The void melted into a harsh, searing light, forcing Anneliese to squint as reality clawed her back from the abyss. The stronghold’s cold, suffocating walls dissolved into the tepid embrace of a moss-lined cave pool.

  She lay submerged in the slick warmth of the thermal water, its damp air thick with the acrid scent of sulfur and bat droppings. Her senses slowly reoriented, piecing together the muted echoes of dripping stalactites and the faint ribbons of natural light filtering through cracks in the cave’s roof.

  Bracing herself against jagged stalagmites, she pulled upright, her gaze drawn to a nearby boulder.

  There, lodged and seamlessly fused with the rock, stood Bjarke’s demon-slaying axe. Its deep green glow pulsed faintly—alive—casting eerie light across the slick cave walls and drawing her in with an almost magnetic pull.

  Though it matched her in size—its massive blade easily spanning her chest—it radiated a warmth that reached for her outstretched hands. For a moment, Anneliese felt compelled to free it from its rocky prison, as if the weapon itself willed her closer.

  “BACK!” came the thunderous growl of the black wolf.

  Anneliese staggered, her footing slipping as she reeled from the force of its command. Its paw lashed out, narrowly missing her arm, sending her stumbling. She teetered on the boulder’s edge, panic strangling her thoughts.

  Then she fell.

  Instinct failed her—until, at the last moment, magic flared. With a jarring snap, she teleported, reappearing in the same moss-ridden pools as before.

  Soaked, wretched, and in shock, she clawed her way to the cavern’s dry edge, every limb heavy with exhaustion.

  “And here I thought you were my savior,” she spat bitterly, dragging herself onto solid ground.

  “For someone so well-read,” the wolf replied, “you’re appallingly ignorant of folklore—or the work of your predecessor.”

  She shot it a glare, wringing the water from her sleeves. “What are you talking about?”

  The wolf’s fur bristled as it turned its golden gaze toward the axe, its intensity mirroring her own earlier fascination.

  “One does not simply kill a demon. The mortal vessel it inhabits is just that—a vessel. So tell me, how does a demon slayer slay demons?”

  “You kill the beast, you kill the demon?”

  The wolf huffed, almost amused. “If you were to die here, in this cave, what would happen to your soul?”

  Anneliese’s patience wore thin as she tried in vain to shake the damp from her tunic. “You’d need a druid wizard to banish the demon. Otherwise, its essence just transfers to another host.”

  “Not bad,” the wolf said, moving with feline grace, surveying the high ground, its confidence unwavering. “You presume to know much. But where you are breadth, I am depth. That axe,” it gestured toward the glowing weapon, “isn’t just a tool. It’s a cage. A prison for the spirits of slain demons. Of which, I might add, you and I both belong.”

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  Anneliese stiffened. “I am no demon.”

  “Once again,” the wolf said, more bemused than accusatory, “you are breadth, and I am depth.”

  A vision flickered in her mind—Lascivious, smirking, mouthing the word forever.

  “We’re forever intertwined,” she murmured. “Without a druid, I’m…”

  The wolf settled onto its haunches, resting its head on its paws. “Til death do you part?”

  “So Bjarke will hunt this demon forever… and me along with it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” the wolf replied without a hint of remorse.

  Anneliese narrowed her eyes. “Is that why you’ve been protecting me?”

  The wolf hesitated, its energy shifting as though weighing its response. Avoiding her gaze, it finally spoke. “Quite the opposite.”

  Her breath caught. “You’re hunting me?”

  Her pulse quickened, raw magic swirling at her fingertips. Orbs of distorted energy humming faintly, ready to lash out.

  “Bjarke hunts the demon—Lascivious. Your demon. I serve Bjarke. And now, here we are: my master is your demon’s hostage, and I am left to persuade the one he hunts to let him go.”

  "If you so much as lay a paw on me," Anneliese snarled, her physical form flickering, "he’ll feel my demon’s dagger buried deep in his jugular."

  The wolf’s posture remained relaxed, but its voice carried a warning. “You don’t want that. Bjarke is no mere demon slayer. Death will not end his hunt.”

  Unstable magic coursed through Anneliese’s fingertips, begging for release. “You seem certain I’ll release him, despite my own best interests.”

  The wolf’s ears twitched. “Breadth and depth. Has Coble ever told you about his first apprentice?”

  Anneliese scoffed. “I was Coble’s first and only apprentice.”

  “Yes and no,” the wolf replied, unfazed. “Long ago, Coble sought the impossible. He hunted a legend—the troll Arcibur, a beast beyond redemption that killed for pleasure and fed on the souls of children. Each time, quenching its thirst for blood before vanishing until the next generation’s killing spree. Then, following the whisper of a lost trader’s son, Coble scoured these hills until he found it.”

  Anneliese frowned. “Found what?”

  “The ancient.”

  The words tangled in her mind as her body steadied, her hand collapsing on the empty orbs. “Ancient?”

  “Demons of no known origin. As old as time. Or, in Bjarke’s case, a demon with an insidious need to exist and deform. Yet the demon Coble found was not the troll he sought to slay, but the boy he was destined to save. Mute, broken, and unfit for society.”

  The wolf exhaled slowly. “But that’s where the rebel meets the convention that doesn’t fit the rebel’s world view. That half-second of compassion was all it took to set Coble on a path to forge the greatest demon slayers who ever lived.”

  Anneliese’s fingers curled. “There are a couple of flaws in your story. If Bjarke is possessed by a demon, then shouldn’t the axe have consumed him?”

  “That axe is more than a weapon. It’s his voice, his purpose. A covenant to humanity that binds his ancient to the righteous cause of ridding this world of its demons.”

  Her eyes flicked back to the glowing weapon. “And what righteous purpose led his Viking war-band to slaughter my village?”

  The wolf didn’t flinch. “One must run with wolves if they seek the hunt. But that does not mean Bjarke murders innocence.”

  “He was there,” Anneliese said coldly.

  “As was Lascivious,” the black wolf replied.

  Her throat tightened. “So I must trust someone whose life’s purpose is to kill me?”

  “And by that logic, me as well. Yet here I am, defending Bjarke and all he stands for. To hunt the demons he, you, and I both endure. But even if that doesn’t sway your conscience, how else are you going to slay that creature from the darkness? The ancient that almost killed you?”

  Anneliese glared at the axe, her mind twisting with conflicting thoughts. Slowly, she raised her hand.

  “It’s a damned situation, having to trust my enemies more than my friends,” she muttered, channeling her magic toward the axe.

  With a burst of distorted light, Bjarke materialized—bloodied and disoriented.

  He met her contemptuous gaze with guilt, gripping his axe with a single pull before retreating toward the cave’s exit.

  “Bjarke wrong,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “Forgive me.”

  And with that, he was gone, sprinting into the forest as the distant cries of Templar hounds closed in.