The descent from Behemoth's ledge took them two full days—down treacherous scree slopes, across snow-choked ravines, and finally into the dense pine forests that carpeted the southern foothills. Behemoth moved like part of the mountain itself: silent, unstoppable, stepping over fallen trunks as though they were pebbles. Elara stayed close to Elias, her hand never far from the knife at her belt. She spoke little, but her eyes tracked the giant constantly.
Elias felt the change before anyone said a word.
It began as a prickle at the back of his neck—then a whisper of cold that had nothing to do with the wind. Shadows moved where they should not: stretching too long under the midday sun, pooling in the hollows of trees, curling like smoke around the trunks. The forest grew quieter. Birds stopped calling. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Behemoth halted first.
He planted his club in the earth with a dull thud that echoed through the pines.
"She is near," he rumbled.
Elara drew her knife. "How do you know?"
"Because the light lies here," Behemoth answered. "And she makes it lie better than anyone."
Elias touched the sigil beneath his tunic. It pulsed once—slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat acknowledging its own.
Belial, Abaddon said inside him. Mistress of deception. Weaver of shadows. She has waited longest.
They pressed forward.
The path ended at the edge of an ancient ruin: crumbled walls of black basalt overgrown with ivy, arches half-collapsed, a central courtyard choked with dead leaves and broken statues. Moonlight would have made it beautiful in a mournful way; in daylight it looked simply abandoned. Wrong.
A soft voice drifted from the shadowed doorway of what had once been a temple.
"You brought friends, World-Eater."
A girl stepped into the light.
She was younger than the rest—fourteen, perhaps—small and slight, dressed in patched black robes that seemed to drink the sunlight. Her hair was midnight-dark, falling in tangled waves past her waist. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds, and they held no fear—only sharp, amused curiosity.
She tilted her head at Elias.
"You're younger than I expected," she said. "And louder. Your heart is screaming."
Elias stepped forward. "We're not here to hurt you."
The girl—Liora—laughed softly. The sound echoed strangely, as though two voices spoke at once.
"Of course you're not. You're here to collect me. Like the others." She glanced at Elara, then at Behemoth. "The tide. The mountain. And now the shadow. How neat. How inevitable."
Elara's grip tightened on her knife. "You know what we are."
"I know what he is." Liora pointed one slender finger at Elias's chest. "I felt him wake. The moment the stone drank your blood, the shadows whispered his name. They've been whispering ever since."
She took another step closer. The air around her rippled—subtle, almost unnoticeable. Elias blinked, and for a heartbeat he saw not a girl, but a tall woman with wings of smoke and eyes like burning coals. Then the image vanished. Liora smiled wider.
"Belial greets you, Abaddon," she said. "And she kneels."
As she spoke the words, she dropped gracefully to one knee. Not in fear. Not in submission born of force. In recognition. In memory of an order older than the mountains, deeper than the sea.
Behemoth lowered his head in silent acknowledgment.
Elara exhaled sharply through her nose but said nothing.
Inside Elias, Abaddon's voice rolled like distant thunder—pleased, possessive.
Four.
All of mine.
Now we are complete.
Liora rose again, brushing dirt from her robes as though the gesture had been nothing more important than greeting an old acquaintance.
"What now?" she asked lightly. "Do we march on Sanctum? Burn the golden city? Or do we wait for the pretty saint to come find us?"
Elias looked at each of them in turn: Elara, tense and watchful; Behemoth, immovable as stone; Liora, smiling with too many secrets behind her eyes.
"We go after the Church," he said. "We free the others like us—the hidden pagans they're still hunting. We show the world what they've been hiding."
Liora clapped her hands once, delighted.
"Oh, I like that. Lies upon lies. The Church will scream 'heretic' while we whisper the truth in every ear. And when they send their inquisitors…" She spread her hands. Shadows peeled away from her fingers like ribbon, coiling into shapes—claws, wings, screaming mouths—that dissolved as quickly as they formed. "We'll give them something to fear."
Behemoth grunted. "Words are wind. Power is stone."
Elara sheathed her knife. "And water drowns both. We move together. No one left behind."
Elias nodded.
The four of them stood in the ruined courtyard—vessels of ruin, bound by blood older than memory, watched by a demon who had waited eons for this moment.
Liora stepped to Elias's side and slipped her small hand into his. Her touch was cold.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "I'll keep the shadows gentle. For now."
Abaddon laughed softly inside Elias's mind.
Gentle, he echoed. How quaint.
But soon…
Soon the world will learn what gentle truly means.
As the sun dipped behind the western peaks, the four began the long walk south—toward the heart of the kingdom, toward the golden city that had once seemed untouchable.
Behind them, the ruins stood silent.
But the shadows lingered longer than they should have.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.
End of Chapter 10