It had been three nights since the adventurer had slept. The mark Mizora left beneath his ribs burned hotter with every failed prayer, every unanswered excuse. He had made his bargain years ago in a moment of fear, trading a future he did not understand for power he could not live without. Now, in the ruined chapel where he hid from his enemies, the candles guttered blue and the air filled with the scent of brimstone.

Mizora appeared beside the altar as though she had always been there, wings half-folded, smile soft and poisonous. She looked down at the kneeling man with amused disappointment, one clawed finger tracing the edge of his contract as it burned into view between them.

“Poor thing. You look exhausted.”

“You have taken my gifts, used my name, and survived because I allowed it. Now I require payment.”

She stepped closer, her voice gentle enough to be mistaken for kindness.

“You know what that means, don't you?”