Erik slumped against the cold, damp hull, his wrists raw where the cuffs bit into his skin. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement sent a faint, stinging pulse through his arms. He hissed under his breath, biting back the sound before anyone could hear. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

  “Quit squirming, boy.”

  The hiss came from somewhere nearby, barely audible over the creak of the ship’s timbers. A shadow stirred, an older man, hunched and gaunt, his face just visible in the dim light from the hatch above.

  “They’ll hear you.”

  “I’m not squirming,” Erik muttered, though he adjusted his position again, slower this time.

  The man snorted. “Suit yourself. Won’t make a difference.”

  The cuffs throbbed faintly, their malevolent hum like a second heartbeat, reminding him with every pulse of the magic they suppressed. He clenched his fists, letting the discomfort anchor him. If he focused on that, he could push down the growing knot of panic in his chest.

  A wave rolled beneath the ship, tilting the deck with a groan of wood. Somewhere to Erik’s left, someone retched weakly. The sour stench of bile mingled with the ever-present odor of saltwater, mildew, and unwashed bodies.

  “I don’t plan to die here,” Erik said finally, his voice quiet but firm.

  The man chuckled, low and humorless.

  “Planning doesn’t mean much when you’re in chains.”

  Erik turned his head, meeting the man’s hollow gaze.

  “It does if you know how to use your head.”

  The man said nothing more, settling back into the shadows with a faint, resigned shake of his head.

  Time passed in a haze of creaking wood and whispered misery. The slavers appeared at intervals, tossing scraps of stale bread and brackish water into the hold. Erik accepted the pitiful offerings without a word, though the sour taste of the water made his throat burn.

  He studied them carefully each time they entered. Their boots thudded against the deck, their voices gruff and bored as they barked orders or mocked the captives. One man in particular drew Erik’s attention, a burly slaver with a sneer permanently etched into his face. The man wore a faintly glowing stone on his belt, its dull light cutting through the gloom.

  A Focus Stone.

  Erik had seen devices like it in the governor’s Artifact repository that he was responsible for. The stone was an amplifier, a magical conduit designed to control the cuffs. It was what kept the captives subdued, their bodies bound by the faint hum of suppressive energy. Without it, the cuffs would be little more than dead weight.

  He stared at the stone as the slaver moved through the hold, its glow taunting him. If I can get that stone...

  A sharp kick brought him out of his thoughts. The slaver had turned, his sneer deepening as he nudged a sickly captive with the toe of his boot.

  “Get up,” the man growled.

  When the captive didn’t respond, the slaver spat, his voice dripping with disdain.

  “another one dead.”

  Erik’s mind raced as his eyes locked onto the Focus Stone. That faintly glowing gem was the keystone of their control; the very source of the slavers' dominance over their captives.

  “there it is” Erik whispered

  If he could take it, there was a chance, just a chance he could break free. His cuffs would go silent, their suppressive magic disrupted. But the stone wasn’t just sitting there, ripe for the taking. It hung from the belt of a slaver, a grizzled brute with the posture of someone who knew they were in charge.

  And why wouldn’t he be? Erik thought bitterly. No one in this hold could even try to fight back. The cuffs ensured total submission, punishing even the faintest magical attempt with agonizing pain. That arrogance made the slaver careless, letting the stone dangle loosely within reach.

  Erik chuckled to himself.

  “Of all the things that would save me.. I never though that being a magic less Lethri would be the ticket”

  The cuffs relied on an internal core that the person who was cuffed complete the runic circuit. Since Erik didn’t have a magical core as a Lethe.. there was no signaling to the stone that a user was trying to break out of the cuffs since the cuffs remained inert aside from being magically locked.

  Erik’s opportunity came faster than he expected. The slaver, irritated by having to pick up a dead captive, lumbered closer to where Erik sat hunched in the corner. His boots thudded heavily against the planks as he barked insults, the sound sharp and cutting in the confined space.

  When the guard decided to lash out with their boot connecting with the sickly captive’s ribs. A sharp cry followed, and the brute sneered, his attention entirely fixed on his victim.

  Now.

  Erik’s heart pounded as he shifted, his hand moving slowly, deliberately toward the stone. His fingers trembled, his breath shallow as he fought to steady himself. He knew the cuffs were watching or rather, listening. Designed to detect magic coursing through a body’s meridians, they would react instantly to any magical manipulation, sending an excruciating shock through the wearer. But Erik wasn’t like the others. His meridians were empty, dormant. The cuffs were blind to him in a way they didn’t even account for.

  His fingertips brushed the stone’s smooth surface. Cold. Almost alive. He froze as the slaver straightened abruptly, his head tilting as if he’d sensed something. Erik’s muscles locked, his mind spinning through half-baked excuses, his eyes dropping into a submissive, beaten-dog gaze.

  The guards eyes flicked over him briefly, his sneer deepening, but he turned back to the whimper captive on the floor.

  “Pathetic,” he muttered,

  raising his boot for another kick.

  Relief coursed through Erik as he let his fingers curl around the Focus Stone, carefully freeing it from the leather strap. His palm closed over it, the faint hum of its magic now thrumming against his skin like a heartbeat.

  The hum grew stronger as Erik retreated to the shadows, cradling the stone in his hands. The pulse of energy it radiated was overwhelming, and something deep in his memory stirred an old lesson from the governor’s archives. He had spent days combing through those ancient texts, fascinated by the intricate balance of magic and the delicate network of channels, meridians that allowed it to flow through the body. He had never imagined that knowledge would become a lifeline.

  Meridians, the texts said, were like veins for magic, carrying raw energy through the body in a careful circuit. But too much magic forced through too small a conduit could tear the channels apart, ripping the caster to shreds from the inside. It was a gruesome death. One mistake, one surge of uncontrolled power, and the result was catastrophic.

  Erik gritted his teeth. He wasn’t a mage. His meridians had never carried magic, and that had been his curse all his life. But now, he wondered if that same flaw might be his only saving grace.

  The Focus Stone wasn’t built to handle someone like him. It was meant to amplify and direct magic, using the caster’s meridians as a conduit. Without them, the circuit would be incomplete. The cuffs, designed to detect and suppress that circuit, wouldn’t know what to make of him.

  It’s not supposed to work this way, Erik thought. But I don’t have a choice.

  He pressed the stone against the cuffs finding the sigil and pushing until it connected. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sudden, violent force, the connection surged to life.

  Pain hit him like a hammer, and Erik’s vision flared white. The cuffs, unable to handle the amplified energy, rebelled against the intrusion. Their magic slammed into the stone’s power, and Erik’s body became the battleground. He let out a choked cry as raw, uncontrollable energy tore through him, forcing its way into his meridians.

  His arms burned as if molten iron was being poured through his veins. The energy sought a path, but his untrained, dormant channels weren’t prepared to carry it. The cuffs tried to suppress the flow, but the stone fought back, amplifying the surge with each pulse. The pressure built with every heartbeat, an unbearable force that felt like it would tear him apart.

  Erik doubled over, his body trembling violently. He gritted his teeth, his mind clawing for control, but there was nothing to grasp, no willpower strong enough to tame the raw magic coursing through him. It wasn’t like blood filling veins. It was a river, relentless and wild, trying to carve new paths where none existed.

  Pain became something distant, an ever-present roar that he pushed to the edge of his mind.

  Years of suffering, of mockery and rejection, had forged an iron will that refused to yield. He had endured too much to let this defeat him now. Gritting his teeth, he rode the surge, forcing his body to endure the agony.

  The cuffs faltered. Their suppressive runes flickered, overwhelmed by the amplified energy of the Focus Stone. With a final, earsplitting crack, the magic shattered. The cuffs fell silent, their power severed.

  Erik collapsed to the floor, gasping, his body trembling as the last pulses of magic dissipated. The Focus Stone dimmed in his hand, its energy spent. But Erik was alive.

  He blinked against the darkness, his vision swimming. Deep within him, he could feel something had changed. His meridians, once empty, were now open and vast, like hollow channels waiting to be filled.

  Erik let out a shaky breath, clutching the now-dormant Focus Stone.

  Eriks vision blurred as his back arched against the cold, damp floorboards. He salt crawled to wear the dead captive was and pushed the captive to where Erik was sitting upright when the guard was last there. Errol slowly made his way back to where the dead captive was found and laid down taking their place.

  Around him, the captives watched. They pressed themselves against the wooden walls, eyes wide with fear. They’d seen misery before, starvation, sickness, beatings, but this was different. Erik’s sudden magical outburst radiated outward until the cuffs broke, which left a terrible, primal force that seemed to infect the air itself.

  The silence that followed this performance was almost suffocating. For a long moment, the hold was still save for Erik’s ragged breathing. Then came the whispers.

  “Is he alive?”

  “I don’t... I don’t know.”

  Erik opened his eyes slowly, his vision swimming as the world came back into focus. He was sprawled on the floor, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, his body trembling with exhaustion. The cuffs on his wrists were cold and inert, their power completely gone. The stone lay in his palm, smooth and lifeless, its energy spent.

  His lips cracked as he spoke, his voice hoarse.

  “I’m... not dead.”

  The old man who had spoken earlier emerged cautiously from the shadows, his gaunt face creased with suspicion.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  Erik’s head lolled back against the wall, his chest heaving.

  “I... improvised.”

  The man let out a low whistle, his gaze darting to the inert cuffs and the now-dim Focus Stone in Erik’s hand.

  “You’re either the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen, or the dumbest.”

  “I’ll take... both,” Erik muttered, his eyes closing briefly.

  His entire body felt as though it had been dragged through fire, his nerves raw and frayed. But through the haze of exhaustion, he felt something else, something new inside. A hunger that left his chest aching. Whatever energy had coursed through him was gone now, leaving only the potential behind. It was maddening, a well with no water, a thirst with no way to quench it.

  The old man from earlier sat forwards his face briefly highlighted by the moonlight shining through the cracks of the ship shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done, but you’ve changed something. And if the guards figure out—”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “They won’t.” Erik cut him off, his voice sharper now despite his exhaustion.

  “They will think I’m just another corpse.”

  The old man frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze lingered on the cuffs around Erik’s wrists, their runes now dark and meaningless.

  “You broke them. I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “Neither did I,” Erik admitted, his fingers tightening around the Focus Stone.

  He stared at it, his mind racing even as his body begged for rest.

  “But it worked.”

  “For now.” The man’s voice carried a grim edge. “Doesn’t do us any good though.”

  He didn’t bother trying to explain what had happened, the way the magic had carved itself into his core, weaving through his body like threads of molten fire. It was too much, even for him to process. But one thing was certain: he was no longer the man who had boarded this ship in chains.

  As exhaustion finally pulled him under, Erik’s last thought was a grim promise to himself. He hadn’t broken, and he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

  ***

  The first thing Erik noticed when he awoke was the cold, wet sensation beneath him. His hand twitched, brushing against something slick and unyielding. He tried to move, but his limbs were heavy, his muscles screaming in protest. A faint, rotting stench hit him next, sharp and oppressive, filling his nostrils and turning his stomach. Panic gripped him as he shifted, realizing what he was lying on.

  Bodies.

  His breath hitched. The weight beneath him shifted slightly, a sickening squelch accompanying the motion. Erik’s eyes snapped open, his blurred vision struggling to adjust to the dim light. The stench of decay was overwhelming now, choking him with every shallow breath. His heart pounded as his gaze darted to the corpses around him, slack faces, lifeless eyes, and stiffened limbs piled haphazardly like discarded refuse.

  He rolled off the mound of bodies, landing on his hands and knees with a groan. His stomach lurched, but he forced the bile down, choking on the thick, putrid air. For a moment, all he could do was breathe, his body trembling with exhaustion and horror.

  ”Where... where am I?”

  His fingers dug into the cold stone beneath him as his mind clawed for answers. He remembered the ship, the cuffs, the Focus Stone, the searing pain of the transformation. And then... nothing. His throat was dry, his body aching for water and food, but the memory of what had happened still burned sharper than any hunger.

  “Dead ones don’t move.”

  The voice was rough, low, and unfamiliar. Erik flinched, his head snapping toward the sound. A figure loomed nearby, half-hidden in the shadows, someone draped in a deep crimson robe that seemed too pristine for the grisly scene. The man’s face was obscured by a hood, but his tone carried the weight of annoyance, as though Erik’s movement had disrupted something important.

  Erik blinked, his mind struggling to process the words. Sold? Dead? He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. The cuffs were gone, their weight no longer biting into his wrists.

  “Where—” Erik croaked, his voice barely audible.

  He swallowed hard, forcing out the words.

  “Where am I?”

  The annoyed men didn’t answer. Instead, they turned away, their movements precise and synchronized as they dragged more bodies towards the a cart already loaded with a few.

  He pushed himself to his knees, only to fall back down agai ln his body complexly drained of all energy. His vision still swimming as the faint pulse in his chest returned, steady and insistent. He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as he fought to focus.

  The air was suffocating, the ground was lush with overgrown vegetation, its air thick with humidity and the cloying scent of damp earth. Erik could see clearly now, and the men that were moving bodies were wearing crimson robes sweeping the dirt as they accepted their grim cargo without hesitation.

  The men moved with eerie precision, their procession silent but purposeful as they ushered him at knife point to get into the cart with the other corpses as they were all carried through the jungle. The oppressive canopy overhead cast dappled shadows that danced across their robes, the deep, blood-red fabric unnervingly pristine despite the muck and grime of their surroundings. None of them wore shoes, their bare feet gliding over the stone path leading to what looked to be a temple.

  Their heads were shaved to a gleaming smoothness, catching the faint light as though polished, adding to the unsettling, alien quality of their appearance. Erik could only sense these details dimly, his body still unresponsive mostly, his mind clouded by the magic still eating away at him.

  The temple loomed ahead, a structure of ancient stone, its walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly as the cultists approached. The air changed as they passed inside, the humidity giving way to a dry, acrid scent of incense and decay. Erik was deposited atop a pile of other bodies, his limbs limp, he lay there as he struggled to orient himself.

  ”hey, so.. I appreciate the lift here.”

  “But I would really like to have something to eat, maybe drink.. perhaps a bath would be nice?”

  Erik pleaded outwardly, but the lackluster and emotion void responses of the few that brought him were loud enough to get the point.

  Awareness began to creep in, chilling and unwelcome. He was alive and just barely. The magic that had ravaged his body on the ship still lingered, sustaining him in some warped, unnatural way.

  He could feel it, the magic turned inward, feeding on what little remained of his strength.

  His head rolled to the side, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. The temple’s interior came into focus, a vast chamber illuminated by the faint, flickering glow of runes carved into the walls and ceiling. The men moved through the space with a ritualistic calm, placing bodies in careful, deliberate arrangements around a central altar.

  “ok, so cultist? Sacrificial type deal? Maybe we can make this work out differently?” Erik casually said as his body still remained limb

  The altar itself was massive, hewn from black stone, its surface etched with intricate symbols that pulsed in time with the runes on the walls. The air thrummed faintly with energy, oppressive and suffocating.

  Erik tried to move, but his limbs refused to respond. Every muscle in his body felt leaden, his strength drained by the primal magic’s relentless hunger.

  The cultists’ movements were hypnotic, their crimson robes flowing as they worked in unison. Despite the gruesome nature of their task, their garments remained immaculate, not a single drop of blood or speck of dirt marring the deep red fabric. They carried the bodies with an almost reverent care, their expressions calm and unreadable as they placed each offering in its designated spot. Erik’s body had been left at the edge of the pile, as though waiting for some final decision about its placement.

  His eyes darted to the nearest cultist, a woman with angular features and a shaved head that reflected the faint light of the runes. Her movements were fluid, methodical, as she adjusted the arm of a corpse with the precision of someone arranging an ornate display.

  Erik’s stomach churned at the realization, these weren’t just bodies to them. They were pieces of a ritual, a grotesque puzzle they were assembling to summon something far worse than death.

  He wasn’t just lying among the dead. He was the offering.

  ”oh, hey so.. let’s talk about this.. I’m not a great ritual offering.. honestly, I eat too much and I drink a lot.. maybe try the harbor again?” Erik somehow managed to squeak it out underneath the chanting

  The magic within him pulsed faintly, an instinctive response to the oppressive energy in the room. Erik’s body ached, the hunger within it growing sharper as it reached out for the power surrounding him.

  The cultists continued their work, oblivious to his faint movements. They didn’t care that Erik was alive, only that his body would fulfill its purpose. The offering didn’t need to breathe. It didn’t need to think. It only needed to be consumed.

  And Erik, trapped within his own frailty, could do nothing to stop them.

  ***

  The cultists moved in perfect synchrony, their bare feet silent against the stone floor as they carried the corpses into position. Each motion was precise, deliberate, as they arranged the bodies in a wide circle around the central altar a massive slab of black stone, its surface carved with an intricate network of runes that seemed to drink in the light.

  The runes formed an elaborate magical circle, each one meticulously etched and inlaid with a substance so dark it seemed to devour the dim glow around it. The air in the chamber vibrated faintly, as if the very stones hummed with tension. The energy emanating from the altar was oppressive, its power radiating outward in waves that made Erik’s skin crawl even in his unconscious haze.

  This was no ordinary offering. This was the heart of their ritual, a sacred space where the dead were not merely discarded but consumed, their essence funneled into another plane. The cultists’ chanting began, low and rhythmic, their voices rising and falling in a cadence that resonated with the pulsing of the runes.

  Erik glanced around the room with his eyes only, and finding runes and following the etches and sigils.

  A single man stood at the center of the circle. Clad in a crimson robe like the others, his head bowed in grim acceptance, the man likely had had spent years preparing his body for this moment.The ritual was a test of endurance, most priests would last only minutes before their bodies crumbled, unable to withstand the overwhelming power. But even those brief moments were enough for the demon to feast on the offerings and extend its reach.

  The chanting grew louder, the runes on the altar flaring to life as the energy in the room thickened. Erik stirred weakly as rough hands dragged him into the circle, his body limp and unresisting.

  He was placed beside the man, his limbs crumpling under him like a discarded doll. His consciousness flickered, struggling to surface as the malevolent energy of the ritual brushed against his magic ravaged body.

  But there was a problem.

  The runes glowed brighter, their light harsh and unrelenting as the cultists’ voices reached a crescendo. The air itself seemed to thrum with anticipation as a dark red essence began to seep into the chamber, an invisible force that carried with it an overwhelming hunger. It flowed toward the priest, seeking its intended vessel.

  And then it stopped.

  its will probing the circle and encountering something it hadn’t expected. Erik. The essence focus shifted, drawn irresistibly to the man lying beside the cultist. Erik’s body, forcibly expanded by magic, radiated an ocean of potential, a capacity that dwarfed the cultist carefully prepared body. the essence, insatiable by nature, was compelled by its hunger to seek the stronger host.

  The energy surged toward Erik, enveloping him like a predator closing in on its prey. But as it attempted to take hold, the essence recoiled violently. Erik’s core wasn’t unguarded. When the cuffs were removed by the focus stone, the runes from the’ cuffs, etched deeply into his very essence, reacted to the intrusion with an unyielding force. They snapped shut like iron chains, trapping the essence within Erik’s body but denying it control.

  Erik’s body convulsed as the essence pulsed through him, its rage a searing pressure that filled every nerve. He gasped for air, his chest heaving as the chains within him tightened, holding the demon fast. The cultists continued their chant, oblivious to the catastrophic error they had made. They believed they had succeeded, that their god was manifesting as intended. But they hadn’t summoned their master; they had imprisoned it.

  The cultist next to Erik dropped to the ground, pressing his face against the stone as the ritual reached its peak. Around him, the cultists mirrored his posture, trembling with reverence as the runes on the altar burned brighter than ever. They waited, their forms still and submissive, for their god to speak or bless them. They didn’t notice the subtle shift in the energy; a resonance that no longer emanated from the altar but from Erik himself.

  He floated above the ground now, his body suspended in the air by dark tendrils of magic that coiled and twisted around him like serpents. The cultists dared not look up, their heads bowed as they waited for a sign. Only the priest risked a glance, his eyes narrowing as he realized something was wrong. The energy radiating from Erik was chaotic, unbalanced, as though two forces were locked in a struggle neither could win.

  Erik’s eyes snapped open, and the world around him changed.

  The dim chamber exploded into vibrant patterns of color and energy, layers of reality he had never perceived before. Threads of magic connected everything; the walls, the cultists, the altar, and even the air itself. He could see the runes glowing with purpose, their meanings clear to him in an instant. They weren’t just symbols. They were commands, woven into the very fabric of the space, guiding the ritual with terrifying precision.

  And within himself, Erik felt the core that had been forced into existence. It churned and pulsed, alive and vast, its rhythm echoing like a second heartbeat. The magic that had reshaped him burned within, interwoven with this new essence, yet still tethered by the chains of the slavers’ runes. The essence resonated through him, its voice an inaudible scream of frustration as it lashed out against its prison.

  Erik gritted his teeth, his senses overwhelmed by the flood of sensations and the seething presence trapped within him. His hands curled into fists as he fought to center himself, his mind reeling from the impossible truth.

  They hadn’t summoned a god. They had bound a monster. And it was inside him.

  The cultists knelt in awe, their chants fading into a stunned silence as they felt the shift in power. They didn’t yet realize the truth of what they had done. But Erik did.

  He wasn’t just a prisoner anymore. He was a prison.

  And the demon, for all its power, was locked inside him.

  Erik’s senses felt like they had been ripped open and stretched to their limits. Every sound reached him with painful clarity; the rhythmic breathing of the cultists, the rustle of their robes as they shifted against the stone floor, even the faint drip of water echoing somewhere deep within the cavern. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of magic, mingled with the cloying sweetness of incense and the stomach-turning stench of blood and decay. It was overwhelming, every detail amplified to an excruciating degree, like trying to hear a whisper while standing next to a roaring fire.

  Despite the flood of sensations threatening to drown him, Erik’s breathing slowed, his racing thoughts tempered by an eerie, unnatural calm. He wasn’t panicking anymore. The essence was there, he could feel it, but it was bound, thrashing impotently within the chains locked around his core. He was no longer just Erik; he was something else, something... more.

  Below him, the cultists remained prostrate, their heads pressed to the floor in reverence, oblivious to the struggle taking place within their supposed god. Erik couldn’t help but marvel at the absurdity of it all. They had done this to him. They had created him. And now, without realizing it, they had made him their leader. He let out a shaky breath, the corners of his lips twitching into a wry smile.

  His heart thudded hard, a deep, resonating pulse that seemed to echo through the chamber like the toll of a distant bell. With each beat, something stirred inside him, ancient and angry. The essence Its presence spread through his veins like an unwelcome shadow, the weight of it pressing against his mind.

  “So this is what I’m reduced to? “

  The voice sliced through his thoughts, cold and imperious, dripping with disdain.

  ”A human? Pathetic. You are nothing but a fragile, weak vessel, unworthy of containing even a fraction of my power.”

  Erik blinked, his head jerking slightly as the voice cut through the quiet. It was deep, resonant, and unmistakably not his own. His brow furrowed as he muttered under his breath,

  “Who the hell...?” He glanced around the dim chamber, half-expecting to see someone standing nearby.

  But there was no one; just the cultists, still bowing in reverence.

  “Foolish human, the voice spat, sharp with venom. You dare question your new master?”

  Erik’s confusion melted into irritation. “Master?” He scoffed, turning his head as if addressing the darkness itself.

  “Listen, Samantha, or whatever your name is—”

  ”What? Samantha?” The voice growled, the sound reverberating through Erik’s mind like a distant thunderstorm.

  “Do you mock me?”

  The demon bristled, its presence flaring like an ember stoked to life.

  “You insolent wretch! You dare speak to me with such disrespect? I could crush you with a thought if not for these accursed bindings!”

  The demon snarled, its frustration palpable, a deep rumble that Erik felt more than heard.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done. No idea the power you’ve tampered with. When I break free—“

  His smirk faltered as his body twisted in the air, arms flailing uselessly his legs kicking in a desperate attempt to regain balance.

  The cultists finally lifted their heads, their wide eyes taking in the sight of their supposed deity flailing in midair like a poorly controlled puppet.

  They exchanged uncertain glances, their reverence mingling with confusion. This was not the awe-inspiring, all-powerful entity they had expected.

  “Come on,” Erik muttered, his frustration mounting as his limbs flopped uselessly.

  He twisted again, this time flipping entirely upside-down, his hair falling into his face.

  The current death priest, his face still pressed to the floor, dared to lift his head slightly, his expression skeptical. Erik’s antics were not what he had been prepared for. He blinked, squinting as if to confirm that this was indeed the being they had summoned.

  The demon’s voice, simmering with anger, growled again in his mind.

  “You mock yourself more than I ever could, human.”

  Erik sighed heavily, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for the input.”

  His heart thudded again, harder this time, and Erik froze. The sound echoed within him, resonating through his chest like a war drum. The demon latched onto it, its essence surging through his veins, testing the chains that bound it. Erik felt the pressure mount, the raw power pressing against him like a tidal wave.

  But the runes within his core tightened in response, constricting the demon’s essence and forcing it back. The chains held firm, unyielding, even as the demon raged. Erik gasped as he felt the push and pull, the two forces locked in a struggle for control.

  And then, his core gave a steady, undeniable beat, a magical heartbeat, resonating with a power that was now his. Erik’s lips twitched into a faint smile as understanding dawned. He wasn’t just a prison for the demon. He was its warden.