The moonlight over Twilight Town was steeped in mist, like watered silver wine in a cup. The lamps at Thorn Apothecary had been out for nearly an hour. From the attic came Linata’s breathing, light as a feather sinking into cotton—she had drunk ale laced with calming herbs before bed, and should be fast asleep.
Abler stood at the kitchen door, fingers clutching a polished shard of black crystal. His reflection swam within it: the demon-marks at his throat were burning several times brighter than a month ago, his red eyes flickering faintly in the dark. The searing torment of holy silver poison was long gone. In its place surged magic suppressed too long, like magma rolling through his veins.
“All ready,” Andrea’s voice came from outside. She had changed back into scarlet leather armor, her curved blade gleaming at her hip. In the past month, she had carried out the plan: swaying Hawk with five casks of ale and the promise of “Vice-Captain to Captain of the Town Guard,” winning a spare key to the knights’ barracks; Kalos had returned with three hundred Emberflame soldiers, now hidden in a lava cavern at the edge of Black Raven Forest, Firebat Cavalry armor glinting red under the moon; and even a “puppet mayor” had been found—the nephew of Valo Duchy’s former treasurer, driven into hiding after Krog’s seizure of estates, steeped in the rules of ducal bureaucracy.
Abler nodded, casting one last glance toward the attic. On the papered windowpane was the shadow of Linata curled small, like a wary little beast. Over this month, she had “just happened” to bring cool tea when he split firewood, “accidentally” spilled bottles when he studied maps, even once smeared salve on his burns after he lost control of magic and set a basket ablaze—scolding him as a “ruinous fool” while using her finest ointment. That care, hidden under sharp words, had wound around his heart like the tangled vines of Black Raven Forest.
“Let’s go.” His steps were light as a cat as he turned to leave, but he paused at the door. On the stove sat a clay bowl of snow-lizard broth, still warm. A note clung to the rim, scrawled in charcoal:
“If it cools, heat it up. Don’t wreck your stomach again—added to debt.”
Abler lifted the bowl and drank a mouthful. The broth was warm, faintly spiced, like her—cold on the surface, warmth hidden within. He set it back, brushed the note with his fingertip, and stepped into the mist.
At the forest’s edge, three hundred Emberflame soldiers stood in formation. Firebat armor was dusted with volcanic ash, long spears flashing silver under the moon. Kalos stood at the front, serrated curved blade at his waist. When he saw Abler approach, he raised his fist to his chest and thrust his palm outward—the Demon Army’s salute.
“Hail His Majesty!”
The roar of three hundred voices shattered the forest silence, scattering night birds from the trees. Abler faced the ranks, drew a deep breath, and at last let his magic burst its bonds. Black flame leapt from his palm, racing over his body. His coarse clothes split to ashes, replaced by a black robe patterned with secret runes, the Demon King’s insignia picked out in silver thread glimmering under the moon. The demon-marks at his throat flared, a burning red serpent coiled about his neck. His crimson eyes kindled with tangible fire, casting the mist itself into a ruddy glow.
“It’s His Majesty! It’s truly His Majesty!” A young Firebat rider broke into sobs. “After Ironrock’s betrayal, I thought…I thought I’d never see you again!”
“Hold the line!” Kalos’s bellow thundered over the commotion. “His Majesty has returned—the good days are upon us!”
Abler lifted his hand. The black flame condensed into a great sword, its blade glowing like molten rock. His voice was no longer the hoarse rasp of “Abu,” but the deep resonance of a demon sovereign, like thunder rolling beneath the earth:
“The betrayal at Ironrock, Krog’s ambition, the indulgence of Valo Duchy… We have endured long enough.”
His gaze swept the ranks and came to rest on Andrea. She stood tall, scarlet armor burning like hot iron in the flame’s light, her eyes brighter than they had been ten years ago in Frozen Valley.
“Twilight Town is our first step.” Abler raised the sword, black flame pointing straight toward the town. “Hawk will open the barracks gate. Raymond’s knights will crumble. Once we take it, we will have a foothold, a base to reach Sandar and Coldgrave, and…a starting point for vengeance!”
“Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!”
The roar of three hundred shook the leaves from the trees. Riders slapped their firebats’ necks, the bats shrieking as the men shouted, night silence ripped wide.
Andrea stepped close, voice low: “Hawk has sent the signal. The northwest guard is withdrawn. We strike there.”
“Good.” Abler’s eyes lingered on the town’s glow. One lamp still burned—the direction of Thorn Apothecary. He wondered if Linata would wake, what her face would be when she found the attic empty tomorrow, whether after this night he could ever again be “Abu,” chopping wood at her door while she called him a “skinner.”
But some debts must be collected, some burdens must be carried.
“Move out.” He lowered the sword. Black flame curled into a blazing totem on his fingertip. “Target: the Twilight Town Knight Barracks.”
Kalos vaulted into the saddle. His firebat screamed and launched upward. The Emberflame soldiers followed, their march like muffled thunder toward the town. Abler walked last, glancing once at the apothecary’s lamplight, then clenched his fist.
In the mist, Linata’s voice seemed to echo: “Abu, the moon-flowers came up short today—fifty more gold.”
He smiled faintly, then merged into the column. His black robe whipped in the night wind, the demon-marks at his throat blazing like fire that would never die.
Beneath the moon, from the shadows of Black Raven Forest, a silent army crept toward Twilight Town.
In the attic of Thorn Apothecary, Linata turned in her sleep, reaching for the mortar Abler always set ready before bed. Her hand closed on nothing. She opened her eyes, staring at the square of moonlight on the window, then sat up abruptly and seized the silver hairpin at her pillow.
Downstairs the door hung ajar. A draft crept through, carrying the familiar tang of black flame—sulfur and smoke.
“Idiot,” she muttered softly, but pushed the pin back into her hair. She lay down again, though sleep did not return.
The night was still long. And before dawn came, Twilight Town was fated to be drawn into a storm long in the making.