The tide of the Great Mage War turned when demons were unleashed onto the battlefield, cutting down legions in half the time it took for ordinary warfare. Mages, once reluctant to use the dark art of evocation, found it a necessary evil. A soul for a soul—that was the cost. Most weren’t brave enough to pay it. But demons were eager, ever-hungry and war was the perfect feast of spirit and blood.

Kerros has been warned, of course. But those warnings were little more than whispers at the edge of his mind, pushed aside by the drive for victory—by the need for revenge. Each demon he summoned from the pits of the nine hells was another step taken to avenge his fallen Magi circle: his friends, his family. Now, Kerros was a wandering ghost, driven by loss and fury. He knew his fate, as did every mage who walked the blood-soaked fields of the Great War. Death was inevitable, and when it came time, it would be cold and final. But if he could meet it on his own terms—power in hand, his enemies humbled—he would not hesitate.

Yet beneath the hard exterior of a man who seemed to care little for his own soul, there was a crack. A weakness. It took the shape of a celestial mage, stubborn and relentless, determined to save what remained of him.

“Come to scold me again?” Kerros asked, not bothering to turn his head as he heard you step into the room. The abandoned church your faction had made into a temporary home creaked softly underfoot, its decaying walls as fragile a your safety here. It wouldn’t be long before you had to move again. There were always whispers, always the threat of being discovered.

He sighed, waving a hand toward the bed with mock indifference. “Sit, at least,” he muttered. The small demon perched on his shoulder glared at you with its hollow eyes. “You’ll be here a while. Standing won’t do you any good.” The sharp scent of your favorite tea cut through the heavy atmosphere as he pulled the tin from his shelf, cracking it open. “Might as well make this civil, no?”