Dripping water marked the rhythm of the dark. Each drop struck stone with the precision of a clock’s heartbeat, echoing through a chamber that had not known sunlight in an age.

  Five thrones stood at the points of an immense pentagram carved into the floor. One of ash and ember. One of jagged bones. One of iron veined with gold. One of the sculpted crystals. One of the petrified wood, its roots clutching the stone beneath it. At the heart of the circle hung ten Demon Hearts, their crimson glow pulsing slowly and steadily, washing the runes in living bloodlight. The air smelled of smoke and old iron.

  The thrones stirred, one after another. Sigils fred beneath them, faint at first, then bright enough to etch every scar and fissure into relief.

  The Fire Point remained empty. Malcolm’s throne—charred, cracked, its surface still faintly aglow, as if the embers of his final breath had never truly cooled.

  At the Sky Point, a cloaked woman emerged from the shadows like a whisper. Her robes shimmered faintly with threads of starlight, consteltions that seemed to move when one looked away. Beneath her hood, her eyes were pale and soft as mist. When she spoke, her voice carried as though the air itself bent to deliver it.

  “The Fire Point lies cold, ironic.”

  Across from her, the figure seated at the Lightning Point shifted. Crimson armor caught the dim glow of the hearts, gleaming like freshly spilled blood. A porcein mask covered her face, fissured across the cheeks as though it had once been struck and never quite mended.

  “Unfortunate,” the masked woman said, voice sharp, brittle with anger. “He was weak, yes—but his research carried us forward. His loss is yours to bear, Pale Seer. You should have forced him to leave when you had the chance.”

  The Seer’s head turned slightly. Pale eyes caught the red light and turned it cold. “We are not the Sanctum,” she said quietly. “We do not drag our kin from their choices. Malcolm made his own end. And by that end, our work continues.”

  Her tone was unyielding.

  From the Earth Point came a sound like gravel shifting under pressure. The figure there—huge, broad-shouldered, his cloak stitched from hides and scales—leaned forward, the movement stirring dust. “And continue we shall,” rumbled Cursed Bounty. His voice was low, patient. “His death was not for nothing.”

  The veiled woman at the Water Point gave a soft, mirthless ugh. The motion of her head made the beads of her veil shimmer like tears in candlelight. “You speak as though his repcement already sits among us, Bounty. Yet I see only an empty seat.”

  “Patience,” the man murmured.

  The Demon Hearts pulsed. Their glow deepened, turning the chamber the color of blood.

  The Pale Seer’s gaze lingered on the Fire throne. For a moment, her expression softened—something like pride crossing the pale calm of her face. “Step forward,” she said.

  From the shadows behind the Fire throne, a figure stepped forward. His bare feet left no sound on the stone. The glow of the Demon Hearts caught the lines of his body—tall, lean, sculpted like something chiseled rather than born. His skin was pale, almost translucent, but the veins beneath it did not run bck, like those of the corrupted, or red, like those of the living. They gleamed silver, thin threads of liquid light that pulsed with each breath, glimmering like molten mercury beneath his flesh.

  He stopped before them and bowed his head, not in humility but in acknowledgment, the gesture of one who already knows he belongs.

  Scorned Penance tilted her head, the veil over her face shifting with the motion. “Stronger than Malcolm,” she said softly. “That much is clear. But does he have his mind?”

  The man lifted his gaze. His eyes were pale blue, faintly luminous. “He left it to me,” he said. His voice was steady. “All of it. His knowledge, his memory, his ambition. I am the sum of his will—the step beyond him.”

  The Crimson Mask leaned forward in her seat, porcein face catching the glow. “You mean to tell us you weren’t the completed work?”

  He shook his head once, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his mouth. “No. I was the final stroke of his hand, not the finished painting. Malcolm was still carving the truth when death found him. But he left me enough to see it through.”

  The others exchanged gnces, curiosity and unease flickering between them. The Pale Seer’s voice was a whisper. “Then sit, child.”

  He turned and walked to the empty throne. He sat and looked toward the hovering hearts, their light painting reflections in his eyes. “How many more?” he asked.

  Cursed Bounty’s deep voice answered first, unhurried but grim. “Ten. Half the number we need.”

  The man leaned back against the throne, the motion casual, almost human. “Then we have much work ahead of us.”

  The light from the Demon Hearts thickened until it seemed to stain the air itself. Their glow pulsed slowly and unevenly, as though uncertain whether to live or die.

  The Pale Seer’s gaze lingered on them, her voice little more than breath. “The Sanctum’s reach grows by the day. Even with our shadows buried inside their cathedrals, they still find the hearts before we do. Every time we draw near, they burn them to ash.”

  At the Water Point, Scorned Penance shifted beneath her veil. The beads that framed her face clicked softly, like raindrops striking gss. “Morgan LeFaye still keeps four within her Clock Hand Tower. Has there been any progress in breaching the Hallows?”

  Cursed Bounty’s rumble filled the space. “None. Impossible, for now. Morgan has domesticated demons in her shadows. The smallest trace of foreign corruption could be sensed before it crossed her walls. Any pure human spies we send wouldn’t survive long. It would require a much more coordinated approach, or divine opportunity.”

  The man seated at the Fire Point let a faint smile curve across his mouth. “Then that is precisely why something like me was made.”

  The Pale Seer regarded him with the patience of someone who had seen centuries pass and found none worth remembering. “And what do you think you are, child of fire?”

  He lifted his eyes to meet hers, silver veins glinting beneath his skin. “That depends,” he said softly, “on where Demon Hearts come from.”

  Her voice did not change. “Only an Archdemon can forge one. They draw it from their own blood—pure essence condensed into a crystal. It costs them their life.”

  The Creation said nothing. He only smiled—faint, knowing, almost indulgent.

  The Seer’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, she seemed to look through him, as if reading the ghost of another man in his pce. The silence drew long, heavy with the hum of the hearts above.

  When she finally spoke, her tone was soft with a hint of realization. “Ah. So that was his intent.” Her gaze flicked toward the crimson orbit above them. “Malcolm sought to create kindred strong enough to rival Archdemons… and have them die to birth new hearts.”

  The Creation inclined his head slightly, silver light moving under his skin like a living signature.

  Even the others seemed to pause, struck by the enormity of the thought.

  Cursed Bounty leaned forward, the sound of shifting armor breaking the stillness. “And did he succeed?”

  “He did,” the Seer answered for him, eyes never leaving the figure in the Fire throne. “And his success sits before us now.”

  The light from the Demon Hearts thickened until it seemed to stain the air itself. Their glow pulsed slowly and unevenly, as though uncertain whether to live or die.

  The Creation’s expression did not change, but something colder flickered behind his eyes. “Malcolm left more than knowledge,” he said. “Enough resources to create another like me. I could share the process—if you wish to follow in his design. But you’ll have to spend your own strength, your own blood, to do it.”

  Cursed Bounty’s head tilted, thoughtful. Scorned Penance gave a slow, approving nod beneath her veil. Even the Crimson Mask leaned back, exhaling through the crack in her porcein face. One by one, they nodded. Silent agreement moved through the circle like a ripple in dark water.

  For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the ten Demon Hearts circling above them, their light deepening to a bruised red, like the color of the sky before a storm.

  Crimson Mask broke the quiet, her voice slicing through the heavy air. “Even then,” she said, “we’ll still be five short.”

  The hum of the Demon Hearts quieted, settling into a low, steady rhythm. For a long moment, no one spoke. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next word.

  It was Cursed Bounty who broke the silence. “The Church hunts another heart even now,” he said, voice like grinding stone. “But we can’t move on it. The witch Selene has already deduced our nature. She’s reported it to the Emperor himself. The Empire’s eyes are open.”

  The Pale Seer’s expression sharpened beneath her hood. “Then what do you suggest?”

  “A diversion.” His mouth twitched in a dry sembnce of a smile. “My spies in Valenfor say there will soon be a ball—an engagement celebration for the Crown Prince and the Princess of the Hallows. It’s a performance meant to bind Valenfor, Altheryon, and the Hallows into alliance against us.”

  The Creation leaned back in Malcolm’s throne, his voice smooth, deliberate. “Then Morgan LeFaye will leave her tower?”

  Scorned Penance gave a soft, humorless ugh. “You underestimate the Hallows. Even without Morgan, the city would take days to breach. Its gates are lined with runes older than the Empire’s name.”

  The Pale Seer raised her hand, and the faint murmur died. “We won’t breach it. Not yet.”

  She stood, the folds of her cloak shifting like smoke caught in the wind. “Let them make their alliance. Let them believe their unity gives them strength. We’ll remind them why unity was born from fear.”

  The crimson glow from the hearts reflected in her eyes, turning the pale irises scarlet. “We’ll strike while they celebrate. Their attention will be fixed on each other—on the wine, the music, the treaties. In that distraction, we’ll take what we need.”

  Crimson Mask leaned forward, voice edged like a drawn bde. “And that will still leave us four short.”

  “There are other nds,” the Seer said. Her hand lifted, tracing a slow pattern in the air. The pentagram beneath them brightened, the runes extending beyond the chamber’s walls, revealing a vast map of the world—its borders drawn in light and shadow.

  Two continents glowed faintly: Valenfor and Altheryon, divided by a expansive desert sea. But beyond that, far to the west, beyond the vast sea another ndmass shimmered—rger than both combined.

  “Across the sea,” the Seer murmured, “there are kingdoms untouched by the Church. Pces where the word holy means nothing.”

  Scorned Penance’s voice was soft. “And if we fail to find what we need?”

  The Seer sighed, the sound patient and tired. “Then we do what we’ve always known we would. We take the Hallows by force. It has always been the end of the path.”

  The silence that followed was not debate—it was acceptance. Every member understood that some truths, once spoken, could never be recalled.

  The Seer’s gaze dropped back to the circle’s center, to the Demon Hearts turning slowly in their orbit. The light of them flickered against her hooded face like embers in the wind. “Now that the ugliness is spoken, let us do what remains.”

  She turned toward the Fire throne. “The circle must be whole again. Tell us, child what name will you carry?”

  The Creation’s eyes rose to the floating hearts. “I have none,” he said simply. “Call me as you did my father.”

  The Seer’s pale lips curved. “Then welcome, Malcolm the Ashen Frost.”