The stone gave way in irregular lines under the impact.
Fragments still fell from the cracked pillar, striking the ground in dry snaps, while dust rose slow, dense, holding the air inside the ruined hall.
The heat was gone.
Only the weight remained.
Isabela tried to breathe.
Her chest expanded — the air came in short, broken.
Another attempt.
It came… but not enough.
Behind her, Éreon was already moving.
His body rose in a single flow, without haste, without rigidity.
His foot slid over the broken stone, adjusting the base as his gaze fixed forward.
Isabela planted her foot.
The stone gave under the weight.
Not enough.
The body answered first.
Ahead—
he did not move.
The count remained in the same place, posture loose, almost relaxed, as if the space around him required no adjustment.
Éreon moved first.
Short.
Direct.
His foot struck the ground dry, closing the distance in a single impulse. The body drove in low, the shoulder aligning as the left hand rose to open the line—
The right came right after.
A short, lateral cut, aiming for the neck.
Isabela came in with him.
A heavy step, firm base, the hip rotating at its limit as her arm came down in a direct strike, aiming for the open flank—
The count did not retreat.
His body turned the minimum necessary.
Éreon's arm was touched before the impact completed — not blocked.
Redirected.
The line of the cut was lost.
The blade passed by.
The same movement continued.
Without pause.
The hand was already sliding to the wrist, twisting—
Éreon's axis gave a centimeter.
Enough.
Isabela's strike arrived.
The count leaned his torso.
The fist grazed past.
The free hand rose.
Touched her forearm — short pressure, downward.
The base broke.
Her support foot lost firmness.
The impact did not happen.
Neither of them hit.
But—
neither of them remained intact in position.
The count returned to center.
Same place.
Breathing steady.
As if nothing had required effort.
His gaze ran over the two of them.
Calm.
Assessing.
The corner of his mouth lifted, minimal.
"Fast."
A short pause.
"But still… linear."
His foot advanced half a step.
The stone gave under the weight.
This time—
he was the one who entered.
There was no deviation.
No apparent reading.
Distance ceased to exist.
The impact came first.
The shoulder collided against Éreon's chest — short, direct — tearing the air out before reaction could form.
His footing broke.
The second strike was already coming.
The elbow rose from below upward, striking the sternum the moment the torso gave—
The sound was dry.
The body was not thrown.
It sank.
At the side, Isabela reacted.
Her foot advanced heavy, the fist coming straight—
The count turned half an axis.
Nothing more.
The hand intercepted the arm in its path — did not block.
Deflected.
And was already inside.
The knee rose.
Straight into the abdomen.
The impact broke the movement before it existed.
The air left.
Again.
The body folded.
His hand was already on her shoulder.
Pressure downward.
Isabela's knee touched the ground.
The stone cracked under the weight.
The count remained between the two.
Did not retreat.
Did not pursue.
He simply took the space.
Breathing steady.
As if effort did not exist.
His gaze passed over them.
Calm.
Measuring.
"Now…"
A short pause.
"you no longer seem so certain."
His foot slid half a step.
The base firm.
The body loose.
"Try again."
The count advanced half a step.
The space yielded with him.
Éreon did not enter.
This time—
he stopped.
The breath failed for an instant.
And then it came.
Slow.
Controlled.
The air went in deep.
Stayed.
And left… in silence.
The world did not slow.
But it stopped keeping up.
"One strike is enough… when the enemy allows it."
The voice did not come from outside.
Nor from someone.
It came like memory.
Old.
Etched.
"When it doesn't…"
An interval.
Without weight.
"you change the path."
The shadows on the ground stretched.
They did not grow.
They simply… adjusted.
First one.
Then another.
And then several.
Low shapes.
Elongated.
Silent.
Wolves.
They did not appear.
They were revealed.
Éreon's body yielded slightly.
The base changed.
Lower.
Looser.
The blade tilted at the minimal angle.
Eyes fixed.
No haste.
No urgency.
"Kataphagete."
The shadows moved.
Not in direct advance.
But in opening.
Multiple angles.
Encircling.
The first wolf reached the count—
The hand came down.
The body came apart on impact.
No resistance.
No weight.
But the mark remained.
Dark.
Etched into the stone.
Another came.
And another.
Tearing through space in crossing trajectories.
The count remained.
Turned his axis.
Intercepted.
Undid.
One after the other.
Without retreating.
But—
for the first time—
his gaze was not on a single point.
And then—
Éreon was no longer where he had been.
The void he left was not absence.
It was exchange.
His foot touched the mark on the ground—
and the space yielded.
The body emerged already inside the line, low, the blade rising in a short arc, aiming at the side of the torso.
The count reacted.
The hand came down to redirect—
but found nothing there.
The next mark darkened.
Éreon switched.
The movement did not stop.
The blade was already coming from another angle, closer, entering inside the guard.
The count's torso leaned to the limit.
The blade passed.
Grazed.
Fabric gave.
A thin cut opened.
Silent.
The first.
The count's base did not fail—
but the axis… adjusted.
A minimal displacement.
Instinctive.
Necessary.
A wolf crossed the space.
Low.
Direct.
The count crushed the form with a bare hand—
the shadow came apart—
but another rose at the side.
And from it—
Éreon came out.
Already in motion.
The blade came down from above, breaking the previous rhythm, forcing another read—
without giving time for a complete response.
The count turned his axis.
The hand rose—
touched air.
Éreon was no longer there.
The foot found another mark.
Switch.
Now behind.
The cut came horizontal, short, too close to ignore.
It passed.
Shallow—
but real.
The count's base adjusted.
One step.
Minimal.
Necessary.
The wolves kept crossing the space.
Not to hit.
To open.
To force.
To divide.
And among them—
the shadows stretched.
Responding.
Calling.
Éreon did not run.
Did not advance.
He appeared — always inside, always attacking.
Each switch sustained the flow.
Each strike was born from the previous.
No fixed pattern.
No repetition.
Height shifting.
Rhythm broken.
Like a dance that did not allow full reading.
The count responded.
His hands still touched, deflected, broke lines before impact—
the technique intact.
But now they had to choose.
Mark.
Shadow.
Blade.
Angle.
It was not error.
It was excess.
Everything at once.
And choosing—
cost time.
An instant.
Almost nothing.
But… for the first time—
it was not him dictating the rhythm.
Another cut passed.
Faster.
Closer.
Deeper than the last.
And when the response came—
Éreon had already switched again.
He appeared at a distance.
Out of immediate reach.
The body upright, the blade low, the gaze fixed on the count for a brief instant before sweeping across the marked hall.
The shadows still moved.
The marks on the ground… remained.
"Interesting."
The voice came low.
Almost thought.
The eyes returned to the count.
"Isabela…"
A short pause.
"perhaps this is your last opening."
The gaze did not shift.
"do you still intend to remain outside it?"
The silence lasted an instant.
And then—
Isabela stepped out from behind the broken pillar.
The step firm.
Controlled.
Her breathing returned… measured.
Not light—
held by force.
The air still scraped inside.
But the rhythm… obeyed.
Eyes fixed on the count.
"Allow me one last question, Count."
The voice came clean.
Without haste.
Without apparent tension.
She stopped at a safe distance.
"Before arriving here… I heard something that caught my attention."
A slight tilt of the head.
"About an entity."
A short pause.
"Moloch."
The name was not emphasized.
But it remained.
"They say that, as long as there are souls to be offered… he cannot be destroyed."
The gaze did not move.
"And that certain sacrifices… carry more value than others."
The air around seemed to weigh a little more.
"Children."
"Women who have not yet been touched by the world."
A pause.
Lower.
"Purity."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"The rarer… the more valuable."
The silence held.
"And, in specific circumstances…"
Another pause.
Measured.
"even divine blood."
The count smiled.
Slow.
Controlled.
Without surprise.
"I see you heard more than you should have."
He tilted his head slightly, observing her with renewed interest.
"But hearing… is not understanding."
The voice remained calm.
Cold.
"Stories like that have circulated for centuries."
A short step.
"And they continue to be repeated by those who need to believe in something greater than their own weakness."
His gaze stayed on her.
"Nothing you said alters what stands before you."
Isabela held his gaze.
Without retreat.
Without direct confrontation.
Only… acceptance.
"I understand."
A short pause.
Her gaze slid for an instant to Éreon.
And returned.
"Then it was not a lie."
The silence that followed was not doubt.
It was decision.
She turned her body slightly.
No longer focused only on the count.
"Count Caeté…"
The voice came firm.
Lower.
"this will be the last time we see each other."
The count's smile did not disappear.
But his eyes narrowed.
For the first time—
with real attention.
Isabela did not wait for a response.
Her hand rose, discreet, fingers tracing a short arc in the air.
The heat came first — contained, dense — before the blue flames appeared around her, low, silent, closing a circle that did not threaten… it delimited.
The count saw.
Before the form completed.
His body was already advancing.
One step.
Direct.
Without hesitation.
The intent was unmistakable—
to break before it settled.
The distance vanished.
But—
The space ahead of him yielded.
Éreon was already in the way.
Low base, the blade rising in a short, precise cut, intercepting the advance.
The count reacted—
but did not sustain.
The body withdrew by instinct, a minimal displacement that avoided the full impact.
Even so—
the blade passed.
Grazed.
A thin line opened.
Real.
For the first time… enough.
The circle closed.
The flames touched the ground—
and the stone gave in response.
The ground within the traced boundary sank as a block, cracks spreading as the structure below collapsed, separating the space with contained violence.
The count stopped on the other side.
His gaze fixed on Éreon.
Breathing still steady.
But the silence—
shorter.
His eyes narrowed a degree.
When he spoke, the voice came low, firm, carrying a cold nobility that did not break.
"I confess… this game is already beginning to tire me."
The count held Éreon's gaze for a moment longer, as if assessing not the movement… but what lay behind it.
Then he tilted his neck slightly.
A dry crack.
Then another.
Minimal relief.
Controlled.
His gaze dropped to the ground.
The marks.
Black half-moons scattered across the stone, crossing in patterns that did not belong to that place.
He observed them in silence for a brief moment.
When he spoke, the voice came low — firm, contained.
"I see your companion possesses… imprudent ambitions."
His eyes returned to Éreon.
There was no longer disinterest there.
"To touch what was not granted to her rarely ends well."
A short step forward. The posture still loose — but now with clear intent.
"I fear I have no alternative left."
A light pause.
Almost formal.
"I will have to end you… before she goes beyond the limit."
His hand rose naturally.
The nail opened the skin of his own wrist.
Without hesitation.
The blood flowed thick, dark — but did not fall freely.
It responded.
The first drop touched the ground and fixed itself. The next followed, drawing a precise circle around him, as if obeying an ancient order.
The air in the hall changed.
No longer warmer.
Heavier.
The structures around vibrated in a low, continuous response.
Éreon did not move.
The blade remained low. The gaze fixed.
Waiting.
The count lifted his chin slightly, like one assuming his place in a ritual that admits no interruption.
When he spoke again, there was reverence — not blind devotion, but recognition of power.
"May the primordial fire answer the call."
The blood on the ground pulsed.
"May that which watches from the shadows… deign to turn its gaze."
A pause.
The name came as a sentence, not an invocation.
"Moloch."
The hall gave way.
The impact was not explosive — it was deep. As if something beneath reality had moved.
The count's form responded.
The skin split into incandescent veins before recomposing, now red, alive like embers under strain.
The eyes burned crimson.
Without human reflection.
Black marks spread across the body like corrupted veins, pulsing in their own rhythm.
The bones adjusted with dense, prolonged cracks.
From the head, horns emerged in solid curves, tearing through flesh without resistance.
The body did not merely grow—
it occupied.
It filled the space with a presence that pressed against everything around.
The hall responded in contained tremor.
When he looked back at Éreon, there was no haste.
The voice, now deeper, carried an ancient weight.
"Now… I believe we can treat this matter with the seriousness it deserves."
The count's body vanished.
There was no preparation.
No visible reading.
The pressure in the air simply… collapsed.
The impact did not come.
The hand was already extended.
Exactly where Éreon's neck had been an instant before.
The fabric of the air still vibrated around the fingers.
Behind—
the space yielded.
Éreon occupied the point.
The count did not turn immediately.
The hand remained suspended for a brief instant, as if confirming something he already knew.
Then the fingers closed slowly.
The body turned just enough.
The gaze found Éreon over the shoulder.
No haste.
No break in breathing.
"Tell me…"
The voice came low.
Controlled.
Carrying a calm that did not need to impose itself.
"how long do you intend to sustain this… illusion of advantage?"
One step forward.
The stone gave under the weight.
"Eventually… you will have to choose a point."
Another pause.
Almost subtle.
"And when you do—"
The gaze fixed.
"I will be there."