Names carried weight in Hell.
Not titles—names. They were scars in reality, hooks that memory and rumor clung to, shaping how others perceived you before you ever crossed paths. Thomas learned this quickly in the days following Kael Varrox's defeat.
Whispers reached the Ashen Horde from every direction.
Some came from scavenger-demons slipping through the wastes, others from messengers fleeing larger dominions. They spoke cautiously, as if even saying the words aloud might summon consequences.
The one who spared his challenger.
The demon who broke a Trial and lived.
The Circle's contradiction.
And then, inevitably:
The Ash-Bound King.
Thomas hated that one most.
He stood at the edge of the fractured basin, watching the Horde train. They moved differently now—more disciplined, more aware of spacing and timing. They were still rough, still fractured, but they were no longer simply reacting. They were learning.
Liora joined him, her expression unreadable. "You've become a story," she said. "Stories don't stay small."
"I never wanted a crown," Thomas replied.
"No one who lasts ever does."
Eddric approached moments later, eyes flickering with concern. "Movement across the wastes has increased. Scouts report at least three minor dominions altering their routes to avoid us. Two are sending envoys."
Thomas frowned. "Envoys?"
"Or spies," Eddric said. "Possibly both."
As if summoned by the words, the air rippled at the edge of the camp. A thin demon emerged—long-limbed, skin stretched tight over bone, eyes glowing pale blue. His posture was deferential, but his gaze was sharp.
"I bring words," the demon said, bowing shallowly. "From Lady Sevrayne of the Bleeding Choir."
Liora stiffened. "A lord?"
"A collector," the messenger corrected. "She gathers voices—those who scream beautifully."
Thomas felt a chill that had nothing to do with heat. "What does she want?"
The messenger smiled thinly. "To know if the rumors are true. If you truly refuse to kill those who submit."
Thomas said nothing.
The messenger's smile widened. "She would like to test that."
Before Thomas could respond, the ground shuddered.
Far away—too far to intervene quickly—a green flare ignited in the sky. The Circle's color. A summoning.
Eddric's eyes widened. "Another drop."
The messenger bowed again. "My lady has positioned her Choir beneath the fall. She wonders… will you come?"
The implication was clear.
A massacre, or a challenge.
Thomas felt the weight settle fully now. This was no longer about survival or leadership within the Horde. This was about precedent. About what Hell would learn from him.
If he went, he risked war.
If he didn't, he became a lie.
"We move," Thomas said.
Liora hissed sharply. "You're walking into a trap."
"Yes," Thomas replied. "And so is she."
As they prepared to march, Kael Varrox approached—still weakened, sin-glyph scars dark and raw across his chest. His voice was quiet.
"You spare enemies," Kael said. "They'll keep coming."
Thomas met his gaze. "So will the fallen. Someone has to decide what they become."
Kael studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Then let me fight for you."
Thomas hesitated.
Then: "Earn it."
By the time the Ashen Horde began its march, the rumors had already outrun them.
Across Hell, lords listened.
The Circle recalculated.
And somewhere beneath a screaming sky, newly fallen humans began to burn—
Unaware that their fate had become a battleground.