The metal lid scraped against rusted hinges with a sound like a dying man's final breath, and Mara felt the world change the moment they emerged from the tunnel's dank womb. Decay stabbed her nostrils. She tasted death before, and this miasma was no stranger.
Vultures perched everywhere, not as scavengers but as gargoyles—stone-still sentinels watching her every living movement. Their eyes reflected the landscape that Mara viewed as an old friend in new clothes. Rooftops, burned-out wagon skeletons, street lamps twisted like arthritic fingers—each surface bore these avian watchers.
And the bodies. The dead, freaking bodies.
They weren't simply fallen. They were arranged in the most meticulous, yet horrid, fashion.
Some corpses lay in positions of terrible intentionality—arms outstretched like supplicants, heads tilted at precise angles that suggested ritual rather than random death. Others had collapsed like discarded marionettes, limbs akimbo, mouths frozen in perpetual screams. The cobblestone streets ran with dried streams and lakes of blood, patterns so intricate they seemed almost deliberate, like some massive, grotesque canvas painted by an insane butcher rather than an artist with morbid cravings.
Finn moved ahead, his golden eye scanning the devastation in mechanical motion. Rosemary's violet magical chains uncoiled from her arms, serpentine and nervous. They probed the environment like sensitive tendrils, seeking shelter amidst the danger. Where they touched the ground, they left momentary impressions—ghostly traces of necromantic energy that hummed beneath the surface like the last heartbeats of the guillotined.
The rats were the first indication that this wasn't merely a massacre, but something far more complex.
They moved in massive, undulating waves across the cobblestones—not scurrying, but flowing. Like a living river, they parted around fallen bodies with an unnatural synchronicity that suggested intelligence. Their fur carried a phosphorescent sheen, hints of magical contamination that made their movements feel orchestrated, choreographed by some unseen conductor.
A mirror image of Ravencross, Mara thought. No different from the nightmare she left behind, but she didn't feel like she was at home. In fact, Ravencross never did.
The stone-carver boy began to whisper. His words came in fractured, disjointed bursts that seemed to carry more weight than their simple syllables suggested.
"The Hellbound Onslaught..." he mumbled, eyes unfocused. "A preparation, I guess?"
Finn's response was sharp, cutting. "No wonder, genius. Took you long enough to figure it out."
The Hellbound Onslaught? Where have I heard of it before?
Mara watched the exchange, a fragment of memory teasing at the edges of her blurred consciousness. Something from the Infernal Grimoire, a passage she'd read but couldn't fully recall. The knowledge hovered just beyond her grasp, like a dream dissolving upon waking.
The evidence of what seemed like a massacre was both horrifying and clean in its own arcane traces. No signs of violence marred the bodies—instead, it appeared as though something had extracted their life essence. Perfect circles of salt surrounded bone fragments, marking ritual sites that spoke of massive supernatural harvesting.
The Whitewood Haven, the first respite of an inn they discovered, emerged before them like a lush tree in a burnt forest. A decrepit lodging with a wooden facade adorned with carvings that moved when viewed peripherally—intricate hunting scenes where hunters and prey blended into indistinguishable forms.
As they crossed its threshold, the interior breathed.
Wooden floorboards flexed. Dust motes danced. Streaks of crimson interrupted the darkness.
"Anyone?" Mara asked, the question almost stuck in her throat.
The howling wind answered her query.
"Maybe we're the only ones here in this place." the stone-carver said.
"Does it count?" Finn said, as he snatched a chair and raked it across the wooden floor like a blade drawn across bone. He settled into it with the deliberate movement of a predator—not relaxing, but repositioning. His coal-black eye caught the reflections of the blood-stained floorboards of the inn.
The inn's interior exhaled a breath of stale despair, its wooden beams warped and weeping with decades of accumulated moisture. From the shadows between rusted lantern hooks and water-stained walls, the innkeeper emerged—a figure so weathered he seemed more specter than living flesh.
His skin was the color of old parchment, mapped with a network of veins like forgotten pathways, each line telling a story of suffering and survival. One eye milky with cataracts, the other a sharp, penetrating hazel that cut through the gloom like a surgeon's blade.
"Survivors, eh?" the innkeeper's voice rasped, like dry leaves crunching under the feet.
Survivors?
"No." Mara said. "We were just passing by."
"At a time like this?" the innkeeper resumed, "Great to see you young folks surviving the Harvesting. So, did you beg the demons to spare your souls, or something?"
"I could say the same for a bag of bones like you." Finn said, "Doesn't matter what we've done to see the likes of you. Question is, how did you survive it?"
"A question for a question, eh? Fair enough." The innkeeper chuckled, rubbing his hands. "A Collector came for a drink, asked some questions, and left this mess behind."
"Or is it? I can see through your lies, you old rascal." Finn snapped. "You were on your knees begging for your life and even offered your wife and son to the Collector for a contract. It's a shame the Forgeus' henchmen would spare such filth."
"Tell me, how much of the truth can that eye of yours see?"
"Tch! Don't get me started! The henchman obviously needs more than a town of souls."
The innkeeper sighed.
"He told me to get rid of all the witnesses; looks like you leave me no choice."
The old man raised his hand as it bulged into a cudgel, iron spikes piercing through his skin. He swung the weapon, and the spikes hailed across the inn. Mara and the stone-carver ducked behind a table, barely surviving the shrapnel, while Rosemary deflected the attack with a giant lash from her chains.
As for Finn, his wyrms flamed back to life and melted the raining thorns of metal. The man was swift for his age and shifted his position in the blink of an eye, lurking behind Finn. He raised his arm again and threw it at Finn. However, the swordsman stepped aside in time and jabbed the innkeeper with the hilt of his sword. The old man staggered and shook his head as he felt his feet root to the floor.
Mara crept in the shadows with her dagger, waiting for an opportunity.
This is it!
She pounced and launched herself onto the innkeeper, grabbing him by the neck. She slid the blade beneath his throat. Before the tip pierced the skin, Finn boomed.
"Wait! Where's the Collector heading next?"
"As if I'd tell you!"
"Mara, do the honor."
"Wait! He gasped, "There's one more town left, like he said. He's going for Notta. That's his final destination."
Finn gestured to the healer.
"Wait! No—"
It was a little too late. Mara's blade sunk at least three inches into the man's throat, and blood dripped from the gash.
Relieved that she fulfilled the balance before the consequences tolled on her, she released the innkeeper, who collapsed to his knees and fell flat.
"Damn it! Why Notta?" Finn cursed as he ground his teeth.
"Why? Is something wrong?" Mara asked.
"That's the only way to Devala from here. I don't want to run into the henchman, and we also don't have much time for the tournament."
"Finn, explain yourself." Mara demanded, feeling like the only fish who wasn't a part of the shoal.
"The Hellbound Onslaught. It's the reason why I saved you in the first place. The tournament starts in a week from now. Just enough time for us to reach the capital. We'll be taking part in it, so don't you dare let me down!"
A gear in her memory turned as it set the others in motion. The words from the grimoire rushed back into her mind.
"Wait, you mean that hellish cesspit where people are thrown to entertain the Seven Great Demons?"
"Yes, and the Demon Emperor himself."
"Well then count me out!"
"It comes with a reward you can't refuse."
"What reward?"
Finn pinched the ridge of his nose.
"Rose, would you mind taking it from here?"
"Sure, Finn." Rosemary said, "The tournament grants its victors a chance to challenge the Seven Great Demons. Those who are able to defeat them, the Demon Emperor would grant them their deepest, darkest desires."
"You mean anything?"
"Yes, Mara, anything. Demons are true to their words, though in the most twisted ways you can imagine."
The image of Lily glimmered before her. Mara had lost the very thing that was most dear to her. If… only if she could see her again, hear her voice once more…
Mara exhaled a deep breath and clenched her fist. She wouldn't allow anything to stand between her and Lily if she had the chance.
"Alright, I'm in. If this is all true, I'll do anything to get her back."
Rosemary smiled. "Oh, it's true alright. More than you can ever imagine."