The chapel stood broken against the night. Its roof sagged under years of neglect, and moonlight poured through the holes like silver knives. Aethan had chosen it because it was forgotten. No prayers had been spoken here for decades, no torches burned, no priest dared bless its altar.
And yet, tonight, the silence felt restless.
Aethan sat on the stone floor, his back against a column that had long since lost its paint. Lyra lay a few paces away, asleep on her cloak. She slept with a calm that unsettled him—so close to him, so unaware of what could happen if his curse slipped free.
His fingers dug into his knees as the whispers started again.
More. Feed me. I'll tear through them all. Your strength is nothing without me.
He clenched his jaw. The curse's voice was always worse at night. Every shadow whispered, every sigh of the wind became its laughter.
He dared a glance at Lyra. Strands of her silver-blonde hair spilled across her face, rising and falling with each breath. She didn't even flinch in her sleep. She trusted him.
That trust was a blade against his ribs.
He remembered the last time someone had trusted him—his own captain in the Vanguard. He'd sworn he could hold back the curse, but when the ambush came, the flames took control. When his mind returned, there had been nothing but ashes and the broken stares of his comrades—those who survived long enough to condemn him.
He stood, unable to sit still. The air was too quiet. His instincts prickled like sparks along his skin. He reached for his blade.
That's when he felt it.
A heat—not his own, but foreign. Smoldering, rancid. The chapel's broken windows glowed faintly orange as something vast moved beyond them.
A growl rolled through the stones. Low. Unholy.
Lyra stirred awake at once, her eyes sharp even from sleep. "What is it?" she whispered.
"Stay back," Aethan muttered, drawing his sword. His shadow stretched unnaturally long in the moonlight, like something behind him was feeding on it.
Then the wall shattered.
A beast crashed through the stone, scattering rubble like paper. It was a hound, but no earthly kind—its body was made of charred sinew and molten cracks, as though it had been forged in the pit of a volcano. Its breath poured fire, and its eyes glowed like furnaces.
It fixed on Aethan instantly.
Lyra gasped. "A flame hound… here?"
The beast roared, shaking the chapel. Shards of stained glass rained down like bloodied jewels.
Aethan didn't wait. He lunged forward, sword slashing in a silver arc. Steel met molten flesh, cutting deep—but the wound closed almost as quickly as it opened. The hound's fire knitted its flesh back together, and its growl deepened, a rumble that echoed in Aethan's chest.
It swiped with a paw the size of a shield. Aethan rolled aside, the stone where he'd stood exploding under the blow.
He had fought monsters before, but this was different. The Inquisition's creations were meant for one thing: hunting him.
The curse inside him laughed.
Yes. This one's strong. Let me out. Tear it apart, limb by limb. Burn hotter than it burns.
He gritted his teeth and ignored it. He slashed again, faster, striking at its legs, its joints. Each blow barely slowed it. The hound lunged, snapping its jaws—he shoved his sword between its fangs, sparks exploding as molten saliva hissed against steel.
Lyra grabbed a fallen lantern, smashing it against a stone to relight its wick. She hurled it at the beast's face. The burst of flame startled it just enough for Aethan to twist free, but its molten blood sprayed, searing his arm. He bit back a cry.
"Aethan!" Lyra shouted. "You can't fight it like this—it's feeding on its own fire!"
"I noticed," he hissed, circling the beast.
The hound prowled, molten cracks along its hide glowing brighter. Each breath it exhaled set the air trembling. Then it struck, faster than before—its claws tore a pillar apart, debris raining down toward Lyra.
She dove aside, barely clearing the collapse.
Something in Aethan snapped. His vision blurred, heat rushing into his veins.
The curse.
It surged against its cage, filling his chest with black fire. His sword burned in his grip, shadows clinging to the steel like hungry tongues.
Yes. Use me. Show her what you really are.
He staggered, gripping his head. He could almost see it—the twisted flames rising from his skin, the memories of ash, of screams. His comrades' faces burning away. He wanted to hurl himself into the fire, to let it consume him and end this torment.
Then he heard her.
Lyra's voice cut through the roar. "Aethan!"
He blinked. She stood, bruised but unbroken, her eyes locked on him. She wasn't afraid. Not of him.
That was enough.
He raised his blade, letting the curse leak just enough to coat it in black flame. The hound lunged—and Aethan met it head on.
The clash shook the chapel. Fire met shadowfire, the two flames gnawing at each other, ripping holes in the air itself. The beast's claws raked his shoulder, but his cursed flame devoured the wound as fast as it came. He slashed again, this time cutting deeper, shadows sinking into molten flesh.
The hound roared, staggering. Its body blazed brighter, fire pouring from every crack. It was preparing to explode.
"Lyra—get out!" he shouted.
But she didn't move. Instead, she picked up a fallen shard of stained glass, its edges glowing red-hot from the heat. She hurled it at the beast's exposed eye. The shard buried deep, the hound shrieking in rage.
Aethan didn't waste the moment. He plunged his cursed blade into its heart.
For a heartbeat, fire and shadow locked, neither giving ground. Then the beast's body convulsed, cracks spreading across its form. With a final roar, it collapsed in on itself, fire imploding until nothing remained but ash and glowing embers.
Silence.
Aethan fell to his knees, gasping, the curse still writhing in his veins. He slammed his fist into the ground, fighting to cage it again. His skin still smoked with black fire.
Lyra was there, kneeling beside him. She touched his arm, unflinching despite the heat.
"You held it back," she whispered.
"Barely." His voice was ragged. "If you'd seen what almost—"
"I don't care," she cut in firmly. "You're still you. That's enough."
He met her eyes. Her hand lingered on his, steadying him. In that moment, he believed her.
For the first time in years, he let himself believe.
The night wind swept through the ruined chapel, carrying away the last of the hound's ashes.
But somewhere in the distance, another howl answered.
And Aethan knew this was only the beginning.