The low, scraping sound of claws against marble echoed through the vast throne room as Grelzok hesitated under Astaroth's blazing gaze. The demon, once a proud scion of the Paimon family, now appeared small, his towering frame hunched as if trying to shrink under the oppressive weight of his lord's ire. The sigils adorning the obsidian walls flickered like dying embers, as though even they feared the storm building within the Demon Lord's towering form.
"My lord, I—" Grelzok stammered, his voice cracking. He cast a desperate glance at the broken bodies littering the room, their twisted forms still seeping ichor. The silence of the room, save for the rhythmic tapping of Astaroth's clawed gauntlet against his throne's armrest, felt as suffocating as the heat radiating from the room's pulsating red sigils.
Astaroth leaned forward slightly, his voice a deep, resonant growl, deceptively calm. "You stammer, Grelzok," he said, the calmness in his tone chilling in contrast to the roiling anger visible in the flickering flames lining the room. "Did I, or did I not, say the Rawllings girl was not to be touched?"
Grelzok froze, his pallid skin somehow growing even paler. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his clawed fingers twitching by his sides. "M-my lord," he began, his voice quivering, "the Rawllings girl was... compromised in the commotion. The forces I dispatched—"
"Compromised?" Astaroth repeated, cutting him off with a tone that made the air in the room grow colder despite the infernal heat. He rose from his throne with deliberate slowness, his towering form casting a shadow so deep it seemed to swallow Grelzok whole. Each step forward was deliberate, a predator toying with its prey. "So you would take me for a fool, Grelzok?" he asked, his words like venom seeping into the lesser demon's mind.
Grelzok's knees buckled slightly as the weight of Astaroth's presence pressed harder upon him. "N-never, my lord!" he stammered, desperation creeping into his voice. "I—"
"You lie." Astaroth's words cut through the air like a blade, his crimson eyes narrowing with predatory precision. The sigils on his body flared brighter, glowing like molten veins of magma. "You dispatched no 'forces,'" he continued, his tone turning dangerously smooth. "No, you sent one—a lesser being so entranced by her... uniqueness, he couldn't help but remark on how 'exquisite' she was. And, let me guess," Astaroth leaned closer, his voice now a whisper as sharp as a blade, "how the Paimon family would love to make her a doll."
Grelzok's trembling increased as the words hung in the air like a guillotine. His eyes darted to the other demons in the room, who stood frozen, unwilling to intervene. Their expressions betrayed their horror; they knew there would be no escape from Astaroth's wrath, not for Grelzok, and possibly not for them either.
silence stretched for a moment, punctuated only by Grelzok's labored breaths. Then, as if sensing his own impending doom, he fell to his knees, pressing his forehead against the polished marble. "Forgive me, my lord! I overstepped. It was not my intention to defy your orders—"
Astaroth straightened, his wings spreading slightly, their vast, leathery expanse casting undulating shadows across the throne room. His lips twisted into a smirk, though it was devoid of humor. "Forgive you?" he echoed, his tone light, almost amused. "Perhaps I should forgive myself first—for letting you live long enough to try my patience."
The flickering flames illuminating the room grew brighter, the temperature spiking as the air itself seemed to tremble under the weight of Astaroth's growing power. His demeanor softened into something dangerously close to humor.
"Honestly," Astaroth said, his voice lilting with mock amusement, "you should probably get better security." He gestured vaguely to the room with one clawed hand, his smirk widening. "It was far too easy to waltz into the House of Paimon and sit on their throne. Do tell, Grelzok—do you often leave the gates open for anyone with a penchant for theatrics?"
The lesser demons in the room exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if this moment of levity was genuine or a precursor to something far worse. Astaroth's laughter—low, resonant, and unnervingly smooth—rumbled through the throne room, though it carried no warmth. "Oh, Grelzok, you really should have thought this through."
With that, Astaroth raised one clawed hand, the glow of the sigils on his armor intensifying. The air around them rippled as an ethereal domain began to take shape, shimmering with an otherworldly light. Glowing runes materialized, circling both Astaroth and Grelzok in a complex, intricate dance of power.
Grelzok's eyes widened in terror as he realized what was happening. "My lord, please—!"
"Will of Dominion," Astaroth intoned, his voice resonating with the weight of absolute authority.
The runes surrounding them blazed to life, their brightness pulsating in sync with Astaroth's will. Grelzok's own runes sputtered to life, flickering weakly in comparison. His terror was palpable, the realization of his inferiority etched into every line of his trembling form.
Astaroth's runes grew brighter, fueled by his sheer determination and unrelenting will. The circle around him pulsed with a steady rhythm, each flare of light tightening the noose around Grelzok's resistance. The lesser demon cried out as his own runes began to dim, their light snuffed out by the overwhelming force of Astaroth's dominance.
"You dare defy me," Astaroth said, his voice calm but filled with the promise of retribution. The runes around Grelzok flared once before shattering, their fragments dissolving into nothingness. The lesser demon let out a strangled gasp as his body was lifted into the air, suspended by the invisible force of Astaroth's will.
"I warned you once," Astaroth continued, his tone deceptively soft, "not to touch the Rawllings girl. Yet here we are."
The runes around Astaroth pulsed one final time before converging on Grelzok's body. The demon screamed as the energy tore into him, his form contorting and writhing as the Aetherium constructs unraveled his very essence. "No, my lord—please—!" Grelzok begged, his voice rising to a shriek as the glowing runes intensified.
The runes flared, their light blinding as they encased every demon in the room. Each demon's willpower manifested as dim, flickering runes, while Astaroth's burned with the brilliance of a dying star. The other demons cried out as their runes shattered one by one, their forms convulsing under the sheer weight of Astaroth's dominance.
The room became a cacophony of screams and the crackling of energy as the lesser demons were torn apart by Astaroth's magic. Their bodies twisted and disintegrated, reduced to ash and ichor as the runes surrounding them dissolved into nothingness.
Grelzok was the last to fall, his runes fading as he let out one final, bloodcurdling scream. Astaroth raised a hand, and the magic surged, consuming Grelzok in a torrent of energy. His body convulsed before collapsing into a lifeless heap, the floor beneath him scorched black.
When the light dimmed and the air cleared, only one demon remained. The trembling figure stood at the edge of the carnage, his eyes wide with terror as he gazed at the smoldering remains of his comrades. He flinched as Astaroth's gaze fell upon him.
"Let this serve as a warning," Astaroth said, his voice echoing through the chamber like a death knell. "The next time any of you—or your Houses—so much as breathe in the Rawllings girl's direction, I will not be so merciful."
He gestured to one of the surviving demons, a quivering figure who seemed barely able to meet his gaze. "You," Astaroth commanded, his tone sharp. "Go. Tell the other Houses what happens to those who defy me. Remind them that the name Astaroth is not one they can take lightly."
The demon nodded frantically, scrambling to his feet before fleeing the throne room, his footsteps echoing through the silent expanse.
Astaroth watched him go, his smirk returning as he strode toward the doors, his crimson eyes glowing with a dangerous intensity. He didn't look back at the destruction he had wrought. As he stepped out into the sprawling halls of the Paimon estate.
The halls of the Paimon domain stretched before him, an opulent maze of dark splendor. Astaroth's steps were deliberate, the sound of his feet against the polished marble reverberating through the eerie silence. With every step, his presence seemed to deepen, his aura of power radiating like a storm poised to consume everything in its path.
The halls of the Paimon estate stretched endlessly, their walls adorned with ornate tapestries depicting scenes of infernal conquests. Each one told a tale of domination and terror, triumphs that had once struck fear across the noble houses of Hell. Now, however, those conquests seemed a distant memory, reduced to faint whispers beneath the crushing weight of Astaroth's presence.
He walked with a calm deliberation, his claws clicking softly against the polished obsidian floor. The air around him seemed to hum with barely contained power, the very fabric of the estate trembling in his wake. The Paimon family's once-mighty domain had been reduced to silence—no sentinels patrolled its corridors, no courtiers whispered their schemes in shadowed alcoves. All who had once filled these halls had fled or met their end in the throne room's carnage.
Astaroth turned a corner, his gaze sweeping across an arched doorway that led into a grand gallery. Inside, he found a collection of artifacts—ancient weapons, cursed relics, and souls of prisoners serving as batteries to provide the rest of the house with life force/Aetherium, yet Astaroth's gaze lingered only briefly before moving on.
As he ascended a spiraling staircase, his voice broke the silence, low and almost conversational. "The Paimons always did have a taste for excess," he mused. "So much effort spent on appearances... and yet they left their throne unguarded"
He reached the top of the staircase, stepping onto a balcony that overlooked the sprawling courtyard below. The estate's architecture was a testament to infernal grandeur, with jagged spires piercing the blood-red sky and rivers of molten lava flowing through carefully constructed channels. Yet even this display of power felt hollow now, its splendor overshadowed by the destruction Astaroth had wrought.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the courtyard below—a lone sentinel, trembling as he approached the base of the balcony. His armor bore the sigils of the Paimon family, though his posture betrayed none of the confidence such a lineage might imply. The demon dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
"My lord," the sentinel stammered, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the lava streams. "I—I did not know you would be here. If I had—"
"If you had," Astaroth interrupted, his voice carrying effortlessly across the distance, "you would have done what, exactly? Stood in my way? Fled like the others?" He leaned against the balcony's railing, his smirk faint but razor-sharp. "Do enlighten me."
The sentinel's trembling intensified, but he did not raise his head. "I would have welcomed you, my lord. I would have ensured the estate was... was prepared for your arrival."
Astaroth tilted his head, feigning consideration. "How thoughtful," he said dryly. "But tell me, sentinel—where were you when Grelzok saw fit to defy me? Where were you when your kin plotted to lay their filthy hands on what is mine?"
The sentinel's response was little more than a choked gasp, "I was here my lord, after all I am but a sentinel."
Astaroth sighed, the sound heavy with mock disappointment. "Pathetic," he muttered, straightening and turning away from the balcony. "Tell your surviving kin that if they value their time in power then they will do well to stay in their domains, and not lay their hands on what was not given to them."
He didn't wait for a response. The sentinel's muffled sobs faded into the background as Astaroth continued his journey through the estate, his presence leaving an indelible mark on every corner he passed. The grand dining hall, once filled with decadent feasts and scheming nobles, was now eerily empty, its long table littered with the remnants of an abandoned banquet. The smell of sulfur and charred meat lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the estate's downfall.
As Astaroth entered a chamber lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes, he paused. The room's atmosphere was different—charged with a faint energy that prickled at the edges of his awareness. His crimson eyes scanned the shelves, lingering on titles inscribed in languages long forgotten by mortal tongues. Here was a treasure trove of knowledge, hidden away from prying eyes.
He reached for a leather-bound volume, its cover marked with the sigil of the Paimon family. The title, etched in glowing runes, translated roughly to Chronicles of Dominion: The Infernal Pact. Astaroth opened the book, his clawed fingers tracing the pages with care. The text detailed the history of the Paimon family's rise to power, their alliances with other noble houses, and the rituals they had used to ursurp power from their rightful owners.
One passage in particular caught his attention—a description of an ancient ritual designed to harvest the life force of mortals and channel it directly into the fabric of Hell's infernal grid. The ritual required a conduit, a being with a unique connection to both mortal and infernal realms. Astaroth's smirk widened as he read, his mind racing with possibilities.
"So," he murmured to himself, "this is what they were after. A shortcut to power, no matter the cost." He closed the book and returned it to the shelf, his expression darkening. "Fools."
He left the library, descending another staircase that led to the estate's central courtyard. The molten rivers cast an eerie glow across the stone bridges that spanned them, their heat radiating in waves. As Astaroth stepped onto one of the bridges, he paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon. The spires of other noble estates loomed in the distance, their lights flickering like stars against the crimson sky.
A faint sound reached his ears—the rhythmic beat of wings. Astaroth turned, his expression sharpening as a figure descended from the sky. The demon's armor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, its design marking him as an envoy of the House of Bael. He landed gracefully, his wings folding behind him as he approached with measured steps.
"My lord Astaroth," the envoy said, his tone deferential but edged with caution. "The House of Bael extends its greetings and requests an audience with you."
Astaroth regarded the envoy with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and disdain. "And what, pray tell, does the House of Bael wish to discuss?" he asked, his voice laced with mockery. "Another ill-conceived plot to seize power, perhaps? Or are they here to grovel for an opportunity to take the place of the Paimon's and 'apprehend' Baelith?"
The envoy hesitated, his confidence faltering under Astaroth's piercing gaze. "My lord, I am merely a messenger. The specifics of the request were not shared with me."Astaroth's smirk returned, though his eyes glowed with a dangerous intensity. "Very well," he said, his tone deceptively light. "Lead the way."The envoy bowed deeply before taking to the air once more, his wings beating rhythmically as he ascended. Astaroth followed, his own wings unfurling in a fluid motion. As he rose above the Paimon estate, the full expanse of Hell's infernal landscape came into view— Hell unfolded before Astaroth like a living tapestry of chaos and beauty, a realm that defied mortal comprehension. The Paimon estate sat on one of countless islands, each a jagged masterpiece suspended in a vast expanse of shimmering waters. The sea reflected the unholy glow of molten rivers that carved through the land like fiery veins, their golden luminescence casting flickering shadows across the jagged peaks and ominous valleys.
From this height, the full scale of Hell's twisted majesty became apparent. Each island was unique, yet all shared the same paradoxical nature: a blend of raw destruction and stubborn vitality. Towering volcanoes dominated the larger landmasses, their summits wreathed in perpetual plumes of smoke and embers. Rivers of molten lava cascaded down their slopes, merging into lakes that glowed with an intensity that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. Yet even here, life clung to the edges of destruction. Forests of twisted, dark trees stretched across the lowlands, their leaves glowing faintly crimson as if imbued with the same infernal energy that coursed through the lava.
The central peak of this infernal domain loomed in the distance: a colossal, forbidding mountain that seemed to defy the heavens themselves. Its cliffs were streaked with ash and soot, its summit cloaked in an ever-present storm of smoke and embers. This peak was not just a natural feature; it was a monument, a declaration of Hell's indomitable will. Smaller volcanoes surrounded it like supplicants, their molten offerings feeding the rivers that wound through the archipelago.
Astaroth's gaze swept across the scene, his wings carrying him higher as he followed the envoy toward the House of Bael. Astaroth's mind turned to the Rawllings girl. The defiance of the noble houses was a problem, yes, but it was a symptom of a deeper issue—one that would require careful planning and precise execution to resolve. For now, however, there were messages to be delivered.
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the secure facility's medical wing. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, a sharp contrast to the chaos and carnage they had just endured. Nate stood by the observation window, his knuckles white as he gripped the metal railing. His eyes were fixed on the room beyond the glass, where Chloe and Elysia lay unconscious on separate medical beds, surrounded by an array of monitors and equipment that emitted rhythmic beeps.
"They're stable," one of the medics assured, her voice calm but professional as she adjusted the settings on a nearby machine. "For now."
Nate didn't respond. His mind churned with the weight of everything that had happened. The memories of his transformation, the destruction he had wrought, and the fear in Elysia and Chloe's eyes were seared into his consciousness.
"Staring at them won't wake them up faster," Anton said, his voice cutting through the tension. He stood a few feet away, leaning heavily against the wall, his usual stoicism cracked by the exhaustion etched into his features.
Nate turned slightly, his expression hardening. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended. He immediately regretted it, running a hand through his hair. "I just... I should have stopped this."
Anton's eyes narrowed. "Stopped what? Kenneth or yourself?" He gestured vaguely, his tone as dry as ever. "You're not omnipotent, Nate. Not even close. None of us are. But then again I guess I don't really know what you are, do I?"
Susana entered the room, carrying a tray of steaming coffee. Her movements were slower than usual, her steps unsteady, but she offered Nate a mug without a word. He took it, murmuring a quiet thanks, though he didn't drink. Susana lingered by Anton's side, her own injuries mostly healed thanks to his earlier efforts, but the fatigue in her eyes mirrored Nate's own.
"Have they said anything?" Susana asked softly, nodding toward the unconscious girls.
Anton shook his head. "No. The medics say they're in what amounts to magical overclock. Their bodies are fine, but their brains... well, let's just say they pushed themselves harder than they should have."
Nate clenched his jaw. He could still see Chloe's face, blood streaking down from her nose as she unleashed her antimatter magic without her CAT. And Elysia, her heterochromatic eyes blazing with desperation as she dismantled his scripts to save everyone. They had both risked everything for him—because of him.
"They'll recover," Anton added, his tone softening slightly. "It'll take time, but they'll pull through."
Nate exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of relief and guilt. "And what about you?" he asked, his gaze flicking to Anton. "You nearly killed yourself bringing Susana back. How the hell are you even standing?"
Anton smirked faintly, though there was no humor in it. "Sheer stubbornness. And maybe a bit of luck." He sipped his own coffee, his expression darkening. "But don't think for a second that what happened back there doesn't have consequences. You have a lot to explain, Nate or should I call you Drakkar?"
The air was taut, tension stretched to its breaking point under the weight of raw emotions and unspoken truths.
Nate's voice, brittle with frustration, shattered the silence. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, remember those beings you thought were myths when science overtook magic? Yeah, they're real—and guess what, I'm one of them.'"
Anton's gaze sharpened, his voice a blade. "I'm royal. You could've trusted me to know."
Nate's expression darkened, bitterness threading every word. "You being a royal was exactly why I didn't. We fight together, trust each other as enforcers—but personal? Hardly. Or have you forgotten, Mister 'Activating Combat Mode'?"
Anton's jaw locked, his voice icy. "That's none of your concern."
Nate's smirk was cold. "Exactly."
Before the heat could ignite, Susana's firm voice cut through. "Stop. Both of you." Her tone was even, but her eyes carried exhaustion and urgency. "You're both my friends. So either figure this out, or shut up before you say something you can't take back."
Anton's glare burned, but his voice was tight with something raw. "My secrets aren't chasing me, Nate. Or hurting the people I care about. Can you say the same?"
Nate's fists trembled, his voice cracking with guilt. "No. I can't."
The air felt suffocating, the silence heavier than any blow. Anton's voice, softer now but weighted, broke it. "Then stop pretending you're the only one carrying it."
Nate's eyes flicked to Chloe and Elysia beyond the glass, his voice a frayed whisper. "I never wanted to carry it alone."
Suddenly—the alarms blared. First Elysia's monitor, then Chloe's—both heart rates spiking to chaos. The room plunged into panic.
"Elysia!" Nate lunged forward, but a medic blocked him. "She's crashing—clear the room!"
Anton's arm shot out, stopping Nate from charging in. "Don't—"
Then—another alarm. Chloe's monitor erupted in warning.
"Chloe too!" Susana's voice cracked, her face pale with horror.
Medics swarmed both beds. Commands flew through the room—"V-fib on both! Charge to 200! Clear!"—the defibrillator's whine filling every inch of the space.
"Again!" The shock slammed through their bodies. No response.
Nate's voice shattered, raw and frantic. "Come on—fight!"
Susana's nails dug into her palms, her voice hoarse. "They—they have to!"
Anton's face was stone, but his knuckles were bloodless. "Damn it... stay with us."
A second shock—
Elysia's heart monitor flickered—then thump-thump-thump—an erratic but fighting rhythm.
A third shock—
Chloe's monitor—beep... beep...—sluggish but there.
"Both stable!" the medic barked. "But critical."
The room exhaled, shaking with the aftermath. Nate's knees hit the floor, his hands trembling. "fuck..." His voice was barely a breath.
Anton's voice, hoarse but steady, reached him. "They're not out yet. So don't you dare fall apart."
Nate's eyes, red and hollow, met his.
The room, still thick with dread, stood together—because nothing was done. And the battle for their lives had only begun.
The minutes that followed felt like hours. The rhythmic beeping from the monitors tethered them to hope, fragile but alive. Nate's body thrummed with exhaustion and panic, but he couldn't tear his eyes from Elysia and Chloe's battered forms. Each shallow breath they took felt like a victory balanced on a razor's edge.
The doors burst open as a senior medic exited the room, her face drawn but focused. "We've stabilized them, but their vitals are unstable. Whatever hit them wasn't just magical strain—something is still affecting them."
Anton's voice, tight and sharp: "Aetheric disruption?"
The medic hesitated. "More than that. It's like their cores are... fractured. Their magic is trying to rebuild itself, but something's tearing it apart at the same time."
Nate's fists clenched. "Then tell me how to stop it."
Before she could respond, the monitors flickered, glitching, as the lights in the room dimmed—an unnatural pulse rolling through the building.
Anton's head snapped toward the glass. "That's not a system error—something's here."
The temperature dropped, frost spidering along the edges of the glass. A voice, cold and ancient, hissed through the room, layered with echoes. "You took from me. Now I take from you."
Nate's heart stopped. "Kenneth..."
A spectral form materialized between the beds—dark, twisted, pulsing with an unnatural hunger. Kenneth Blackburn's visage, hollow and corrupted, but unmistakable.
"You think killing my body ended me?" His voice dripped with malice. "They're mine now. Their souls are the price."
The air seemed to ripple as Nate, without activating his CAT, unleashed a blast of raw aetheric energy at Kenneth. The instant their energies collided, a pulse detonated—a violent EMP wave crashing outward with a deafening crack, like reality itself fracturing. A metallic tang filled the air, and a crushing pressure wave hit, distorting the air like heat off pavement. Lights shattered, monitors sparked violently, and the room was plunged into chaotic darkness. One by one, everyone in the room collapsed, unconscious.
Everyone except Nate.
A deafening silence swallowed him, pierced only by the sharp thrum of his own heart. Elysia and Chloe's bodies lay still, their faces twisted in anguish. But they weren't here—not fully.
Kenneth's laughter, echoed cold and venomously. "You can't touch me, Drakkar. But I can touch them."
Chloe's body convulsed, and Elysia's monitor screamed with warning.
"Get out of them!" Nate's voice shattered, laced with demonic resonance and then, darkness once more.
Nate unleashed his power, diving into the dark. The world snapped into monochrome around him—inside Kenneth's grasp, inside their battle for Chloe and Elysia.
Inside Kenneth's Realm— Chloe's voice broke the oppressive void, shaking with defiance and terror. "Stay away from him!" She stood, bruised but unyielding, a fire burning in her eyes.
Kenneth's voice, cold and jagged, reverberated through the formless darkness. "You can't stop me. You are already mine."
Elysia appeared beside Chloe, her heterochromatic eyes blazing. "You don't own us. And you never will." Despite her trembling frame, power flickered around her like fractured stardust.
The darkness twisted—then Nate's presence slammed into the space, burning with raw, searing resolve. "You're not taking them."
Chloe's voice cracked, raw with something deeper. "Nate... you came."
Elysia's eyes softened even through the storm of fear. "Of course he did... He always does."
Kenneth snarled. "Then you'll all burn together."
The shadow surged, an endless maw to devour them—
Until the void itself tore apart.
A voice, ancient and titanic, broke through the abyss. "Enough."
The void shattered into jagged pieces as a figure emerged—tall, regal, with silver hair and eyes that burned like the heart of a dying star. His presence suffocated the air, freezing even Kenneth.
Astaroth. One of the Demon Kings ruling over hell.
Nate—Drakkar—stilled, his voice a low growl. "You..."
Astaroth's gaze, cold and amused, flicked over him.
Kenneth, now a shrieking fragment of corruption, tried to escape—
But Astaroth's hand closed, and with a sickening finality, he crushed Kenneth's existence.
Nate gasped back into reality as the room flooded with flickering emergency lights. Chloe and Elysia stirred, breathing, alive.
But before he could move—
A voice, velvety and cold, whispered from behind.
"I will be seeing you later, Drakkie."
The shadows folded—and Astaroth was gone.
Nate's body trembled, his eyes burning with dread and rage.
Because he knew.
The real battle was only beginning.
e oppressive silence cracked as the first gasps of consciousness returned. Anton stirred, his body protesting every movement as his eyes fluttered open to the harsh flicker of emergency lights. Susana groaned, pushing herself up, her gaze snapping toward Elysia and Chloe's still forms. Confusion and tension rippled through the survivors as they struggled upright.
Anton's voice, hoarse but sharp, cut through the haze. "What... what the hell happened?"
Susana, steadying herself against the wall, shot a wary look at Nate. "We all—blacked out."
Nate's expression, guarded and cold, didn't flicker. "I... I passed out too." His voice was flat, distant—a lie constructed with precision. "When the blast hit, everything went dark."
Anton's eyes narrowed, searching Nate's face for cracks, but Nate's mask held firm. "Convenient," Anton muttered, but he let it drop—for now.
A strained inhale broke the standoff. Chloe's eyes fluttered open, followed by Elysia's weak groan as their bodies fought through the trauma. Anton and Susana were at their sides in an instant.
"Chloe!" Susana's voice cracked with relief.
Elysia's gaze, bleary but searching, found Nate immediately. "You're... you're okay," she managed, her voice frayed but laced with something concern.
Nate's lips pressed thin. "Yeah. You two gave us a hell of a scare."
Chloe's voice was weak, but her fire remained. "What... happened?"
The room felt smaller as the survivors tried to piece the nightmare together. Chloe and Elysia, still raw from their battle within Kenneth's abyssal trap, exchanged glances. "We... we were inside something. Kenneth. He was trying to—take us," Chloe murmured.
Elysia's voice, though strained, carried a flicker of defiance. "But someone... something... stopped him."
Silence pressed in, and all eyes inevitably fell on Nate. His reply was cold, deliberate. "I don't know. I blacked out like the rest of you."
A lie. And they felt it.
But Chloe, bruised and hollow, pushed forward, her voice tight with resolve. "It doesn't matter. We're alive. And now... we need to get you back to NovaMyst."
Nate's expression sharpened, the tension in his jaw visible. "Straight to business I see. I appreciate your your worry, but no. I am not going back."
Elysia's eyes flared, disbelief lacing her words. "Nate—listen. We can fight this. The Council, the Syndicate... We can clear your name. We know about the Abyss District. We know you've been protecting them, that was obvious in the news and became fact when we met you. If we know this we can make sure everyone else knows too."
Chloe, her voice breaking but determined: "You belong with us."
But Nate's response came swift, unyielding. "No. I don't." His voice, heavy with something deeper than defiance—resignation. "I never did."
The weight of his words crushed the air from the room. "I've put your lives in danger—again. And now that they know who I am... staying close to me would only get you killed."
Anton, his voice sharp, cut in. "You think you get to decide that for us?"
Susana followed, her voice raw but fierce. "You saved me. You saved them. You don't get to vanish and call it mercy."
Nate's eyes blazed, and his voice snapped back, sharp and cold. "Oh? Because just moments ago, you believed I passed out with you?. Or Convenient, was it?" Nate looks at Anton when he says this and then back at the group. "You're quick to call me a liar when it suits you, but now you want to call me a hero?" His words cut, not with cruelty, but with the bitterness of truth. "Don't pretend trust is something I've ever truly had from you."
"You're not doing this. Not alone." Elysia says, her gaze burning through him. And of course we trust you me more than anyone and you should know this."
"And yet you ran away the second I first lost control." Nate snaps back.
"Oi!" Elysia says her voice tinged with more than just her physical hurt. "I apologized for that. Anyone in my position would be."
"Yet here we are Lysia. And it wasn't just anyone, it was you." Nate sighs. "Look are you scared of what is under your bed?"
"What?" Elysia questions.
"Are you scared of what is under your bed at night?"
"No why would I? Thats stupid. I know there is nothing there. Why would there be?"
"So you trust that there is nothing under your bed and that is why you aren't scared?" Nate questions.
"Yes." She replies.
"So why were scared of me if you trusted me?"
The question catches her off guard, however she still manages to reply.
""Because trust isn't about never being afraid, Nate. It's about standing firm even when you are. I ran, yes. But I came back. I stayed. And I'm still here. So tell me—who's the one running now?"
"You are being unfair." Chloe says, stepping in the conversation. "I too have witnessed some strange behaviour coming from you alongside Elysia and we weren't scared of you. In fact the fact that we are here should show you otherwise."
"Don't even give me that Chloe," Nate fires back. "You are not here because you trust me. You are here because you are lost and afraid."
After all who do you have around you that knows you other than just your last name?"
"You think I'm lost? Maybe I am. But don't pretend you're not. You've been running for so long, you don't even know what it's like to stop. You tell yourself it's about protecting us, but the truth is—you're afraid of what happens if you stay. You're afraid of needing people."
"I know you say I don't have to do this alone, but I have to." He continues, unfortunately I have grown to care for most of the people here, and some outside... I don't wish to see you get hurt especially because of me... I'll do what I can for the Abyss District. But the grid is gone, New London is already spiraling, and more chaos is coming. You need to be ready for that—not for me. So please if you care about me at all just... Let me go."
"If you really want to leave, then go." Elysia says. "But don't lie to me, Nate. Don't tell me it's for our sake. This isn't about us getting hurt. And you know she's right. But admitting it? That scares you more than anything."
Nate's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Their words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. A place? The idea gnawed at him, something unfamiliar—something dangerous. For just a moment, just a breath, his resolve wavered. Nate exhaled sharply, glancing at each of them—Anton's stubborn glare, Susana's quiet plea, Chloe's determination. Then, finally, Elysia.
Her eyes burned, not with anger, but with something worse.
Understanding.
He turned, one foot shifting back like he was ready to walk away. Then, just as quickly, he stopped. A sharp inhale. A slow exhale. His shoulders dropped—just slightly.
Damn her.
"…Fine." The word felt like surrender. Maybe it was. "Where do we start?"