The door swung open with a low groan, hinges dragging like something alive. The moment Seraphiel stepped through, the air changed.
No heat.
No smoke.
Just cold.
The fire that had eaten through the village had licked at the temple but hadn't devoured it. That was wrong. The rest of the buildings had been piles of ash and timber, yet this place, sacred and central, was only scorched. Char clung to the walls like it was afraid to go further. The main hall stretched into darkness, cracked marble underfoot reflecting what little light filtered through the ruined ceiling.
Seraphiel didn't speak.
She moved with quiet steps, the leather of her boots brushing against ash. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her blade, but it wasn't drawn. Not yet. She hadn't seen enough. Not heard enough. The temple was still, like the world before a storm.
Then came the sound.
Soft.
Choked.
Sobbing.
She froze.
It came from beyond the cracked inner door, near the altar chamber. The crying was jagged, interrupted by coughs. Desperate.
Her steps quickened. The sobs grew louder as she reached the door, where black scorch marks bloomed outward like something had tried to claw its way through the stone. The scent of burned incense and blood mixed, clinging to her tongue.
She pushed the door open.
And saw them.
A man knelt at the altar, his back to her, hunched and trembling. His robes were torn, darkened with blood and soot. His hands were pressed against the figure sprawled beneath him—a woman, young, draped in ceremonial robes soaked red at the chest.
Seraphiel's breath caught.
He was crying.
Real tears. His shoulders shook with each sob, fingers clutching at the woman's sleeve like he could will her back to life.
She stepped forward. Slowly. One hand up, palm open.
"You—are you hurt?"
No answer.
She walked closer, careful not to startle him.
"I can help. I can—"
The crying stopped.
Just like that.
The man didn't move. Didn't lift his head. But something had changed in the air. The cold deepened. The silence pressed harder against her ribs.
Then—
Laughter.
Wet. Broken. Like a man choking and laughing at the same time.
She stopped walking.
The sound didn't stop.
His shoulders shook again—but not with grief.
The man lifted his head, spine arching back in a slow, unnatural motion.
His head turned fully around on his neck. The bones cracked with the motion, skin stretching too far. His eyes met hers. Wide. Empty. Staring.
Then the rest of his body twisted to match, bones shifting under skin with grotesque clicks. His arms dropped limp at his sides, fingers twitching. The woman beneath him didn't move.
He smiled.
It wasn't a human smile. It was too wide. His teeth were too clean.
"You came," he said.
Seraphiel's hand found the hilt of her blade in one smooth motion. She didn't draw. Not yet.
She took a slow step back. "What are you?"
The man blinked. His smile faltered. For a flicker of a moment, the light behind his eyes changed.
"You… you're real…" he whispered. "The one from the sky. You came back."
She didn't speak.
"I told them. I told them you'd come." His voice cracked. "But it was already too late. It was inside me."
He lifted one hand. His skin was black around the fingertips, veins bulging up the arm like roots trying to break free. "Please," he said, voice barely holding. "End it. Before it… before it gets me again."
She took a step forward.
His body jerked.
He gasped, doubling over as if something had punched through his lungs. Blood—black, tar-like—spilled from his nose. He screamed once, then slammed a hand over his mouth, trying to keep it in.
Seraphiel moved in instinctively, reaching toward him.
He looked up.
His eyes had turned solid black. No whites. No pupils. Just void.
A grin spread across his face.
"Too late."
His voice was no longer his own.
This one was deeper. Older. Mocking.
It didn't come from his throat—it came from everywhere.
She stepped back, drawing her blade just enough to catch the light.
"Cursed spirit," she said. "You do not belong here."
He laughed. The voice echoed through the chamber.
"Oh, you still think this place is sacred? After what they prayed for in the end? You should've heard them. Your precious faithful, begging for life like it meant anything."
Seraphiel's eyes narrowed.
"They prayed to me when the sky stayed silent."
The man lunged forward in a sudden, jerking spasm. She raised her blade instinctively, holding it between them. He stopped just short, head twitching, mouth hanging open.
"You're hesitating," he whispered.
The air dropped again.
Seraphiel raised her sword. The light along the edge pulsed once.
"Not for long."
Seraphiel raised her sword higher. The light curled up the blade's edge like a heat shimmer, forming intricate shapes that spun and dissolved as they moved. She didn't let it flare too bright. Not yet. The man in front of her—whatever he was now—was still wrapped in the skin of someone innocent.
She circled him slowly.
He followed, mouth twisting into a lopsided grin.
"You're trying so hard not to kill me," he said.
She didn't answer.
"Do you think the soul's still in here? Hiding behind my eyes? Praying for rescue?" He leaned forward, neck twitching. "Let me tell you something, little spark. The man who begged you to end it? He was gone days ago."
She lunged.
In a blur of silver, her blade swept sideways across his chest, light exploding outward like a silent scream. He flew back, slamming into the base of the altar with a sharp crunch. Smoke hissed from the impact site. The wound didn't bleed. It shimmered—burned—not with fire, but with pressure, like light forced into shadow.
The man writhed, clutching at the edges of his chest.
And then… he laughed again.
"You think that would do it?"
She stepped forward, no words, blade still lit.
Another swing.
He caught it.
Barehanded.
His palm sizzled where it touched the blade, flesh burning away in curls of black smoke. But he didn't scream. His eyes locked with hers, the darkness inside them swirling like oil in water.
"You can't purify what isn't cursed," he hissed.
She twisted the sword and kicked him back. He staggered—but didn't fall.
For a moment, silence again.
Then, a cough.
It started small. Choked. Wet.
Then another.
He fell to his knees, clutching his throat, heaving.
Seraphiel's stance loosened—just slightly.
Was he breaking through?
His hands trembled. Fingers clawed at his face. He gasped, then vomited black sludge onto the altar steps. It steamed on contact with the stone, eating small holes into the marble.
She stepped closer. Sword at the ready. Light pulsed again from the blade, but she didn't swing.
He looked up.
His eyes were human again. Wide. Terrified.
"It's leaving," he gasped. "I can feel it—I can—"
His voice broke.
Seraphiel lowered the tip of her blade slightly.
His body jerked.
The sound that came next wasn't human.
His ribs cracked outward like something was punching from the inside. His mouth opened in a silent scream as his jaw dislocated. His spine bent backwards in a sudden snap that should've killed him instantly. The black sludge from earlier surged out from his back, coating him like a second skin.
Then it hardened.
Then it moved.
Seraphiel stepped back fast, eyes locked on the writhing shape in front of her.
The man's body twisted and bent in ways it wasn't made to. His legs snapped at the knees, reforming into stalk-like limbs. His arms stretched longer, fingers fusing into jagged claws. The black coating shimmered like beetle shell, flexing with each twitch.
And his face—what was left of it—peeled away in pieces.
A new one pushed through. Bone-thin, elongated, eyes like wet pits of tar. No mouth. Just a grin etched into skin.
The smell hit next—burnt oil and rot. The scent of something not dead, not alive, just wrong.
Seraphiel raised her blade again.
No more hesitation.
The creature lunged.
She met it halfway.
Their first clash sent light and shadow spiraling across the temple walls. Her sword rang against its claws, sparks bursting into midair. The beast hissed, swinging with wild strength, every movement brutal and sudden.
She ducked low, brought her blade up in an arc—slicing deep into its side. The wound didn't bleed. It howled, voice scraping against her ears like rusted steel.
"Your light doesn't reach here," it spat.
"We'll see."
She spun, dragging the blade through the air, forming a sigil mid-swing. The glyph flared gold and snapped shut around the creature's legs. It shrieked as chains of radiant energy coiled up its limbs, pinning it to the altar floor.
For a second, it fought the bindings.
Then it stopped.
Stared up at her with those empty, gleaming eyes.
And grinned.
"You're too late."
Its chest cracked open.
From the cavity spilled more of the sludge—this time not liquid, but threads. Tendrils. They reached for her, hissing.
She slashed them back, but they came faster. The glyphs holding the creature strained under pressure, flickering.
It was burning itself from the inside out.
Destroying the human shape entirely.
She had one shot left.
Seraphiel raised her sword high.
Light gathered at the tip, flaring brighter and hotter. Symbols spiraled down the blade's edge, wrapping it in divine script older than the sky itself.
The creature screamed—not in pain, but defiance.
She brought the blade down—
A clean, perfect strike.
The explosion of light swallowed the altar whole.
When the light faded, the creature was gone.
Seraphiel lowered her sword.
The glow along the blade dimmed, pulling back into the steel like a breath held too long. Her shoulders were rigid, jaw clenched. The smoke curling around her legs no longer hissed. It simply hung there—heavy, silent, thick with something worse than death.
She turned her eyes toward the ruined altar.
The shrine maiden's body hadn't moved. Her hands were still folded, a gesture of peace even in her final moments. Her blood had dried in an arc that led toward the priest's last position.
He'd been kneeling when he changed.
Praying.
Begging.
Her grip tightened.
She looked around the temple—what remained of it. Holy relics blackened to ash. Prayer stones shattered on the ground like glass. The wall of offerings where the villagers used to leave harvest charms? Burned. Reduced to rubble.
These people hadn't even cried for protection. They'd only ever offered thanks.
And this was how they were answered.
She took a slow breath, held it, then let it go through her teeth.
"This is low. Even for them."
Her voice was flat, but heat simmered behind every word.
Demons.
There was no mistaking what this was. The corruption, the black sludge, the mockery of prayer, the twisted body torn from inside out—it reeked of infernal influence. She'd seen dark work before, but nothing like this. This wasn't just destruction.
It was desecration.
"This place was sacred," she said quietly, stepping down from the altar. Her boots crunched ash beneath them. "These people didn't raise weapons. Didn't curse their enemies. They just lit candles and hoped."
She stopped in the center of the ruined chamber.
Then she looked down at the floor.
A single candle still burned.
Buried behind a fallen statue, flickering faintly. The wax nearly gone, the flame dancing like it was unsure whether to live or die.
She knelt beside it. Reached out. Shielded it with her hand.
For a second, she just watched the flame.
Then she stood.
Her voice was calm. Measured.
But deadly.
"The next demon I see," she whispered, "will feel every drop of what I held back."
Her wings unfurled behind her. Not radiant. Not glowing.
Just wide. Silent. Ready.
She walked through the temple doors without another glance back.
The sky outside was darkening. Not just from smoke—but from something deeper. The wind was still. The world below didn't feel like it used to.
She needed answers.
And the only place she'd get them—
Was home.