The Offering

For a moment, no one moved.

The air froze, thick with unspoken dread. Torches flickered along the cavern walls, casting restless shadows across the jagged stone.

Ishar's breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of betrayal pressing down on him like a vice. He stared at them—the people he had once trusted—his mind reeling, his body frozen.

Lysia's eyes widened in horror.

Kael—the ever-composed leader—staggered back, his mask of calm cracking into raw panic.

Rudrik, the towering brute, didn't hesitate. His muscles tensed, fingers tightening around the crossbow's trigger.

The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating. Then Ishar spoke, his voice raw. "Why?"

A heavy silence hung between them. Lysia flinched, her lips parting as if she might speak, but no words came.

Kael tightened his jaw, his eyes flickering with something unreadable—guilt? Resolve? Rudrik didn't even blink, keeping the crossbow trained on Ishar as if he were already dead.

Lysia took a hesitant step forward. "Ishar, we—"

"Don't."

Kael's voice cut through the tension like a blade. His hand snapped to her arm, gripping it tight enough to stop her. She winced but didn't resist.

Ishar's stomach twisted. This wasn't fear. This wasn't hesitation. They had already made their choice.

I was never meant to walk away.

A deep, resonant chuckle echoed through the chamber, slithering through the air as if the walls themselves recoiled in fear.

"Enough."

The voice dripped with amusement—smooth as silk, heavy as chains. A suffocating presence pressed down on them all, making the air feel heavier, the torches dimmer.

From the shadows, two golden eyes gleamed. The demon tilted its head, watching the scene like a master growing bored of bickering pets.

It raised a clawed hand, the movement slow, deliberate. "You've played your part. Now, leave."

Kael hesitated for only a moment before nodding stiffly. Rudrik, silent, lowered his crossbow.

The demon's lips curled, baring too-white teeth. "I will uphold my end of the deal."

One by one, they turned away.

Five had entered the chamber. Only three walked out.

As his former comrades disappeared into the shadows, Ishar's fingers twitched. A strange numbness spread up his arm—cold, creeping, sinking into his bones. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, uneven and sluggish. The cavern twisted, the torchlight flickering in and out, his vision smearing like ink on wet parchment.

But rage cut through the haze like fire.

If this was the end, he wouldn't fall quietly.

But he couldn't afford to fall. Not yet.

With what little strength remained, Ishar lunged forward, his sword blazing to life, fire licking up the blade as he drove toward the demon.

The blade cleaved down, fire trailing in its wake—only for the demon to raise a single claw. Steel met flesh… and the flames sputtered, smothered in an instant. The metal trembled in his grip, heat vanishing as if swallowed by the abyss itself.

No wound. No mark. No reaction.

Just the widening of its grin, as though it barely registered Ishar's existence.

It smiled—a slow, knowing grin—mocking his final, futile effort.

Desperation surged through Ishar. He let go of his sword, his body moving on instinct, and lunged. His fist shot forward, knuckles aiming for the demon's face with all the strength he had left.

The impact landed—solid, jarring—but the demon didn't so much as flinch. Ishar's knuckles throbbed with sharp, burning pain, as if he'd just slammed them into unyielding stone.

The demon's grin widened, unshaken, amused, as though he had been struck by a breeze rather than a man's desperation.

Laughter rumbled through the chamber, deep and resonant, as if savoring the moment.

Before Ishar could react, a clawed fist drove into his gut with crushing force.

Air exploded from his lungs. A sickening crunch erupted in his chest as the demon's fist connected. White-hot pain lanced through his ribs, each breath scraping like shards of glass against his lungs.

He staggered back, choking, his knees buckling beneath him. He doubled over, a coppery flood gushing from his mouth. Blood dripped in thick rivulets down his chin, spattering the stone like spilled ink. His vision swam, the edges darkening, his strength slipping away like sand through his fingers.

The world blurred. Darkness crawled at the edges of his vision, but the golden eyes never wavered—burning through the void like twin suns.

A whisper curled in his mind, distant and close all at once.

The demon leaned in, its golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

"Don't die yet," it whispered, voice like silk over a blade. "I need you alive for the ritual."

Ishar shuddered.

The last thing he saw was the demon's smile—patient, waiting.

Then the darkness took him.