Back in the cell chamber, Artemis was reaching his limits. Every breath burned, every muscle screamed. His blades moved almost of their own accord, a blur of practiced precision honed through endless training, but the sheer number of zealots was crushing. For every one that fell, two more pressed in.

  His eyes darted toward his brother. Lokey had smashed his way to the cell, forcing back the guards and killing the two that were helping the head priest, bracing himself against their blows as he worked to free Asra. His hammer rose and fell like thunder, every strike shattering men and stone alike.

  Then, in a blink, it happened.

  A blade slipped through the chaos, stabbing deep into Lokey’s back. His roar of pain echoed through the chamber, his hammer falling from his grip as he staggered forward, the head priest smiling, blade in hand.

  “No!” Asra screamed, the sound raw and heart-wrenching. She strained against her chains until her wrists bled, her cries breaking into sobs as Lokey collapsed at her feet.

  The sight of her—the sound of her—ripped through Artemis like fire through dry grass. His vision blurred red. His body moved without thought, every memory of his sister’s near loss flashing before him. He felt the power within him surge, wild and unstoppable.

  In the distance, Hela heard the echo of her skeletal general’s final words—“the young lord calls for me”—just as the same energy flared in her mind. A familiar scream echoed throughout the undercroft. She understood at once what was happening.

  Artemis’s body convulsed as the transformation seized him, power tearing through his veins. The same skill he had once used to save his sister now roared to life again, fiercer than ever before. His enemies faltered, sensing the storm about to break.

  Hela’s order to her undead rang in his ears across the bond: Follow the general. Protect him.

  And then Artemis let go.

  Chaos erupted.

  One moment, the head priest’s victory was within his grasp—his enemies cornered, the girl chained, the brothers surrounded. The next, the corridor shook as a pillar of blue flame burst outward, swallowing everything in its path.

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  The priest staggered back, his face draining of color as his eyes locked on the figure rising from the inferno.

  The younger boy—Artemis—was gone. In his place stood a towering skeletal beast, its bones wreathed in roaring blue fire. Hollow sockets blazed like burning suns, and every movement radiated fury.

  “No…” the priest whispered, terror clawing up his throat. “That should not be possible without her…”

  But it was.

  Worse still, the beast was not alone. Twenty-seven more skeletal titans erupted beside him, their flaming forms shaking the stone foundations of the undercroft. The heat and pressure drove the zealots to their knees, their courage breaking in an instant.

  The head priest’s horror deepened as one of the flaming skeletons turned—not toward the zealots, not toward the chained girl, but toward Lokey’s fallen body. A green glow pulsed from its chest, flowing over the young man in a wave of life-saving magic.

  Lokey stirred. His wounds sealed. His eyes snapped open.

  And then he rose.

  The hammer was back in his hand before the priest could blink, and with a thunderous swing, he caved in the skull of the nearest zealot. Another fell. Then another. Lokey moved as if he had never been wounded at all, every strike filled with renewed strength.

  Everything was going wrong.

  The zealots who had sworn loyalty to him scattered like frightened rats. Asra’s chains rattled as she cried out, her defiance burning brighter than ever at the sight of her would-be saviors turning the tide.

  The head priest’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. This wasn’t a battle anymore. It was a massacre.

  And he knew—if he stayed—he would be next.

  The head priest ran, his robes whipping around him, heart hammering as screams and steel clashed behind him. The undercroft twisted and turned in suffocating shadows, but he didn’t care where the path led—only that it carried him away from the brothers and their impossible, cursed power.

  He stumbled around a corner—

  And froze.

  A hand like ice and iron caught him by the throat and slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack the stone. The breath left his lungs as his feet dangled uselessly.

  She was there. The demon witch.

  The girl he had cursed, condemned, and lied about. Her crimson eyes glowed with the promise of torment, and her lips curved in a smile far crueler than any he had ever seen before.

  From her shadow, the hounds emerged—hulking, skeletal beasts, their maws dripping with embers, their breath exhaling waves of hellfire. The air reeked of brimstone and death as they closed in, circling their prey.

  “You wanted to hurt my friends and family. You must really want to see the monster in me?” Hela’s voice was low, venomous, her words vibrating with unholy power.

  Her skeletal warriors loomed behind her like a tide of death.

  The head priest’s eyes widened with a terror so deep it hollowed him from the inside out.

  And as Hela leaned closer, her smile only widened.

  “Then let me show you.”