The sun had barely risen. A pale, ghostly light filtered through the mist that clung to the forest like a shroud. Every leaf dripped, each droplet a quiet echo in the silence left by the passing storm. Birds were still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Lucifer stood before the crumbling altar of black stone. Vines choked its edges, roots snaking over ancient runes carved into the surface. He traced a finger along the grooves—symbols that writhed as though alive, refusing to stay still under his gaze. His chest tightened at the memory of the shadow's claws, the invasion of something older and more hungry than any fangbear.
A few paces away, the cursed boy slept fitfully on a bed of moss. Meira watched, her eyes shifting between the boy and Lucifer as if uncertain whether she protected him… or from him.
Lucifer exhaled. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out the length of tattered cloth that once bound the sword. Beneath it, his shirt still bore the black rune, faint but discernible. He pressed a palm to his sternum. It throbbed with warmth—an echo of power but also of alarm.
"This place calls to you," whispered a voice in his mind, neither the sword's nor his own.
He jerked back as the wind stirred the altar's vines, making the runes shimmer. Something flickered in the corner of his vision—a second shape behind him, but when he turned, nothing was there.
A sudden crack split the air. Meira's head whipped around; her hand went to the hilt of her dagger. Before she could speak, Lucifer raised a hand.
"Hold," he said, voice low. "Something watches us."
She didn't trust the word, but she obeyed.
Lucifer crouched and pressed his ear to the moss-covered stone. He listened to the pulse beneath—barely more than blood in a vein, yet heavier.
"This altar once sealed the Eighth," he murmured. "The gods above were seven. But there was an Eight… a god of flame and shadow, who turned against them."
Meira knelt beside him, frowning.
"You speak of legends," she said. "Stories told to children."
Lucifer's gaze snapped to her, his eyes smoldering violet. Then he looked back down, voice quieter:
"I saw… a vision. Seven figures crowned in light. And outside their circle… one in red."
Meira's eyes widened.
"The Eighth God," she whispered.
He nodded. The rune on his chest flared—just for a heartbeat—making him gasp. He stumbled back, hands flying to his heart.
"I feel… ancestral memory," he said roughly. "Not mine—someone else's."
"A god's memory," Meira breathed.
He swept the cloth aside and bared the rune. It pulsed, alive, as though breathing.
"This mark," he said, voice hoarse, "binds me to that power. I'm… descended from the Eighth."
Fear flickered in Meira's gaze.
"And the blade?"
"It sought to channel me," he replied. "But I resisted."
He clenched his fist. The rune sank into his flesh, then faded to a dull bruise. He shivered—not from cold, but from adrenaline and dread.
"If this is true," Meira said softly, "then the Empire's fear of you… is nothing compared to what they tried to prevent."
Lucifer looked at her, searching her face.
"What did they do?" he asked.
She swallowed.
"Centuries ago, the Seven bound the Eighth in iron chains of light. They shattered his body, scattered his spirit. Then they built shrines—like this one—to hold the last fragments of him."
She pointed to cracks in the altar.
"When prayers cease, the magic weakens. When the world forgets, the seal slips."
Lucifer's gaze drifted upward, to the gray sky.
"So… the Eighth is waking."
"Yes," Meira said, trembling. "And you carry the spark of his soul."
He pressed a hand to the sword cloth.
"And the blade?"
"It's a key," she replied. "To break the seal… or reforged to bind him again."
A distant howl echoed through the trees. A warning. Or a summons.
Lucifer stood. He faced the altar, and placed both hands on its cold surface. Warmth pulsed up his arms.
"I will not be his puppet," he thought fiercely."I am Lucifer Rhyn—slave no longer."
The runes glowed, then dimmed. The altar accepted his will, settling into silence.
He looked at Meira, voice steady:
"We have to find the other shrines."
"There are six more," she said, eyes shining with resolve.
"Then we can close them," Lucifer said. "Bind the Eighth forever."
He drew a deep breath. The forest exhaled alongside him.
"Or break his chains ourselves."
He returned the cloth to his chest, concealing the rune once more. Meira reached out, touching his arm gently.
"Whatever we choose," she said, "we do it together."
Lucifer nodded, feeling the first warmth of hope in days.
Behind him, the altar's runes pulsed once more—a heartbeat echoing in the quiet.
And high above, the mist parted just enough for one ray of sunlight to strike the stone.