I stepped back into the street.

  The air was thick with smoke and ash, screams blending into a constant, suffocating roar. Fires climbed the sides of buildings unchecked. Somewhere nearby, a horse screamed as it burned.

  I forced myself forward, boots crunching over broken glass and stone, toward the town square.

  Toward the cathedral.

  Its doors stood wide open, one hinge torn free, holy banners trampled into the mud. The square itself was a slaughterhouse—bodies piled where defenders had tried and failed to rally, Red Devil banners snapping weakly in the heat.

  Then something flew out of the cathedral.

  A body.

  It slammed into the ground at my feet with a wet, final thud.

  I froze.

  From the shadows of the doorway stepped a towering figure clad in black armor laced with dull gold. A tabard of the Church’s Inquisition hung from his shoulders. The plates were heavy, ceremonial—yet scarred, chipped, worn by real use.

  An Inquisitor.

  But he did not look human.

  In his grip, he held another Devil by the head.

  The man was still alive.

  Hands clawed desperately at the Inquisitor’s arms, fingers slipping on slick metal. His boots scraped uselessly against the stone as he kicked and begged through choking breaths.

  The Inquisitor tightened his grip.

  Bone cracked.

  The Devil’s skull collapsed with a sickening sound—flesh and blood bursting between armored fingers. The body went limp instantly. Without effort, the Inquisitor tossed the corpse aside like refuse.

  It landed beside the first.

  My stomach turned.

  The Inquisitor turned toward me.

  Slowly.

  He drew his blade—a long, brutal weapon stained dark from hilt to tip—and leveled it in my direction.

  “Devils,” he said.

  His voice was deep and cold, echoing off the cathedral walls.

  His gaze burned through the visor, fixed on me with absolute certainty.

  “Monsters like you,” he continued, stepping forward, “must be culled.”

  He stopped just long enough for the words to settle.

  “I am High Inquisitor Douglas Garmond,” he said calmly. “And you will pay for your sins.”

  At his side, something glowed.

  A set of golden rings—thin, radiant—spun slowly around a strand of thread at his belt.

  The fires crackled around us. Ash drifted between us like falling snow.

  I tightened my grip on the SIN, feeling its weight, its warmth—the quiet hunger beneath my palm.

  For the first time since entering Juniperhollow, the noise of battle fell away.

  It was just us now.

  And whatever had walked out of that cathedral was not a soldier.

  It was judgment.

  I had no time for this.

  One look at him told me what my body already knew—if that blade reached me, it would cleave me in two.

  I drew the SIN and fired.

  The crack echoed across the square, sharp enough to cut through screams and flame.

  Hansel Verity has been erased.

  The shot hit him square in the chest.

  And did nothing.

  The rings on his belt flared to life, spinning faster as golden light rippled outward. The bullet sparked against black-and-gold armor and skittered away like a thrown pebble.

  My breath caught.

  The Inquisitor surged forward—impossibly fast for something so heavy.

  I fired again, panic clawing up my spine.

  Peter Verity has been erased.

  Another spark. Another meaningless impact. The rings spun faster still.

  He didn’t slow.

  Didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t even raise his guard.

  I fired again, hands shaking, my shield dragging up in reflex.

  Grace Verity has been erased.

  He kept coming.

  Measured.

  Certain.

  Like a tide that had already decided where the shoreline would end.

  “You see?” he said calmly, his voice carrying through the square as though the world itself leaned in to listen.

  He dragged his blade along the stone as he walked, the edge screeching, sparks spilling in his wake.

  “Your stolen sin cannot save you.”

  My head throbbed. Pressure built behind my eyes, names bleeding together until I could barely breathe.

  “It is the Father’s will,” he continued, lifting the blade at last, “for you to die.”

  He’s wrong.

  The thought cut through the panic like a nail driven into wood.

  He’s wrong.

  Then he swung.

  The impact was catastrophic.

  My shield split cleanly in two—wood and iron tearing apart as if rotted from within. The force hurled me backward, my arms screaming as fragments scattered across the stone.

  I hit the ground hard, the breath blasted from my lungs.

  The Inquisitor loomed over me, blade already rising again.

  And in that frozen heartbeat—between breath and death—I felt it.

  Not the SIN.

  Not rage.

  Something deeper.

  Something watching.

  A sudden swoosh cut through the air—

  Then clang.

  Steel met steel inches from my face.

  The Inquisitor’s blade stopped dead, caught by another sword driven in from the side with brutal precision.

  Lucius.

  I looked up, lungs still burning, to see him planted between me and death.

  No grin.

  No theatrics.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Just cold, absolute focus.

  The kind that meant he had already decided how this would end

  Lucius twisted his wrist and kicked forward, his boot slamming into the Inquisitor’s chest plate.

  The black knight staggered back several steps, boots scraping sparks from the stone.

  “Get off my boy,” Lucius growled.

  “Ashe!” he barked, without looking back.

  An arrow whistled in.

  It struck High Inquisitor Douglas Garmond high in the back of the thigh—where the armor thinned. Another followed immediately, burying itself between overlapping plates at the shoulder.

  The Inquisitor grunted.

  More annoyed than hurt.

  He reached back, snapped the shaft cleanly in half, and let the broken arrow fall at his feet.

  Then he turned his head.

  Slowly.

  “The Red Dog,” he said, voice touched with something like amusement. “You show up at last.”

  Lucius raised his blade, stance tight, coiled, ready. “Someone’s gotta clean up the Church’s mess.”

  The Inquisitor rolled his shoulder. Metal groaned beneath the motion.

  “This one is marked,” he said, nodding toward me. “Step aside.”

  Lucius didn’t move.

  Instead, he spoke low and sharp. “Get up, Thomas.”

  Then his eyes flicked to the Inquisitor’s belt—to the spinning rings of gold.

  “Those relics are dangerous,” Lucius said. “No man is capable of wielding them.”

  The Inquisitor laughed—a short, barking sound.

  “Why would I listen to a cowardly dog like you?”

  I forced my palms against the stone, arms shaking. My head screamed from the cost I’d already paid. My shattered shield lay useless beside me.

  The SIN felt heavy at my hip.

  Too heavy.

  The Inquisitor advanced again—slower now. Cautious.

  Lucius stepped forward to meet him, blade angled just enough to shield me as I struggled to my feet behind him.

  “For monsters,” the Inquisitor said, “you Devils are persistent.”

  Lucius smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Funny. We say the same about you.”

  Steel rang as they closed—

  And this time, I wasn’t alone.

  I staggered upright and spotted it beside a fallen Devil—a mace. Thick-headed. Brutal. Its spikes clogged with blood and hair.

  Heavy.

  Crude.

  Perfect.

  I gripped it with both hands, muscles screaming as I hauled it up. Lucius and I moved together without a word—him pressing high with his blade, me darting low, hunting for an opening.

  The Inquisitor met us head-on.

  The rings spun wildly now.

  Steel rang.

  His sword caught Lucius’s strike, twisted, turned mine aside—then snapped back toward my throat. I ducked, felt the wind of it pass, and surged forward again.

  Blocked.

  Again.

  Every movement was precise. Economical.

  Like a machine built for one purpose only.

  “Together!” Lucius barked.

  We surged in at once.

  Lucius hammered at the joints of the armor—testing, forcing the executioner to shift his weight. I feinted low, then rose with everything I had.

  An upward swing.

  Meant to crush.

  The mace connected.

  Clang.

  The impact jolted through my arms and into my teeth. The Inquisitor’s helm tore free, spinning end over end before clattering across the stone.

  For a heartbeat—

  Everything stopped.

  His face was gaunt, skin stretched tight over bone. Veins crawled dark beneath sallow flesh. His eyes—yellow, sickly—burned with a fevered certainty that made my stomach turn.

  Lucius stared.

  “Holy hells,” he breathed. “You’ve overused those relics.”

  The Inquisitor straightened, utterly unconcerned by the loss of his helm.

  His mouth twisted—not in pain.

  In pride.

  “I have achieved perfection,” he said, voice steady, reverent. “So that I may kill you sinners.”

  Lucius’s guard dipped.

  Just a fraction.

  The Inquisitor smiled.

  The rings shattered apart, breaking free one by one—swirling around him like living things.

  And in that smile, I saw it.

  Not faith.

  Not righteousness.

  But something hollowed out—scraped clean and sharpened—until nothing human remained.

  He raised his blade again.

  And this time, he meant to finish it.

  The Inquisitor moved faster than I expected.

  His blade flashed—carving across Lucius’s arm in a spray of blood. Lucius hissed but didn’t fall back. I swung the mace with everything I had and felt it land—a dull, crushing impact against the Inquisitor’s ribs.

  He barely grunted.

  “Worthless worms,” he spat.

  Before either of us could recover, his gauntleted hand snapped out and backhanded Lucius clean off his feet.

  Lucius crashed into a stone fountain. Water exploded upward as he struck hard, his sword skittering away across the square.

  Then the Inquisitor turned on me.

  His hand closed around my throat.

  Iron fingers tightened.

  The world narrowed to pain and pressure. My boots scraped uselessly against the stone as he lifted me partially off the ground. I clawed at his wrist, vision darkening at the edges.

  The rings at his side darkened.

  Then crumbled to dust.

  His grip tightened.

  “A pitiful sight,” he said calmly—almost disappointed. “This is what becomes of heretics.”

  I tried to breathe.

  Couldn’t.

  Then—

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Two arrows punched into his back, burying themselves deep.

  The Inquisitor roared—a sound more beast than man. His grip loosened just enough for air to rush back into my lungs in a violent gasp.

  He staggered.

  A blur slammed into him from the side.

  Ashe.

  Ashe drove the executioner into the stone with feral force. He landed straddling the black-armored figure, sword already plunging down.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Again.

  “Don’t touch him!” Ashe screamed, his voice breaking. “Don’t touch him—don’t you touch him!”

  He stabbed again and again. Wild. Desperate. Each strike fueled by something far deeper than the battle raging around us. The Inquisitor thrashed beneath him, armor clanging, trying to throw him off—

  But Ashe clung to him like a man possessed.

  Sobbing.

  Screaming.

  Driving the blade down.

  I stumbled backward, clutching my throat, watching in stunned silence.

  Lucius surged up from the fountain despite the blood pouring down his arm. He crossed the distance in two strides and tore Ashe off the executioner, hauling him back by the shoulders.

  “That’s enough!” Lucius shouted.

  Ashe fought him—screaming, shaking, trying to break free—

  Then the strength left him all at once.

  He collapsed against Lucius, fists knotted in his armor, sobs ripping out of him like wounds torn open.

  Lucius held him upright, one arm firm around his back despite his injury.

  “It’s over,” Lucius said, low and steady. “He’s done. I’ve got you.”

  Inquisitor Douglas Garmond lay motionless on the stone.

  Black armor cracked.

  Slick with blood.

  The square still burned. Screams still echoed. But for a moment, all I could hear was Ashe’s broken breathing—and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  I stared at the corpse.

  At the sunken, hollow eyes.

  And wondered if that was what waited for me—

  If I kept using the SIN.

  Ashe was suddenly there in front of me.

  He grabbed my arm and hauled me upright before I could protest, his grip firm—but careful. For a heartbeat, he just stared at my face, eyes searching, like he was checking for something he might’ve lost.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was rough.

  I nodded, still fighting for a steady breath.

  “Yeah. I—yeah.”

  Before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and pulled me into a brief, fierce hug.

  It was awkward. Sudden. Gone almost as soon as it began.

  Then he released me, pressed a bandage into Lucius’s hand without a word, and turned away.

  He was already walking back toward the smoke and noise of the square.

  I watched him go, confused, my throat still burning.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  Lucius snorted as he retrieved his sword from where it had skidded across the stone. He wrapped the bandage around his bleeding arm with practiced efficiency, teeth tightening as he cinched it hard.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Boy’s emotional at times.”

  I wasn’t convinced—but there was no time to argue.

  Lucius stepped over to the Inquisitor’s body and gave it a hard kick in the leg. The armor didn’t move.

  “Bastard’s done,” he muttered.

  Then he looked at me sharply.

  “That,” he said, nodding toward the corpse, “is what awaits you if you keep relying on the SIN. Remember that, boy.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  At my side, the SIN radiated heat—quiet, hungry.

  Lucius gestured toward the inner rise of the town. “Come, Thomas. The Darkwick forces are nearly through the main castle walls.”

  I followed his gaze.

  Above the smoke and broken rooftops, I could see it now—blue flags snapping in the wind, planted along the outer walls of the Hollow. More banners followed, climbing higher as soldiers poured in behind them.

  The defenders were breaking.

  The cathedral bells rang wildly—not in prayer, but panic.

  Lucius clapped a hand on my shoulder, firm and grounding. “Stay close. The worst fighting’s still ahead.”

  I tightened my grip on my weapon and nodded.

  Behind us, Juniperhollow burned.

  Ahead of us, the castle waited.

  And whatever was left of this battle would be decided inside its walls.