The wind carried the dust of a fallen general across the plains long after Noctyra had left Edrath Hollow behind.
It drifted over fields that had once grown barley, across streams that no longer reflected the sky clearly, and into forests whose leaves had thinned from fear more than frost. The world felt altered—not merely scarred, but listening.
One of the Seven had felt it.
When the demon general dissolved beneath Noctyra's palm, the ripple did not end in that valley. It moved outward, subtle yet undeniable, threading through unseen veins that connected sovereign to servant. A strand of dominion had snapped.
Far away, in a realm not bound by soil or season, a throne shuddered.
It was carved from something that resembled bone but was older than death. Veins of dim crimson pulsed through its surface like faint heartbeats. Upon it sat one of the Seven Demon Kings.
He was not the largest among them, nor the most wrathful. His presence was colder—more measured. His name among mortals had been lost, but among his kind he was known as Vaelor, Keeper of Dominion.
Vaelor tilted his head slightly.
A faint crack traced along the arm of his throne.
"Curious," he murmured.
Below him, the abyssal court stirred. Lesser demons flinched, wings folding tighter to their bodies.
"The general at the southern hills," one dared to whisper. "Its tether has been severed."
Vaelor's golden eyes narrowed—not in rage.
In intrigue.
"By what?" he asked.
Silence followed.
No angel had descended. No heavenly fire had pierced the earth.
The heavens remained still.
Yet something had reached upward from below.
Vaelor leaned back slowly.
"Find me the fracture," he said. "And the hand that made it."
Noctyra did not know the throne had trembled.
She walked alone beneath a sky that refused to darken fully. Even night seemed uneasy now, as though unsure whether to belong to shadow or retreat entirely.
Her boots pressed into damp earth as she followed no map, only instinct. The abyss within her was quiet, yet attentive. It no longer felt like an intruder.
It felt… aligned.
She paused at the crest of a ridge overlooking a river valley. Once, villages had dotted its banks. She could still see remnants—charred beams jutting like broken ribs from the ground. Wind moved through them with a low, mournful whistle.
"You hesitate," the abyss murmured from within her.
"I observe," she replied.
"You look for survivors."
"Yes."
"And if you find none?"
She did not answer immediately.
Her gaze traced the path of the river until it vanished into mist.
"Then I look for the next king."
The abyss seemed to hum faintly—not approval, not disapproval.
Merely acknowledgment.
Her halo pulsed once.
She had begun to notice its changes.
When she healed the child in Edrath Hollow, it had grown warmer—not brighter, but more defined. When she unmade the demon general, fractures had spread across its surface, yet its shadow had deepened, becoming denser.
It was not breaking.
It was transforming.
She reached up slowly, fingers hovering near its edge. The air around it felt thinner, as though light itself avoided contact.
"Will I lose myself?" she asked quietly.
"Define yourself," the abyss replied.
She frowned.
"I was a saint."
"You were a bridge."
"And now?"
"You are a blade."
The words did not wound.
But they did not comfort either.
By midday, she reached the outskirts of another settlement.
This one was larger than Edrath Hollow—once fortified, now partially reclaimed. Stone walls bore cracks from siege, but banners still hung from towers, though faded and torn.
The sigil upon them was unfamiliar.
A silver tree upon a field of deep blue.
As she approached, she saw movement atop the walls—archers, armored figures, disciplined rather than desperate.
This was no refugee camp.
This was a remnant kingdom still standing.
The gates did not open immediately.
A voice called down from the battlements.
"State your purpose."
Noctyra raised her gaze calmly.
"I seek passage," she said. "And information."
The guards shifted.
One leaned forward, squinting at her.
"Is that—"
"Yes," another breathed.
The obsidian halo did not hide itself.
After a moment, the gates opened just enough to admit her.
Inside, the city bore scars but not ruin. Market stalls functioned. Blacksmiths hammered iron. Children ran through alleyways with forced laughter.
Hope lived here.
Fragile, defiant.
A captain approached her—a woman in her thirties, armor polished despite visible repairs. A long scar ran across her jawline.
"I am Captain Elira of Thornehold," she said. "You are Saint Noctyra."
"Not anymore."
Elira's eyes flicked upward.
"That depends on who you ask."
Noctyra studied her.
"You still believe?"
"I believe in survival," Elira replied. "And in weapons that work."
A faint, humorless smile touched Noctyra's lips.
"Then perhaps we share belief."
Elira gestured for her to walk.
"You've come because you felt it, didn't you?" the captain asked.
"Felt what?"
"The shift."
Noctyra's steps slowed.
"Explain."
"Three nights ago," Elira said quietly, "the demonic patrols in the southern hills vanished. Scouts report ash. No bodies. Just… nothing."
The ripple had reached them.
"I encountered one," Noctyra admitted.
Elira stopped walking.
"You destroyed it?"
"Yes."
The captain studied her face—not with reverence.
With calculation.
"How?"
Noctyra met her gaze evenly.
"I no longer ask heaven for permission."
A long silence stretched between them.
Finally, Elira nodded.
"Then you should speak with our queen."
The throne room of Thornehold was modest compared to Luminara's former grandeur, but it possessed something rarer.
Resolve.
Queen Seraphelle sat upon a carved wooden throne rather than marble. She wore no crown of jewels—only a circlet of steel.
Her eyes were sharp, her posture unbowed.
When Noctyra entered, murmurs rippled through the chamber.
"I expected you to be taller," Seraphelle said bluntly.
Noctyra inclined her head slightly.
"I expected nothing."
A flicker of amusement crossed the queen's face.
"They say you were abandoned."
"I was."
"And yet you stand."
"Yes."
Seraphelle leaned forward.
"My scouts confirm a demon general has fallen. If that is your doing, then you are either our greatest ally… or our greatest threat."
"Perhaps both," Noctyra replied calmly.
The court shifted uneasily.
Seraphelle tapped her fingers against the armrest.
"You seek the Seven."
"I do."
"And you believe you can kill them?"
"I believe they can die."
The queen studied her halo.
"That power is not divine."
"No."
"Does it cost you?"
Noctyra did not answer immediately.
"Yes," she said at last.
Seraphelle nodded once.
"Good."
The court blinked in confusion.
"I do not trust power without cost," the queen continued. "If you intend to hunt kings, you will need more than vengeance. You will need strategy."
Noctyra felt something stir—not in the abyss.
In herself.
Strategy.
She had once guided empires through diplomacy and prayer.
Now she would guide war differently.
"Tell me what you know," she said.
The Seven Demon Kings did not rule from a single throne.
They had scattered after Luminara's fall, carving territories across the continent like butchers dividing meat.
Vaelor, Keeper of Dominion, had claimed the western mountain range.
Another—Malrath the Infernal Choir—had taken the eastern coast, where his voice could be heard across crashing waves.
The others moved unpredictably.
"They do not conquer," Seraphelle said as a map lay unfurled between them. "They corrupt. Twist. Reshape."
Noctyra's fingers traced the mountains.
Vaelor.
The throne that had trembled.
"He commands hierarchy," she murmured.
"Yes," Elira said. "Every demon beneath him acts with precision."
Then he would notice the fracture first.
"He will send hunters," Noctyra said.
Seraphelle's gaze sharpened.
"Then we prepare."
Noctyra looked up.
"I will not bring his wrath upon your city."
"It is already coming," the queen replied. "Whether by you or by his boredom."
Silence fell.
Then Seraphelle rose.
"If you intend to walk between salvation and damnation, Saint or not, you will not walk alone in my lands."
Noctyra hesitated.
Alone was simpler.
Safer.
But not effective.
The abyss stirred faintly.
"Power shared is power multiplied," it whispered.
She exhaled slowly.
"Then we begin with Vaelor."
That night, as Thornehold's torches flickered against stone, Noctyra stood upon the highest tower.
The mountains loomed far in the distance, their peaks jagged against starlight.
"You feel him," the abyss said.
"Yes."
"His attention brushes this land already."
A faint chill moved through her spine.
She had killed a servant.
Now a king would answer.
For the first time since her exile, something resembling anticipation stirred in her chest.
Not fear.Not hope.Purpose.
Her halo pulsed darker.
Below, the city slept uneasily.
Above, the stars seemed sharper.
In a realm carved of bone and crimson veins, Vaelor's fingers tightened upon his throne.
"Find her," he commanded.
And across mountains and valleys, unseen eyes opened.
The hunt had begun.
But not as they expected.
For this time—
The saint would hunt back.