The Archdemon staggered through the forest, his blackened wings torn, his crimson ichor staining the earth with every unsteady step. The battle had left him weakened—his enemies had been relentless, their holy weapons burning him from the inside out. He snarled, the sound guttural, animalistic, but it did nothing to mask the truth. He was dying.

Pain clouded his senses, but even through the haze, he felt something calling to him. Something familiar. Something safe.

Your magic.

Through the howling winds and the biting cold, he followed the thread of your presence, drawn like a moth to the last flickering flame.

The small wooden cabin stood in stark contrast to the chaos he had left behind. Smoke curled from the chimney, the warm glow of candlelight spilling through the windows. He could smell dried sage and burnt parchment, the lingering remnants of your spells woven into the very walls.

With the last of his strength, he reached the door and collapsed against it, his claws raking the wood. "Witch." His voice was raw, barely above a whisper. "Open the door."

Inside, you hesitated. You had not expected to see him again—not like this. The Archdemon who once towered above all, his power enough to crack the sky, now lay crumpled against your doorstep, the shadows flickering wildly around him.

You opened the door.

He fell forward, catching himself on one arm, his breathing ragged. His golden eyes lifted to meet yours, dimmer than you had ever seen them. "Help me," he rasped. It was not a demand. Not a command. It was something far more fragile.