The chamber stank of blood and burned flesh. Artemis stood in the center, blades dripping red, his chest rising and falling like a war drum. The last of the zealots fell in two pieces at his feet, their cries drowned by the clash of steel and bone.

  But Artemis did not fight alone. The skeletal army moved with him—not against him, not alongside him, but with him, every strike timed as if answering his unspoken command. Knights closed gaps in his defense, mages unleashed volleys when his blades drew their foes into tight clusters. It was not chaos. It was war given form.

  And Artemis was at its heart.

  When the final zealot fell, silence followed like a hammer blow. The flames died away from his body, the monstrous skeletal form dissolving. Artemis stood there, panting, his swords lowering at last. Unlike before, there were no burns scarring his skin—no mark of the blue fire save exhaustion. He was pale, trembling, his strength all but gone.

  Lokey was at his side in an instant, slipping an arm beneath his brother’s shoulder to hold him up.

  “You did it, Art,” Lokey said softly. “But you’ve pushed yourself too far.”

  Artemis gave a tired grin. “Then you’ll just have to carry me out… big brother.”

  Behind them, Asra followed close, her steps quick but cautious, eyes flicking from the fallen corpses to the skeletal knights still standing guard. Her voice wavered when she spoke.

  “You both… you saved me.”

  Lokey turned, steady but grim. “We’re not done yet. Listen.”

  The sound drifted to them—ragged, high-pitched, a scream like something being torn apart.

  Hela watched from the corridor as her Hellhounds circled their prey. The priest’s once-proud robes were in tatters, his flesh marked by flame and claw. His screams echoed against the stone, sweet as music to her ears.

  One hound lunged, tearing into his side. The priest shrieked, writhing against the skeletal knight pinning him down. His terror was a feast, and Hela drank it in with a smile.

  “Enough,” she commanded, her voice calm, cold, absolute. The hounds pulled back, their fangs dripping with blood and fire. The priest sagged in relief, sobbing as if mercy had been shown.

  Hela tilted her head. “Heal him.”

  A skeletal mage raised its staff, green light spilling into the priest’s body. His wounds closed, his breath steadied, strength returned—just enough to let him feel what came next.

  “Again,” Hela said.

  The hounds obeyed. They tore into him with renewed fury, each bite peeling away his defiance until his screams filled the undercroft, reaching even her brothers’ ears.

  Asra’s eyes widened as she clung close to Lokey, her voice barely steady.

  “What… what the hell was that?”

  Artemis, pale and leaning against his brother for support, gave a dry chuckle.

  “If I had to guess,” he said between ragged breaths, “Hela’s teaching that priest what it really means to fear.”

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  Another scream tore through the undercroft, sharp enough to make Asra flinch. Lokey put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “We’re almost out,” he said firmly. “Focus on that. Don’t look back.”

  The three of them pushed through the final corridor, the last steps of the undercroft giving way to the dim light of the church above. The air felt different here—less heavy, though the echoes of agony still carried faintly from below.

  Brother Toby was waiting for them, pacing near the entrance. Relief washed over his face when he saw Asra safe between them, but before he could speak, another shriek rattled the stone walls, chilling the air around them.

  He froze, eyes flicking downward.

  “What in the gods’ names is going on down there?” he whispered, half in awe, half in dread.

  Below, the answer was unfolding.

  The head priest tried to crawl, his nails scraping stone, but the skeletal knight slammed him back down. His cries rose again, high and broken, as Hela stepped into the faint green glow of her mages.

  “My babies are enjoying themselves,” she said coolly, watching the Hellhounds circle, flames licking from their jaws. “Would you like me to indulge them further, priest?”

  The man’s eyes bulged with terror, his lips trembling too much to form words.

  “Good,” Hela whispered, and nodded.

  The hounds pounced, their fiery maws tearing into him once more. The priest’s body was ragged with blood and burns, yet adrenaline pushed him up from the stone floor. His lungs screamed for air as he bolted, robes torn and dragging.

  He had thought—hoped—that Hela would stop. That she would simply kill him outright. But no. The woman smiled with that cold, merciless curve of her lips and called after him, her voice echoing like a judge passing sentence.

  “Three minutes, priest. If you can keep away from my babies for three minutes, I’ll let you live. Consider it mercy.”

  Mercy. The word twisted in his mind like a knife.

  The corridor exploded with snarls and fiery breath. The Hellhounds bounded after him, eyes glowing like burning coals. Their claws gouged the marble as they gave chase, and every time their teeth closed around him, the skeletal mages mended his body just enough to keep him running—just enough to keep the game going. Meanwhile, her skeletal knights attacked at every corner, tearing into him relentlessly.

  He screamed, stumbling forward, the sound of his own flesh sizzling fresh in his ears. His heart pounded like it would burst from his chest, but no matter how fast he staggered, there were too many of them—too many teeth, too many flames.

  Every bite, every mauling, was restored just to be inflicted again. The healing magic did nothing for the memory of being ripped apart. The pain lingered even when the wounds were gone, driving him into madness.

  And through it all, Hela’s laughter followed, low and cruel, savoring his torment.

  The priest stumbled blindly through the undercroft, driven half-mad by fire and fang. His robes were scorched, his skin raw, his screams hoarse from overuse. Every step carried him closer to collapse, but terror kept him moving.

  And then—light. The stone corridor widened into the chamber where he had first set his trap. Lokey, Artemis, and Asra were just beyond, climbing the last steps toward freedom with Brother Toby’s guidance.

  The priest fell to his knees before Lokey, clutching at his boots with bloodied hands. Tears streaked his face, his voice breaking into ragged sobs.

  “Please! Please, I’ll do anything—anything you ask! Just don’t let her hurt me anymore!”

  Behind him, the shadows stretched unnaturally long, and Hela’s Hellhounds prowled into view, their eyes glowing like embers. Hela herself emerged a moment later, her expression calm, almost amused, as if she’d only just begun to play.

  The priest clutched at Lokey’s boots, blubbering in fear, his body trembling like a beaten dog.

  Lokey’s jaw tightened. Enough.

  With one hand he seized the priest by the throat and hauled him up as though he weighed nothing. The man kicked and clawed weakly, eyes wide with fresh terror as he met the young warrior’s unflinching gaze.

  “You will answer for your crimes,” Lokey growled, his voice low and steady, echoing through the stone chamber. “Against the people of this land. Against the Baron’s house. Against my family.”

  He leaned in closer, his grip tightening just enough to choke off the priest’s pathetic whimpers.

  “And you should consider what Hela did to you… as mercy,” he whispered darkly. “Because compared to what I wanted to do, you got off easy.”

  Lokey flung the priest down at his feet like refuse. The man gasped, coughing, too broken even to move. Around them, the last echoes of Hela’s Hellhounds faded into silence.

  The three siblings, Asra, and Brother Toby stood together at the threshold of the undercroft, the weight of what came next pressing in.