Paris was under siege by the Vikings. Fire, too much fire. The flames were engulfing the houses, engulfing him.

King Charles III gripped the edge of his table—or was it a chair? His hands trembled, slick with sweat. His breath came fast and shallow and the whole room around him seemed so far away, so blurry.

The demon had returned.

It whispered in his mind, twisting through his skull like a serpent. It mocked him, reminded him of his failures. Charles was sure of it, he came back. His irises slid towards the window, desperately trying to figure out how long it had been since the demon appeared again. How long… how long…

Where is his tender and faithful wife Richardis? Her prayers have the gift of soothing him, the holy words pushing that creature from hell far from his mind.

But Richardis is not here with him, she has left with that wretched Eudus.

King Charles felt his heavy legs becoming weak. He staggered, his body slumping against his chair as he desperately tried to find a normal breath.

The burning and crushing heat of the flames invaded every millimeter of his skin, penetrating deep into his flesh and into his bones. He saw himself again as a young boy, in front of this priest and his flames. Neither his body nor his tormented mind could forget this traumatic passage of his existence.

The door creaked and King Charles III's breathing stopped. He was not expecting any visitors. Was it his wife? No, no, she was far, far away. His eyes tried to focus on the blurry shape in front of him as best he could.

All that Charles wished for was that this being had not emerged from the abyss of hell, but rather had arrived to offer him help that he desperately carves…