He summoned them all.
Advisors. Tech specialists. Crisis managers. Old allies with stained histories. The room buzzed with tension as he paced, voice clipped and eyes darker than usual.
"Caelum Dross," he said aloud. "Find him. I don't care how."
But no one had evidence.
Only shadows.
Only stories.
Only fingerprints on systems that should've been sealed.
One by one, his weapons failed. A journalist published records linked to his private accounts—ones he swore were buried. A protest erupted in front of Parliament. Old allies withdrew support under pressure they couldn't explain. Even his publicist resigned, citing "irreconcilable truths."
You didn't strike directly.
You orchestrated silence.
And silence dismantled him.
That night, in desperation, he tried to summon something—someone—through a charm he kept hidden in his desk. Old magic. Forbidden. But all that arrived was a whisper in his left ear:
"You borrowed light from the wrong fire."
His hands shook.
Somewhere across the city, you stood beneath the stars, coat draped over your shoulders, watching his empire flicker.
The devil spoke softly now.
"Shall we seal the ending? Or do you wish to watch him beg?"
You smiled.
"Let him shiver first."