Aurelion spun.
The figure descended from the sky, landing silently behind him. Wings folded against his back, dark and leathery, catching the dim light. Tall and broad-shouldered, his armor scarred by countless battles. A scar ran across his jaw, pulling his mouth into a permanent half-smile. His eyes were cold, calculating, familiar.
Vorthar.
The demon general from the early invasion. The one who had fought him in Sector 12, who had crushed him, who had let him live out of curiosity.
The one who had been there at Lancet. At the Stain. At the edges of every battle Aurelion had fought.
"You," Aurelion said. His voice was flat, but his heart was pounding. "What are you doing here?"
Vorthar's smile widened as he folded his wings. "I could ask you the same question, boy." He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the loose stone. "This is the other landmass. The one your kind calls the Americas. I didn't expect to find you here."
"I didn't expect to find you anywhere."
Vorthar laughed—a dry, hollow sound. "I've been here for months. The Demon King's forces have been moving through this region. I've been... observing."
"Observing what?"
Vorthar's eyes narrowed. "The war. The patterns. The way humans fight." He stepped closer. "And I've been waiting for you."
Aurelion's jaw tightened. "Why?"
"Because you need to understand something." Vorthar's voice dropped. "You think you're fighting a war. You think you can win. But you can't."
"What are you talking about?"
Vorthar's smile faded. "The utter and complete defeat of humanity. That's what's coming. Not a battle. Not a war. An end."
Aurelion stared at him. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you telling me this?"
Vorthar was silent for a moment. Then: "Because I want you to see it. To understand it. To feel it."
Before Aurelion could react, Vorthar moved.
Fast. Faster than anything that size should move. His hand closed around Aurelion's throat, and he slammed him into the ground. The impact drove the air from Aurelion's lungs. His vision swam. The shards inside him pulsed, urgent, but he couldn't move.
Vorthar leaned down, his face inches from Aurelion's.
"Watch," he said. "Watch how weak you are."
He forced Aurelion's head to the side, toward the valley below.
The convoy was still moving along the road. The soldiers were still fighting. But the demons were everywhere now—hundreds of them, swarming over the trucks, dragging soldiers from their positions, tearing them apart.
Aurelion watched.
He watched Holt fall, her blade still raised, her eyes still defiant. He watched the soldiers die, one by one, their screams echoing across the valley. He watched the flying demons descend, their talons dripping with blood.
He couldn't stop it. Couldn't help them. Couldn't do anything but watch.
"Remember this," Vorthar said, his voice cold. "Remember how powerless you are. Remember how easily I crushed you. Remember how helpless you were while they died."
Aurelion's hands clawed at the ground. His body screamed. But Vorthar held him down like he weighed nothing.
"You're not a king," Vorthar said. "You're not a hero. You're just a man who thought he could fight fate."
He lifted Aurelion off the ground, held him over the edge of the cliff.
And he let go.
Aurelion fell.
The wind screamed past him. The ground rushed up to meet him. The shards inside him blazed with light, trying to slow his fall, but he was too weak, too broken.
He hit the slope, tumbling, rolling, crashing through rocks and debris. Pain exploded through his body—his ribs, his head. The world spun, blurred, went dark.
Then nothing.
Vorthar stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the unconscious body below.
Aurelion lay motionless, his limbs sprawled awkwardly, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Bruises were already forming on his face and arms. The shards inside him pulsed weakly, trying to heal, but it was slow. Pathetically slow.
"So weak," Vorthar murmured, his voice dripping with contempt. "Why is the King even interested in this human? He's barely worth the effort of crushing."
He shook his head, turned away, and spread his wings.
The Demon King had his reasons, Vorthar supposed. But from where he stood, Aurelion Kade was nothing but a broken man who had fallen from a cliff. Hardly the threat the King seemed to think he was.
He launched into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.
Aurelion woke to silence.
The sky was gray. The wind was cold. He was lying at the base of the cliff, his body aching, his mind reeling.
He pushed himself up slowly, his ribs screaming, his head pounding. Bruises covered his arms and face. But nothing was broken. The shards inside him had done their work.
He looked up at the cliff. At the edge where Vorthar had stood.
The valley was silent now. The convoy was gone. The soldiers were dead.
He was alone.
I couldn't save them, he thought. I couldn't do anything.
The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady, still healing him. But it was slow. Too slow.
He sat there, bruised and aching, and stared at the sky.
I'll find you, he thought. I'll find you, Vorthar.
And I'll make you pay.