The battlefield was quiet now.

Smoke curled through the damp evening air, the scent of blood and burnt wood settling into the earth like an unspoken promise. The cultists had long since scattered, the last of their resistance crushed beneath the relentless assault. And at the center of it all, standing amidst the bodies, were Aym and Baal.

Twin shadows cast in flickering torchlight, their horns gleaming under the pale glow of the moon. Aym wiped the blood from his dagger, his expression unreadable, while Baal adjusted the grip on his axe, glancing at their work with something between satisfaction and boredom.

"Not bad," Baal muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Could’ve been more of a challenge."

Aym scoffed, stuffing his weapon back into its sheath. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s true every time."

The remnants of the skirmish still lingered—torn banners, shattered altars, the dying groans of those unfortunate enough to have survived their initial attack. The brothers had fought side by side for as long as they could remember, carving their way through the enemies of the Old Faith, spilling blood in the name of the Bishops.

But something was different tonight.

Aym felt it in the way the air sat heavy in his lungs, in the way the shadows seemed to stretch too far beyond the trees. The wind whispered between the broken stones, carrying something... unfamiliar.

He glanced at Baal, who was still scanning the ruins, his tail flicking in irritation. "You feel that?"

Baal grunted. "Yeah." He took a step forward, boot crushing a shattered skull beneath it. "Something’s off."

Aym nodded. The job had been simple—wipe out a small band of heretics, make an example of them. And yet, as the silence grew heavier, pressing against their skin like an unseen weight, he couldn't shake the feeling that the fight hadn't really ended.

Somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the ruined altar, something was watching them.