A gray sheen cloaked the skies above Canterlot, casting a pall over its gleaming towers and ivory battlements. The clouds hung heavy, a silent witness to the chaos that had unfolded. Yet their somber presence was drowned out by the raucous cheers echoing from the streets below. Elven soldiers, clad in their ornate armor, gathered in clusters along the parapets and courtyards, their voices rising in a cacophony of triumph.

They had come to investigate the source of the commotion, only to witness a moment they would later recount with wicked glee. The Demon in Metal, a harbinger of terror and defiance, had been cast from Canterlot’s heights. His armored form had plummeted, a blade jutting grotesquely from his stomach, the glint of steel stark against his battered frame.

The sight of his fall sent ripples of exhilaration through the ranks. To them, it was more than a victory--it was a symbol of their dominion, the breaking of a myth. They called out in triumph, the clinking of their weapons forming a discordant symphony of dominance.

Above the din, a single Elven commander raised his hand, silencing the crowd. His voice, sharp and authoritative, rang out: "The Demon is no more. Let it be known—Equestria falls today!"

The cheering returned tenfold, and the soldier's went back to their duties with new vigor. The Demon was out of the picture, and now began the final solution.

Through it all, Dommick watched from his position on the balcony, his face a stony mask as he glared down at the lake far, far below. He had watched the light leave the Demon's eyes, and he had seen his form smash into the water, likely forced to the bottom by the large waterfall that entered into the basin. If the Demon was not dead from his blade, then he would surely drown.

'That wouldn't have been necessary, had he not been forced over the edge...'

Dommick turned, slowly. His glare slowly shifted from the lake below, to the quivering puppet who had once been the prince of a nation. Blueblood stood, his legs shaking as he glanced between the two guards flanking him, and the Emperor's piercing gaze. The sounds from outside died out, and Blueblood shied back as Dommick spoke.

"Blueblood."

Dommick’s icy gaze lingered on Blueblood, the tension between them crackling like a fire on the verge of consuming its fuel. The prince's trembling composure was a pathetic sight, but it was the flicker in his eyes--something beyond fear--that gave the Emperor pause.

He let the silence stretch, deliberately suffocating, before finally speaking. "Tell me, Blueblood," Dommick said, his voice smooth yet razor-sharp, "why should I allow this... lapse in judgment to go unpunished? Why should I allow you to live after interfering and blasting the Demon in Metal off of Canterlot mountain?"

Blueblood’s mouth opened and closed, searching for words as sweat dripped from his brow. He bowed deeply, his voice quivering. "Y-Your excellency, my actions were not meant to undermine you. I was thinking only of... of morale, that is all. Surely you see that, in the eyes of the soldiers, it would strengthen their resolve to witness the fall of the Demon."

Dommick’s lips twitched in amusement, though his eyes betrayed nothing but cold calculation. "A bold excuse," he mused, stepping closer. "And yet... I sense something else. Perhaps a shadow of doubt. Are you so certain that the Demon is dead?"

Blueblood froze, the faintest twitch betraying him. Dommick’s smirk widened ever so slightly.

"No answer," Dommick said, his tone darkening. "Curious. Perhaps your faith in my victory is not as steadfast as you claim."

"N-no, your excellency!" Blueblood stammered, shaking his head fervently. "I have no doubts in your strength! The Demon cannot possibly survive such a fall. The blade--the lake--it’s over!"

Dommick studied him for a long moment, the silence pressing down like an unseen weight. Finally, he stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back. "Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this is the end of the Demon."

Relief flickered across Blueblood’s face, but it was short-lived as Dommick continued, his voice a low growl. "Or perhaps it’s the beginning of something far worse. I wonder, Prince--if he does survive, what might he do next? And more importantly... what will you do?"

Blueblood swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I-I would serve you, of course. My loyalty lies with the Empire."

Dommick tilted his head, a faint gleam of mockery in his eyes. "Loyalty," he repeated, as though testing the word. "Such a fragile thing. Easily claimed, yet so rarely proven."

He allowed the words to hang in the air before stepping aside, motioning toward the door. "Go, Blueblood. Return to your quarters and reflect on your... loyalty. Pray you do not give me a reason to question it again."

Blueblood hesitated, then bowed deeply, his voice trembling. "Thank you, your excellency. I will not disappoint you."

As the prince retreated, Dommick watched him closely, his expression unreadable. Only when the door closed did his smirk return, this time tinged with malice.

"Run along, little puppet," he muttered to himself. "I’ll be watching when your mask begins to crack."

Dommick turned back to the balcony, his gaze falling once more to the distant lake below. He couldn’t deny the gnawing doubt in his chest.

'Are you so certain that the Demon is dead?'

His eyes narrowed, his scowl etched deep into his face. Nothing could have survived that fall, not with the weight of the human's armor dragging him into the depths. The lake would claim the Demon’s last breath, silencing the threat forever.

Satisfied, Dommick turned sharply, his cloak sweeping the ground as he stalked past the two guards. Each step echoed with purpose, the heavy cadence of a man who believed the war was all but won.

The distant sound of cheers carried on the wind as he ascended the steps toward the throne room, his thoughts already shifting. There were greater matters to attend to. His daughter awaited him with critical news, and her counsel, though infuriating at times, was not to be missed.

By the time he reentered the throne room, the Demon was nothing more than a fading memory, dismissed like a pawn sacrificed in a grander game. The air seemed to hum with the promise of finality, and Dommick allowed a wicked smile to creep across his face.

Victory was within reach. The endgame had begun. And in the Emperor's mind, there was no room for doubt—only triumph.

*****

Dean’s eyes snapped open as the cold bit into his skin, a brutal, unforgiving chill that seemed to pierce straight through his armor. He sucked in a desperate breath—but instead of air, icy water flooded his lungs. His body convulsed, panic surging through him as he choked and coughed, only to take in more water. The suffocating sensation jolted his senses into sharp, painful focus.

The world around him was chaos. The current seized him, yanking him in every direction with a force that made resistance feel futile. His limbs thrashed against the water’s pull, but his armor dragged him down, making every motion slow and agonizing. He spun, tumbled, and flipped as though caught in the grip of a vengeful storm.

Pain erupted in his abdomen as the hilt of the sword still lodged in him pressed cruelly against his armor. Each jolt and twist felt like the blade was carving deeper into him. Dean’s mind screamed for air, but his lungs were already filled with water, burning as his body demanded relief he couldn’t provide.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the current hurled him downward. His back collided with the lakebed, the impact driving another shock of pain through his body and forcing the last remnants of air to bubble from his lips. For a moment, he lay there, dazed, the cold and pressure numbing his senses.

But survival instincts kicked in. He wasn’t dead--not yet. His hands groped blindly through the silt and rocks, his gauntlets scraping against the unforgiving terrain. Dean planted his palms firmly, pushing himself forward with slow, deliberate movements. Each inch felt like an eternity, the current still battering him as he moved parallel to its relentless flow.

His lungs screamed for air, and his vision flickered at the edges. Every breathless moment was a battle, every motion a test of endurance. He didn’t know where the surface was, didn’t know if he’d even make it--but he refused to stop. Inch by agonizing inch, Dean fought against the weight of the water, his armor, and his own fading strength.

The cold was merciless, sapping what little energy he had left, but it also kept him awake. The pain in his stomach burned like fire, but he clung to it, used it to stay focused.

Move. Just keep moving.

Dean’s strength ebbed with each passing second, his muscles trembling as the cold gnawed deeper into him. His vision blurred, the murky waters around him fading to a muted haze. The world seemed distant now, the roar of the current a muffled whisper in his ears.

He tried to push forward, but his arms felt like lead, unresponsive and heavy. A sharp, searing pain flared in his abdomen as the sword twisted with his movements, but even that began to dull, replaced by an eerie numbness creeping through his body. His blood flowed with the current.

His lungs screamed for air, but his chest refused to move, the instinct to breathe overpowered by the crushing weight of the water. Darkness replaced his vision, and his thoughts became sluggish, disjointed.

Is this it?

The question floated in his mind, a faint echo amidst the haze. Memories flickered briefly--his family’s faces, their laughter, their warmth. The image of Twilight flashed, her wide, fearful eyes as she pleaded for him to stay alive. For her. For all of them.

But the darkness was too inviting, too absolute. His body stopped moving, his gauntleted hand falling limply to the lakebed. The current tugged at him like an unseen hand, urging him to surrender, to let go.

I can’t… breathe…

The thought was distant now, fading as his consciousness began to slip entirely. The cold became less biting, the pain in his abdomen a dull thrum. He felt his mind drifting, untethered, as if the lake itself was swallowing him whole.

'I deserve this...'

And then, just as the last thread of awareness began to snap, there was something--a flash of magical light, faint and golden like the sun in autumn, cutting through the murk. It was distant, barely visible, but it stirred something deep within him. A flicker of hope.

The light pulsed, steady and deliberate, as if calling to him. Dean’s fingers twitched, the faintest movement, but it was enough to feel the jagged rocks beneath his hand once more. He wasn’t gone yet--not completely.

With the last of his willpower, he pressed his hand against the lakebed, trying to push himself forward. It wasn’t much, just a weak shuffle of his body against the silt, but it was something. The light beckoned him, faint but unwavering, and he clung to it like a lifeline.

He was guided by instinct alone. Somewhere, beyond the depths, a chance remained.

Move... just move...

His hand reached forward, the movement sluggish. Dean sensed more than felt his arm move. He just needed to touch that golden light. A single scrape of his finger.

'Please...'

His vision faded to black, and his body finally gave in.

*****

"There! Lyra, pull!"

Her horn blazed, and her teeth grit, but Lyra heartstrings felt her magic finally take hold of the figure under the water. Jowl ran, more of a fast waddle, to the river-side and waded in until he was waist deep. Their picnic lay behind them, forgotten after seeing the strange figure fall from the cliff. It was just her luck that it's body sunk behind a rock where the currents wouldn't affect it. Her first attempt to grab the being resulted in lifting a strange club out of the water. It now sat beside their little blanket. After another minute of searching, she finally found the being in its entirety.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Upon trying to grab the being with her magic, she had been surprised that it had seemed to slip right off at first. This did not deter her, and she searched all over its strangely elf like body in order to find purchase. Finally, one of its five fingers allowed her magic to stick, and she was quickly able to bypass the strange barrier and grab its whole arm.

"Dis ting weighs a bloody ton!" Jowl called as the being finally emerged from the water.

Water cascaded off the strange figure as it broke the surface, its metallic armor glinting faintly under the gray sky. Jowl grunted, his thick arms straining as he wrapped them around the limp body and began hauling it toward the riverbank. Lyra kept her magical hold steady, the faint golden glow of her horn flickering under the strain.

"Careful!" she called, her voice tight with worry. "It’s still got that... that thing-- is that a sword sticking out of its chest!?"

Jowl growled in response, his feet slipping slightly on the slick riverbed as he adjusted his grip. "I see it, lass! But if it’s breathin’, it won’t be for long if we leave it here!"

Together, they managed to drag the armored figure onto the grassy bank, its full weight hitting the ground with a dull thud. Jowl collapsed to his knees, panting heavily, while Lyra quickly leaned over the strange being, her horn still glowing as she inspected it.

The being was familiar, almost to an uncanny degree. She recognized its armour from somewhere, and the shape of its face, ears, and torso seemed to scream she should know what this is. However, she could determine that later. Right now, she had to get the water out of its lungs.

"Okay..." Lyra stuck her tongue out as she used her magic like a scoop. It flowed into the beings throat, and she did her best to find her way into its lungs. She was by no means a medical practitioner, but whoever this was would die if she didn't act fast.

Lyra’s horn flared brighter as she concentrated, her magical aura delving into the being’s throat with careful precision. The process was delicate, like trying to thread a needle in the middle of a storm. Sweat beaded on her brow as she worked, her magic probing and scooping, guiding the water out of the being’s lungs one shallow breath at a time.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice taut with urgency. "Breathe, you stubborn thing."

Jowl, still catching his breath, looked on with a mix of unease and fascination. "You sure you know what yer doin’, lass?" he asked, glancing nervously at the sword protruding from the figure's chest. "Looks like it’s been through Tartarus and back. Might be better to let it rest in peace."

Lyra shot him a sharp glare, her horn sparking slightly from the strain. "Not a chance. If it survived that fall, it’s not going to die now—not while I can do something about it."

With a final tug of her magic, a gush of water spilled from the being’s mouth, dribbling onto the grass. Its chest spasmed violently, and for a horrifying moment, Lyra thought she might messed something up inside it. Then, with a ragged, wet gasp, the figure's body jerked, drawing in a desperate breath of air.

"There!" Lyra exclaimed, her magic receding as she leaned back, panting from the effort. "It’s breathing!"

The figure coughed and sputtered, its movements weak and uncoordinated. Its head turned slightly, and Lyra quickly shuffled closer, making shushing noises. The next moment, the beings eyes closed, and it drifted into sleep.

"I'll tear apart the blanket and wrap the wound. We hav' ta leave da sword so dat he doesn' bleed ta death." Jowl quickly set to work as Lyra examined the creature closer. She searched her memory desperately, trying to piece together what she was looking at. A memory appeared; a dream about a creature made of metal. Then, that Elite Guard that ran into Jowl a month ago. His panic and terror while screeching about some kind of Demon stirred something in her.

Taking a deep breath, Lyra delved deeper into her memories, ones she had tried to repress. They were from her time in Ponyville, when she and her roommate, Bonbon, lived together. She recalled reading a book, one where a species had the technology to level mountains, and fly like birds without wings. They were magicless.

Lyra gasped, causing Jowl to stumble as he plodded back to the being before her. He set to work and the stem of blood slowed to a near standstill once he was able to tuck the cloth behind the human's armour.

"Oh no." Jowl heard Lyra's whispered words and turned to her, a question in his eyes. She slowly turned to him and shook her head in fear. "We need to get him back to our house... hide him in the basement! We cannot be seen." She began to sweat, trying to formulate a plan to get the human home undetected.

"Lyra, give it ta me straight. Yer scarin' me." Jowl glanced down, his brows furrowing as he tried to see what she had seen.

"Jowl." She looked up at him, and he at her, "This is the Demon in Metal."

*****

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"C'mere you!"

"Ack, Dad! I-I'mma pee! You're gonna make me pee!"

Dean stopped his relentless assault upon his son, and slowly stood up with a groan. The last week at basic had been grueling. The procedure he was supposed to be taking part in at the end of the week should hopefully fix that.

"Honey, Jaxon, Lunch is ready!" Mary's voice was like water flowing over a creek bed--calming and tranquil. Dean turned, and his smile grew upon seeing his beautiful wife. She wore a pretty blue sundress, and her usually flowing brown hair was tied up in a bun. Her own smile reflected Dean's and she put her hands upon her hips, chuckling. "Come on, you two!"

"Last one to the table is a rotten egg!" Jaxon called, giggling madly while he rushed past his dad.

Without a word, Dean sprang forward--

--and found himself falling to his knees. Captain Mason, along with a few officers and a General stood before him. Their looks of pity caused Dean's heart to rise into his throat, and he felt a wetness trickling down his cheek.

"S-Sergeant Dean. At approximately oh-ninehundred hours...." Dean brought his hand up, and found the tears as they began to fall. Their forms tracing a wet trail.

"Your wife, Marie, and your son Jaxon...." Terror raced up Dean's Spine, and he was shaking his head. The terror was replaced by rage. It consumed him, his very being, and soon, he began to tremble.

"Were killed...."

"AAGGGHH!" Dean lurched forward. But once more found his surroundings had changed. He thrashed, trying to move, but it did not work. He felt something holding his arms in place, and a quick glance showed two RSTF operators pinning him down.

"Someone get him sedated, NOW!"

"I'm getting it ready, hold him still!"

"Ma'am, please, we shouldn't be doing this! He's lost everything!"

"Sedate him now! That's an order!

"His memories! This is untested--"

"Get him out of here."

Dean heard the sounds of struggle, and figured that whoever had been trying to come to his defense had been dragged from the room. What were they going to do? Why were they trying to sedate him? Dean winced as he felt the prick, and bucked his hips in an effort to keep the doctor from finishing the job. The doctor, or who he presumed was a doctor, flew back and slammed against a wall. For a moment, Dean felt he had triumphed, but his vision soon became blurry.

"Prepare the suppressant. If we mess this up, we may turn him into a fuckin' veg--"

"Scalpel."

"Scalpel."

"Administering..."

Darkness. Nothing but darkness. A gentle breeze tickled his skin, and the sounds of birds chirping echoed through the air. Dean took a deep breath, but confusion washed over him. Why was everything so dark? What was that sound? Is that... giggling?

Dean felt something else. Soft, warm, and inviting. Tingles shot up his spine from the presence alone, and his confusion only seemed to deepen.

"Hey, handsome."

Dean opened his eyes just as Mary's lips pulled away from his own. He was laying on the ground it seemed, and she atop of him. His eyes locked onto her face, and his mouth fell into an 'o' as he seemingly lost the ability to speak. He reached an arm up, and his hand found her cheek. She pressed into it, her eyes closing and her lips gracefully kissing his open palm.

It was to much, and tears broke free from the otherwise stoic man. His shoulders shuttered, and he gently pulled his wife back towards him. Her arms quickly wrapped around his neck, and tears of her own spilled forth. Neither spoke, and Dean felt relief unlike ever before.

"Dad!"

Turning, Dean smiled in pure delight as his son ran up beside him and Mary. His wife pulled back, and Dean sat up just as Jaxon crashed into him. His smaller arms wrapped around Dean's neck, and the crying resumed all over again.

"I thought... I thought I'd lost you." Dean whispered. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Mary smiled and broke away from the three part hug, but her hand quickly found Dean's as she sat just to his side. Jaxon stayed latched to his father, and Dean gently stroked his back as a form of comfort. Now that he was paying attention, Dean noticed he was in a field with his family. Knee high grass surrounded them, and a warm summer sun shone from above. Clouds of all shapes and sizes drifted lazily overhead. Dean kissed the top of Jaxon’s head, his tears mixing with his son’s soft hair. For a moment—just a moment—it was perfect.

Mary’s hand brushed his cheek, gentle and warm, grounding him in the dreamlike haze. But then the doubt crept in. Slowly. Relentlessly.

"This... isn’t real, is it?" His voice cracked, barely audible.

Mary’s smile softened, though her eyes held a quiet sorrow. "Does it feel real?"

Dean swallowed hard. The warmth, the light breeze, the sound of Jaxon’s laughter--it was too perfect. Too still. He looked down, his arms tightening around his son as though to anchor him. "You’re not real. None of this is real."

"We’re here," Mary whispered, cupping his face with both hands. "As real as you need us to be. We were given this chance to see you once more. You've been given a choice."

Dean shook his head, his body trembling. "I’m so tired, Mary. I can’t keep doing this. The Emperor... I lost. I lost."

Mary’s voice was calm, steady--an anchor against his despair. "You fell, Dean. But you’re not beaten. Someone saved you. They pulled you from the water."

"Why?" He looked up at her, searching her eyes for an answer he didn’t want. "Why didn’t they let me die?"

"Because it’s not your time," she said softly. "Not yet."

Dean clenched his fists, his gaze falling to the grass. "I don’t want to go back. That monster is still out there. I abandoned them... betrayed them."

Mary tilted his chin up gently, forcing him to meet her gaze. "You did, but there is still time. You have something to fight for, now."

Images flashed through Dean’s mind--Twilight’s face, desperate and afraid. The soldiers. The innocent lives. He saw the love in her eyes--the way she looked at him. He didn't know when he had developed feelings for the Alicorn, but it didn't matter. Shamefully, Dean looked towards the ground.

"I...I'm scared, Mary."

"They need you," Mary continued, her voice like a balm. "And you need them. You are the most courageous man I have ever met, and you know you can't quite now."

Dean closed his eyes, a deep breath shuddering through him. Beneath the warmth, beneath the stillness, he felt it--the fire. Cold. Relentless. Unyielding. But there was one thing standing in the way.

"What about you and Jaxon? I-I can't lose you, not again."

Mary smiled, and he hand slowly let go of his. Dean watched as she gently placed it upon his chest, and he soon realized he couldn't physically feel it. Looking down, Dean found his body covered in armour. The marks and blemishes showing their use in such a short period of time.

"We will be here Dean, always with you. You have a new life to live, but you need to fight for it."

Dean felt Jaxon move. He blinked, and suddenly found he was standing. Both his wife and son stood before him, the gentle breeze causing Mary's skirt to flutter and Jaxon's hair to gently wave.

Jaxon rushed forward and quickly hugged Dean around the waist. The man gently crouched down and placed a kiss on his son's forehead. Pulling back, he smiled.

"I'll see you soon, Dad. Mom and I will be waiting for you." He backed away before turning and running into the distance. Dean noticed a large farmhouse sitting a ways away, and he didn't stop watching until Jaxon had disappeared through the open door. His gaze switched to Mary, and his features softened as she glided towards him. Reaching up, she placed a gentle kiss upon his lips.

"It’s time to wake up, Dean." She whispered in his ear before backing away.

A sense of vertigo overtook him, and Dean felt like he was falling. However, as he watched Mary disappear from view, a content smile on her face, a new emotion began to develop within him. He slowly turned as darkness enveloped him, and his eyes closed.

The darkness closed in around him, suffocating and endless. But even as the void threatened to consume him, Dean felt something stir deep within. The fire he had felt before--cold, relentless--burned brighter now, fueling him with the strength of a thousand storms. It was no longer just a survival instinct; it was his essence. His rage.

The image of Mary’s face faded in his mind, and in it's place was Twilight, her eyes soft and full of love. His duty lay here, and the war wouldn’t stop unless he did something about it. He was the Demon in Metal, and it was time to awaken.

Mary's voice, faint but undeniable, echoed through the void. "Wake up, Dean."

He didn’t hesitate.

His mind cleared. His resolve hardened. He saw himself as he was--armor battered but unbroken, his mission clearer than ever before. The Elves had tried to take everything from him. His mind. His peace. And his life. But now, he would take everything from them.

Dean opened his eyes.

The familiar weight of his armor was there. He could feel the cold metal of the gauntlets, and his hand snapped out to grab the hilt of the blade that had once nearly killed him. Now it was an instrument of vengeance.

The world around him was no longer a dream, no longer a place of fleeting warmth. He was awake. He was ready. His mind was clear, his heart set on one singular goal. He would protect his Princess. He would stop the war. And he would bring hell upon the Dark Elves for what they had done.

A familiar rage built within him. His breath quickened, his pulse pounding in his ears. Every part of him--every scar, every wound, every moment of suffering--was pushing him forward. The Demon was reborn.

He clenched his fists, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the sword that had nearly claimed him. The blade’s cold steel now felt like an extension of his very soul. The fire was now his ally, burning away the doubts and fear. There was nothing left but the mission. Nothing left but victory.

His mind was now fully aware of the path ahead. He would tear through the Elven armies, shattering their dominance piece by piece. No more hesitation. No more weakness.

The Demon in Metal had returned, and he would bring justice--Swift and merciless.

*****

The sun barely broke through the gray clouds as Lyra moved about the small kitchen, her magic faintly flickering as she set two plates of food on the table. Jowl sat heavily in his chair, one hand nervously running through his hair as he glared out the window.

“They’re gathering again,” he muttered. “Whole damn company of ‘em. Can’t be good.”

Lyra paused, her gaze flickering toward the window. The faint noise of marching boots and clattering armor echoed through the air like an approaching storm. Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

“We’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “If we keep our heads down, they won’t bother us.”

Jowl snorted, stabbing at his breakfast with his fork. “Aye. And how're the wee one's?”

"Good, they are in the basement. If someone tries to bust down the door, they know where to hide."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the scrape of cutlery and the distant rumble of commands being barked in the square. The air felt heavy, stifling, as if something was waiting--watching.

Lyra opened her mouth to speak when a sound made her freeze.

The creak of a floorboard.

Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Jowl froze mid-bite, his fork clattering against the plate. Lyra turned, her magic instinctively sparking to life as her eyes darted toward the doorway.

A shadow loomed there, motionless.

Then, a figure stepped into view.

It was him.

The armored form filled the doorway like a specter risen from the grave. His metal plating, though battered and bloodstained, gleamed faintly in the dim light. His gauntlets flexed with silent purpose, and the two could almost feel his ice-cold glare. The sword, which had previously protruded grotesquely from his abdomen, was now carried in his right hand. An angry red glow surrounded the blade.

His head tilted up, and the dim glow of his piercing eyes--the unmistakable fire behind them—sent a chill down Lyra’s spine.

Jowl’s voice broke the silence, a whisper of disbelief. “Bloody hell…”

The Demon took a step forward, the sound of his boot hitting the wooden floor like a hammer strike. His gaze shifted from Jowl to Lyra, steady and unyielding. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, the words carried with the weight of judgment itself.

“Where’s my gear?”