Blood and Memory

The canyon pulsed with red heat. Stone cracked beneath infernal weight. The demon roared, a sound like worlds breaking, as it lunged again — flame boiling in its throat, black claws tearing gouges into the rock.

The man's sword shattered on impact.

The girl screamed a warning, too late.

The ward shattered. The young mage collapsed, blood leaking from his eyes as he tried to crawl backward, powerless.

The demon reared back, its molten maw widening—

—then paused.

For a moment, the world froze.

A blur cut through the dust like a whisper.

No sound. No warning. Just motion.

And then—

A spray of blood erupted from the demon's arm. It howled — not in rage, but in surprise.

Standing beneath it, buried in the shadow of its towering form, was a figure draped in black.

Cloak torn. Daggers drawn.

Ian.

One blade was already buried halfway up the demon's forearm, the other still wet with soul-inked blood.