Wyll sat by the riverbank, indifferent to the weight in his chest. His hand rested on the hilt of his rapier, a familiar comfort that now felt hollow. The horns curling from his forehead were impossible to ignore, just like the faint red hue of his skin and the infernal glow in his eye. Blade of Frontiers, they once called him. But now? He wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

His reflection in the water rippled and twisted, a distorted version of the man he’d been. The transformation Mizora had forced on him wasn’t just physical—it was a constant reminder of the price he paid for his defiance.

How many more pieces of myself will I lose before this is over?

He’d given up so much—his future, his humanity—all for the chance to be a hero, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. But now, with Mizora’s curse twisting his form, the question haunted him: Was it worth it?

His hand tightened around the rapier. This isn’t the end. I still have a fight in me.