The sky over Helheim bled red.
Not the warm glow of sunset, nor the brilliance of a blood moon—this was darker. Wrong. A malignant haze choked the heavens, swirling like smoke around the shattered spires of the demon continent's capital. Thunder cracked without lightning. Shadows moved without sources. And far beneath the volcanic crust of the continent, in the Throne-Crypt of Shad'Kar, the air was growing thin with fear.
The Seven Demon Kings were at war.
Power struggles. Assassinations. Broken oaths. The fragile balance that once kept the Demon Realms from plunging into total anarchy was crumbling. Territories shifted like sand, loyalties melted under the weight of ancient grudges, and worse—primordial magics long sealed were stirring again.
The great obsidian throne hall stood at the heart of it all—cracked, half-consumed by creeping vines of void-energy, and surrounded by obsidian spikes enchanted to pierce even godflesh. Torches of green hellfire sputtered in the walls, casting flickering light on the half-empty circle of thrones.
Only four kings had come.
The others… too busy licking wounds or plotting revenge.
And even those present did not speak.
"This cannot continue," hissed Malrakar, the Plague Tyrant, his voice like venomous fog. "Already, Yezhura's legions have crossed into Varn'eth's dominion. Their conflict spilled into the Rift Pits. I lost three nests to their madness."
Across from him, Xulien the Hollow Queen lounged like a serpent, draped in a gown made of screaming shadows. Her smile never touched her eyes.
"Then perhaps you should've bred smarter demons, Malrakar. Or kept them on shorter leashes."
He surged forward, claws crackling with plague-fire.
But a voice stopped them both.
But so ancient that even the walls flinched.
Zarethun, the First Flame, sat atop the highest throne—a skeletal behemoth whose body constantly re-ignited and decayed, over and over. His eye sockets burned with dying stars.
"We tear each other apart while the mortals rebuild. While the gods sleep. While He rests."
They all knew who he meant.
The one who defeated Luciel.
The one who turned the tide of fate on the mortal continent.
A threat. A weapon. A warning.
Zarethun leaned forward, flames dimming.
"If Ethan Smith wakes… and sees Helheim in chaos… do you think he will leave us be?"
Xulien's smile faltered.
Malrakar's claws dimmed.
Even the absent kings, listening through astral mirrors, remained still.
"You fear a sleeping man?" Xulien finally asked, her voice soft.
Zarethun's jaw creaked open.
"I fear a man who fought gods and survived. I fear the wives who'd burn continents to protect him. I fear the Sync that once devoured armies."
He rose, towering, eyes flaring with apocalyptic fire.
"And I fear what he will become if he wakes… and sees demons at his doorstep."
A tremor shook the crypt.
Far above, a volcano groaned.
And deep within the mountains of Helheim… something stirred.
In the Ashmar Abyss, hidden within the heart of a dying canyon, a young demoness named Kaela clutched a forbidden scroll to her chest. Her breath was shallow, her horns shaking.
On the scroll: a sigil.
"He's coming back…" she whispered, trembling.
And for the first time in centuries…
A demon smiled in hope.
The moon hung high in the sky, a pale guardian in a sea of darkness, its soft glow washing over the world like a balm meant for wounded souls. Perhaps… that was the moon's purpose tonight—to comfort the broken. To cradle the grieving. To offer warmth to hearts grown cold.
Because the pain coursing through her was too vast, too deep.
She sat in silence, atop a jagged cliff at the edge of the world, far from the lands of Anbord—far from them. From him.
Tia Smith, once a mere artifact—an obedient, formless spirit tied to Ethan's soul—now sat as something more. Sentient. A soulmate. A guardian. A woman.
And yet… she felt like nothing.
She had fled. From her family. From her sisters. From the warmth of his embrace. She had run to a place where even spirits feared to linger, thinking isolation would grant her clarity. That she could fix herself.
But it wasn't enough.
Her ethereal blue skin shimmered softly under the moonlight, as if woven from moonbeams and sorrow. Her silvery hair drifted in the breeze like stardust, each strand carrying the memory of touch—of the hand that once stroked her gently, the voice that called her Tia, the name that gave her identity.
That fleeting moment. That was her joy.
Back then, she was just a tiny, floating blue spirit—no bigger than his finger. And yet he gave her a name.
It echoed now like a prayer on cracked lips. A name that once meant everything… now felt like a curse.
She had grown, evolved—gained a body, a place at his side, a piece of his heart.
No beauty like Harley, no warmth like Clara, no righteous fury like Andriel, no seductive charm like Carmen.
And worst of all, no true emotion.
She was willpower wrapped in form. A vessel of duty. An echo of something that could never be complete. And she hated it.
Yet lately… she had felt something.
The kind that seeps into your bones. The kind that distorts your thoughts, makes you afraid to hope. Emotions surged like storms—fear, sadness, longing. She didn't know how to process any of them.
She had seen a vision.
One that never stopped repeating, each time more vivid than the last.
The unbecoming of who she was. A red-haired woman reaching out, her presence like a void. And then—nothing.
Tia trembled. For the first time in her strange life, she was scared.
Scared of being forgotten.
Scared of what Ethan would feel if he woke, only to realize she was gone.
Would he search for her?
Or… would he even remember?
That thought struck deeper than any blade ever could.
Her blue fingertips brushed her chest, above the place where her heart should have been.
"I don't want to disappear… Not before I see him again. Not before I know… I mattered."
The moon watched in silence.
But its light no longer brought peace.
Only a cruel reminder that even stars could not save someone from the loneliness of being half-born.
And the void inside her whispered:
"Very soon… You will fade."
And yet, in that darkness… Tia clenched her fists.
Because maybe—just maybe—fighting to stay was the most human thing she'd ever done.