The ruin swallowed sound.

  The Inquisitors of the Thorned Path moved in silence through stone halls. The stagnant air of the ancient ruins pressed against their lungs. Old symbols, words written in a language that these old warriors had no hope of understanding, clung to the walls.

  Everyone was quiet, though they felt it too. The weight. As men in the Sanctum’s barracks, they had heard the whispers; ruins like these were not meant for men to trespass. Demons and Gods perish; only foolish mortals tread this path, seeking prideful fame.

  At the head of the company stood Darius Veyle, young but already battle-hardened. Green eyes, sharp, beneath his dark brown hair. Beside him walked his mentor, Sir Garran, a scarred Inquisitor Commander. His voice carried like a war drum. His storm-grey eyes had steadied Darius through countless campaigns.

  Among the faithful, Garran was spoken of in the same breath as Saints. He was a man who had slain witches, monsters, and Demon spawn with grim efficiency and pride. To Darius, he was more than a commander.

  Around them marched thirteen others. Brother Caldus, a boy barely past twenty, whispered scripture under his breath. Broad-shouldered Marek carried his hammer with the eager revolve of someone looking for a reason to swing. Old Bren, gray and grizzled, muttered paranoid curses at the sound of each creak.

  Fifteen clad in black armor, cloaked in red, entered the ruin together. All bore the golden crown-of-thorns crest upon their chest. All knew what they sought:

  A Demon’s Heart.

  A blood-red crystal, one of many scattered across the world, remnants of the Iwons ', the Demon’s invasion centuries ago that threatened to end all life. To the Sanctum of Thorns, only by destroying them could humanity prevent the demons’ return.

  The first scream came when the walls took the shape of a hulking golem. The golem tore free of the wall and swung massive fists that crumpled armor like paper bags. Brother Caldus was the first to fall. His shield shattered with the rest of his body as crimson splattered the wall.

  Darius darted forward, his blade glowing faint green as he channeled Vaylora, the energy that breathed magic to life. He cut through the living stone, his muscles straining for the effort. Garran roared beside him, driving his broadsword through a golem’s knee, toppling the creature under its own weight.

  They pushed deeper into the ruins, only to be met by flames.

  One Inquisitor stepped on a sigil invisible to the naked eye until it was too late. The sigil sprang up, splitting and multiplying, in an instant. Those sigils flared red and engulfed the Inquisitor in flames, leaving nothing but ash. Another leapt from the flames, only for a dart to thud into his neck. Before he could understand what happened, his veins blacked. His brothers could do nothing but watch. They gathered their courage, steeled their wills, and moved forward.

  A slanted corridor awaited them. When they approached the top, the corridor rumbled and the ceiling opened. A boulder the size of a cottage barreled toward them. They scattered, some diving aside, others not quick enough. The crushing impact filled the corridor with screams.

  By the time they reached the central chamber, only five remained: Darius, Garran, Old Bren, Marek, and one other. Their armor raged, their faces wet with exhaustion.

  The chamber was vast, its walls carved with glyphs and the dead, Old Valenforian language. At its farthest edge, a figure stirred.

  A woman.

  She was sitting slouched against the wall, black hair spilling over well-worn leather clothes. Satchel at her side that marked her as some sort of scholar. She blinked as Garren's torchlight filled her face. She smiled at them as if greeting old friends.

  She looked utterly out of place. There was no fear, no wounds. There was scarcely any dirt on her pale skin. Her eyes caught and held the light, golden and sharp.

  The Inquisitors reacted like hounds on a scent. Old Bren muttered a curse. Darius, half-lifted his blade as though to cut her down before she could speak. Garran’s voice snapped like a whip: “Hold.”

  Selene only smiled, as if their fury amused her.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  Garran stepped forward, his blade point raised. “Who are you? How did you come this far?”

  The woman stretched languidly, “Selene,” she said. “An archaeologist. I’m the reason your Sanctum even knows there might be a Demon’s Heart here.”

  Murmurs rippled through the Inquisitors. Anger sparked in their eyes.

  “If you knew the way,” one spat, “you should have guided us! Ten men are dead. Their blood stains your hands.”

  Selene only shrugged. “I offered. The church refused me. So I came alone. I reached this door, but lacked the strength to break it. You, however…” her golden eyes gleamed, “…you might succeed.”

  Darius frowned. “Some of those traps, like the golems, no one could have passed alone.”

  Her smile sharpened. “I’m skilled in earth magic. To you, they’re death. To me, they’re clay. But this door?” She gestured at the glyphs. “This demands raw Vaylora. More than I can muster.”

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  Garran stepped closer to the stone, fingers tracing the runes. His face darkened. “This script. It isn't Old Valenforian... It’s witch-tongue.”

  Selene met his accusing gaze. “I’m a historian. Knowledge is not a crime. Or has the Sanctum begun burning scholars as well?”

  Garran scoffed and called the other The Inquisitors to the opposite side of the room, to hold council. Darius was left to guard her. His blade, angled toward her throat.

  Selene leaned her head against the wall. “You’re glaring so hard, I might mistake it for interest.”

  “For someone impeding on a sacred mission, you speak too freely,” he said. His voice was firm, but his shuffling betrayed weariness.

  “You speak as though the Gods sent you here.”

  She tilted her head. “Strange. For all your holy bravado, I see no gods here. Only ruins and dead men.”

  His jaw flexed. “Do you deny the faith?”

  She shook her head, slowly. “Not the faith. Never that. The gods are real; anyone with the Gift knows it. Every time I draw Vaylora through my veins, I feel their presence.”

  For the first time, Darius’s grip eased, just slightly. “So you have no love for the Inquisitors of the Thorn Path. But the way you speak of the Gift, you must revere the Saints. Blessed above all, chosen as vessels of the divine.”

  A faint smile tugged her lips. “Blessed, or cursed? You know the truth as well as I do, Inquisitor. Saints and Witches share the same ‘blessing’. Somewhere in their bloodlines, someone partook of dragon blood. That is why the Gift burns brightest in them. It's not a blessing, it's blood.”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “Blasphemy.”

  “Blasphemy? No, Inquisitor. Truth. Your church dresses one child of dragons in white and crowns them a Saint, while burning the other alive for the same blood. Tell me, is the fire any less red in either vein?”

  “Enough,” Darius commanded.

  Selene leaned forward, her neck almost touching his blade. “I believe in the gods, Inquisitor. But those fools in their marble halls, cloaked in scripture and thorns? They are not gods. They are mortals. And mortals crave power more than faith.”

  Darius stood in silence, his blood boiling. He could hear pounding in his ears. He wanted to call her a liar, to run her through. But he knew. If she died, the rest of them might as well follow.

  He could not find the words to refute her. He was not a scholar; he was a warrior. He was told the Saints were the blessed chosen. The Church promised they were holy, and those who refused the calling were inherently tainted. Yet Selene’s words cut deeper than a blade.

  His grip tightened on his sword until his knuckles went white. If she was wrong, why did the doubt burn so?

  The debate ended when the others returned.

  “We do as she says,” the mentor decided. His eyes locked on Darius. “If this is treachery, and we fall… kill her.”

  Darius gave a sharp nod.

  Together, the four Inquisitors pressed their hands against the stone door. The runes flared, first a faint glow, then a blinding white. Garran’s jaw clenched, sweat running down his brow as they poured Vaylora into the stone door. They let out a collective groan as they felt the runes stop draining their Vaylora.

  The door opened with a groan. Dust spilled out in clouds. Beyond the sheets of ancient dust, a crimson glow pulsed. In this hidden chamber, a crystal the size of a man floated unaided. Its surface bleed red light. The crystal pulsed with life, not inert stone but something alive. Every beat of its glow rattled Darius to his bones.

  Garran and the others staggered under its pressure, sweat pouring down their faces.

  It was far larger than the tales had promised, five times the size of any recorded Demon’s Heart.

  “How can a Demon Heart be this...big,” whispered Marek.

  Selene’s golden eyes widened in delight. “No,” she breathed. “That… is a Dragon’s.”

  The words barely left her mouth before an unseen force poured from the chamber holding the Heart. The four Inquisitors fell to the ground. All of them were dead before they hit the ground. That unseen force had devoured their life like a curse.

  “Garran!” Darius’s cry tore through the silence.

  Rage roared through him. He spun, blade flashing toward Selene. Steel cut her down—only for her form to dissolve, fading like smoke.

  Her beautifully crafted illusion faded in the crimson glow as she appeared next to the heart. The dusty archaeologist’s garb had vanished. In its place was a dress woven from earthen fabric. The hem was torn for movement. Soft leather boots laced up her calves, scarred with wear.

  Her skin gleamed pale against the torchlight. Slightly pointed ears betrayed a trace of elven blood. She looked less like a scholar now and more like something born from the wild places mortals feared to tread.

  “The seal,” she said, her voice carrying a calm that chilled Darius’s veins, “was never meant to be broken by force. It demanded four lives willingly poured into it. Warriors with Vaylora strong enough to feed the runes. Four sacrifices to open the door.”

  Her golden eyes slid to the headless corpses scattered across the floor. She smiled faintly.

  “So I made sure the Sanctum sent me what I needed. Inquisitors, zealous enough to walk into every trap set. Loyal enough to die at the command of their leaders. Duty-bound enough to lay down their power when I told them it was required. Every death along the way was meant to narrow your numbers until only the strongest remained—the perfect offering to the seal.”

  Selene stepped forward, her voice steady, her expression calm.

  “You call yourselves hunters. So proud of your faith, you never once thought you would be hunted in turn. You march when commanded. You bleed when commanded. You die when commanded. It makes you ...Predictable. Easy prey.”

  She looked at Garran’s fallen body and tilted her head. “Strong. Brave. Loyal... Blind. Perfect sacrifices.”

  “Monster!” Darius spat.

  Her eyes cut back to Darius, sharp as knives. “I’m the monster? Tell me, Inquisitor. How many Witches have you killed, for the grave crime of existing? I do not slay innocents. I culled enemies. And if you cannot see the difference, then perhaps you are just as hopeless as the rest of them.”

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed again, crimson light washing across her features. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking only to him.

  “I don’t waste lives. I spend them.”

  The Dragon’s Heart pulsed once, and she and the crystal began to fade, dissolving into light.

  “Face me!” Darius roared, fury raw in his throat. “Fight me!”

  Her laughter lingered in the chamber, echoing like bells.

  “Why waste such an attractive man?”

  And then she was gone.

  Darius stood in the dark. The ruin was silent now, save for his desperate, confused breaths. His brothers were gone. His mentor was gone. Only he remained — the sole witness to this failure. He forced his shaking legs to move, dragging himself back through the corridors of the ruin. He prayed that some undiscovered trap would lay him low, so that he would not have to bear this sham. Those prayers went unanswered. Whatever waited beyond these walls — judgment, scorn, or disbelief — he would face it. For the church would demand answers.