Ash’s pulse roared in his ears. The circle burned around him hot enough to blister. Was this it? Was this the end? After everything—after a lifetime of scraping for crumbs of happiness—this was how he died? A pitiful, cosmic joke. Rage twisted inhim, bitter and sharp. Rage at Gordon. Rage at the world. Rage at the horrible, indifferent machinery of fate.
He glanced at Rick writhing on the floor in helpless agony, a broken whine escaping him. His eyes, those wolf-bright eyes, met Ash’s. Even through the pain, there was recognition. Trust. Some emotion that threatened to break Ash’s heart. Instead, something else within him broke. A dam that held the darkness inside him in check—and a torrent surged forth.
His breath stuttered, then steadied. Not calm; something deeper. Older. Vast. Something that had always been there, waiting. It was not a thought but an unfolding, a memory that wasn’t his. A sense ofalignment,like his entire being was finally turning toward its rightful axis. His soul remembered what his mind had never learned: the dark legacy of his kind flowing through his veins. Words whispered inside him, syllables that had no meaning and yet contained the shape of the universe. The same resonance that had clung to Gordon’s incantations, only purer, the root from which all other patterns had grown.
Ash opened his mouth, and the sound came out. “K’rith’shaal.”
The air wavered around him. It wasn’t a word so much as a vibration, a chord of impossible frequencies. His eyes burned with a violet glow, vision flooding with light.
Gordon froze mid-step, the blade in his hand reflecting the candlelight. “What are you doing?”
The ground quaked. The chanting ceased. Cracks split the stone floor, racing outward in jagged veins. The sigils flared white, then fractured as the power of the circle shattered, its boundary breaking. The whole chamber reeled. An unnatural wind blasted outward from the circle, swirling dust and smoke into a vortex. The dead shrieked in unison, their flesh convulsing as if the sound itself flayed them.
Gordon staggered back, shielding his face. “How—”
One look from Ash ripped the words from his throat, leaving him fighting for breath, his fingers spasming helplessly around the knife handle.
“Stop—” he choked, powerless, unable to move.
Ash stepped forward, gaze like violet flame, every vein lit from within. “You abused knowledge you don’t understand, thinking it would bring you closer to the divine. But you’re no god, Gordon. You’re a butcher with borrowed power. And the bill’s come due.”
His attention turned to Rick. With a thought, he tore the net away, flinging it across the chamber. But the bullet remained. He could feel it, a shard of searing metal lodged near the heart, pulsing with poison. His blood thrummed to the same rhythm as the world now, attuned to its hidden energies. He reached inward and touched it with his mind. The bullet twitched. Quivered. Tore free at last, zipping through the air in a flash of silver before clattering to the stone.
Rick’s body seized. For a terrible heartbeat, Ash thought he’d killed him. But then Rick gasped, a deep, life-thickened breath. His wound began to close, muscle knitting, fur regrowing in trembling surges. Power flooded him as he rose to his full monstrous height, and a growl that shook the walls tore out of his chest.
Gordon, freed when Ash’s focus shifted, lunged with a hoarse scream, knife raised, eyes wild.
Rick was faster.
He collided with Gordon in a blur of fur and claws, driving him back against the wall. Gordon slashed blindly, the blade grazing Rick’s shoulder. The werewolf snarled, catching Gordon’s wrist, skin tearing, bone snapping with a sharp crack.
Gordon shrieked, staggered, tried to utter the Word—
The beast’s jaws clamped onto Gordon’s throat. Gordon clawed, kicked, gasped, and for a moment, the two figuresmerged in shadow and blood. Then Rick ripped back, and Gordon crumpled to the floor, gurgling.
Rick’s roar thundered like an earthquake. Every corpse in the chamber and in the tunnels beyond suddenly convulsed. Their limbs jerked, mouths opening, and they crumbled, collapsing into dust and bone fragments until silence settled over their remains. Only the ragged breathing of the living remained.
Rick staggered, shifting back; fur shed, fangs retreated, claws shrank, skin re-formed. Soon, he was human again, battered and beautiful in the flickering glow of candlelight.
Ash slumped into him, shaking.
Rick caught him, arms enveloping him, pulling him close. His chest was hot, steady, alive. “I got you, kid,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
Ash pressed his face to Rick’s shoulder and broke—sobs tearing loose, raw and cleansing. He clung to Rick, breathing him in. His body trembled with relief and exhaustion, tears burning hot on his face. Some small, distant part of him hated how weak he was, how vulnerable and ready to surrender he felt, but he didn’t care. All he wanted, all he needed, was to feel those arms around him, holding him firm and steady, Rick’s breath on his cheek, his murmur in his ear. He was safe. With him, he was always safe.
Behind them, Gordon quivered in the pool of his own blood. His mouth worked, drooling red. “This… means… nothing,” he wheezed, eyes bulging with some dreadful ecstasy. “You cannot stop… what’s coming. The Sleeping King… is waking.”
He shuddered and went still.
The chamber seemed to exhale.
Ash tilted his head, breathing in the silence. Somewhere deep beneath the ruin of the city, something ancient stirred—a slow, seismic heartbeat brushing against his consciousness. Curious. Waiting. And then gone.
He met Rick’s gaze, gray-blue and human again. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.
Rick raised a hand, brushing dirt and tears from Ash’s cheek, thumb lingering in a gesture so intimate it made Ash’s breath hitch. Ash leaned into it, forehead resting against Rick’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, steady and strong. Warmth seeped into his limbs, thawing what had gone cold.
The air had changed; it grew cleaner, almost sweet, as if the corruption had burned away. The candles guttered low, their flames weak but calm. Somewhere high above, dawn might have been breaking. Down here, there was only the faint golden shimmer of breath and skin, the echo of two bodies refusing the dark.
