her bones. The shadows recoiled again, thinning around her like frightened smoke.
"They're suppressing it," she gasped.
The King slashed another Harbinger apart, severing its arm at the shoulder. Blackened light spilled out—but the creature barely reacted. It caught its own falling limb, pressed it back into place, and the wound sealed with a sickening pulse.
"Not suppressing," the King growled, driving his blade through its chest and ripping upward. "Overwriting."
A Harbinger broke formation and lunged for Elira.
She raised her hands, forcing the shadows to obey. They surged—but the Harbinger's presence tore through them, unraveling the darkness into nothing. Its blade came down in a brutal arc.
Elira screamed as the King slammed into it from the side, the impact sending both skidding across the shattered earth. He rolled to his feet, bleeding heavily now, shadows flaring erratically as he pressed the attack.
Another Harbinger moved.
Then another.
They converged on him.
"No!" Elira shouted.
She ran toward them despite the pain tearing through her body. A Harbinger turned its helm toward her, weapon lifting with calculated precision.
"Do not engage," it spoke at last, voice flat and inhuman. "Asset is required intact."
Asset.
Rage cut through Elira's fear like a blade.
She reached inward—not for the shadows, but for the chain.
The bond flared violently, heat ripping through her veins as she pulled. Power surged from the King into her, raw and unstable. The shadows around her thickened, darkening until they felt *heavy* again.
She struck.
A wave of compressed darkness slammed into the Harbinger, caving in its chest and driving it into the ground hard enough to shatter stone. The creature convulsed—but did not die.
The King staggered as the power left him, dropping to one knee.
"Elira—don't—" he rasped.
Too late.
The Harbingers adapted instantly. Their symbols flared brighter, patterns shifting as they recalibrated. One raised its weapon—and fired.
A beam of annihilating light tore through the battlefield, carving a molten trench toward Elira. She threw up a shadow wall just in time, the impact detonating in a blinding explosion that sent her flying backward.
She hit the ground hard, vision swimming.
The King roared her name.
Through the ringing in her ears, Elira saw the Harbingers advancing again, weapons charging, movements flawless.
Above them, the rift darkened.
And for the first time, Elira felt it clearly—
A presence colder than the gods.
Closer.
Waiting.
The air went still.
Not silent—*stilled*, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The Harbingers halted mid-advance, weapons humming, helms tilting upward in perfect unison. The rift above them darkened, its edges smoothing unnaturally as the violent turbulence ceased.
Elira pushed herself up on shaking arms.
The cold hit her next.
It wasn't the absence of heat. It was the absence of *everything else*. Sound dulled. Color bled thin. Even pain felt distant, muted beneath a suffocating calm that pressed in from all sides.
The King felt it too.
He forced himself upright, sword dragging against the ground as shadows recoiled from his armor like wounded animals. His eyes burned brighter—not with fury, but with recognition sharpened into dread.
"Azrael," he said.
The name was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The rift opened without tearing.
Darkness poured out—not shadows, not lightless space, but something smoother, deeper, as if the concept of night had learned patience. A figure began to form within it, tall and indistinct, its edges never quite settling into one shape.
Elira's breath hitched.
The chain between her and the King went taut, vibrating with warning so intense it hurt. She felt *seen*—not watched, but understood, every fear and hope laid bare.
The Harbingers knelt.
All of them.
Weapons lowered. Heads bowed.
The figure stepped fully into the world.
Where it stood, the ground did not break. It simply… gave up.
"Well done," a voice said—not aloud, but everywhere at once. Calm. Gentle. Final. "You survived longer than expected."
Elira tried to move. Couldn't.
The King stepped forward anyway, planting himself between her and the presence, shadows flaring weakly around him.
"Stay back," he snarled. "She is not yours."
A pause.
Then a sound that might have been a chuckle.
"King of Shadows," the voice replied. "Everything ends up mine."
The presence turned—not fully, just enough.
Its attention settled on Elira.
"And you," it continued softly, "are far more interesting than the gods ever were."
The chain burned.
And somewhere deep within the darkness, something answered back.