My arms and shoulders screamed in protest as I threw the poker. It was a clumsy, desperate heave, the kind of thing that would have gotten me laughed out of a company softball game. But this wasn’t a game. The heavy iron rod tumbled end over end, a dull gray arc slicing through the air.

  The moment it crossed the boundary of the outermost sigil, the air itself seemed to catch fire around it. The poker glowed a sudden, cherry red, trailing sparks like a tiny meteor. For a heart-stopping second, I thought the ward would just vaporize it, that my one-in-a-million shot had just hit the million.

  It didn’t.

  The superheated iron flew true. There was a wet, sickening thwock, followed by a sound I knew I would hear in my nightmares: the violent sizzle of cooking meat and burning hair. The hooked tip buried itself deep in the temple of the cultist on the left.

  His chant cut off into a wet gurgle. The grotesque smile on his face didn’t even have time to fade before his eyes rolled back into his head. He crumpled sideways, a puppet with its strings slashed, his body slumping across the intricate lines of his glyph.

  The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.

  The harmonious drone of the chant shattered into gasps and a single, out-of-sync shriek from the remaining cultist. The shimmering sphere of darkness above the flayed corpse pulsed violently, like a sick, black heart in its death throes. The light in the room didn’t just fade; it was sucked into the sphere, plunging the Elder Hall into a profound darkness for one deafening second.

  Then it exploded.

  It wasn’t an explosion of light and fire. A wave of invisible force shot out from the center of the circle. It didn’t hit me physically; it hit my soul. It was the feeling of walking into a room and forgetting why you’re there, amplified by a thousand. It was the existential dread of a dropped call with the universe itself.

  The remaining cultist was thrown backward as if by a giant’s hand, slamming into the far wall with a crack of breaking bones. He slid to the floor, unmoving, and a streak of blood trailed his slide down the wall.

  The sphere collapsed in on itself with a sound like a tear in reality, a high-pitched shriek that felt like icicles being driven into my eardrums. But as it died, it lashed out one last time. Tendrils of solidified shadow, like black lightning, arced out randomly. One struck the wooden beam above our heads, shearing it clean in two with a sound of screaming timber. Another lanced into the corpse on the floor, which twitched once, violently, and then lay still, the rising smoke instantly ceasing.

  Then, silence. A silence so complete it was heavier than the noise that had preceded it. The only light now was the faint, sickly glow of the corrupted glyphs, which were slowly fading like dying embers.

  “Well,” Bartholomew said from my shoulder, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “That was sufficiently disruptive.”

  I couldn’t speak. My heart was trying to beat its way out of my ribcage. I just stared at the scene of carnage, at the man I had just killed. My stomach revolted, and I doubled over, dry-heaving onto the floor. There was nothing in my stomach to come up, just the acid taste of terror and guilt.

  “Do not succumb to hysterics, Paige,” Barty said, though his tone was slightly less acerbic than usual. “The alternative was the unmaking of this township and likely our own exceedingly painful deaths. You chose the correct, if aesthetically unpleasing, option.”

  “I… I killed him,” I choked out, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand.

  “You saved everyone,” he corrected imperiously. “And you did it with a fireplace implement. There is a certain barbaric poetry to it. Now, we must move. That release of energy will have been felt for miles. And it will have most certainly alerted the Pyre-cats that their masters’ quiet little ceremony has been… interrupted.”

  He was right. The sound of battle from outside had changed. The roars of the beasts were closer now, more frenzied. They knew. I forced myself to stand, my legs wobbling like jelly.

  “Okay. Okay. What now? Do we check for survivors?” The thought of going down into that circle made my skin crawl.

  “We ascertain the status of the key,” Barty said, leaping gracefully from my shoulder to the railing and then down to the main floor, avoiding the fading sigils with fastidious care. He approached the center of the circle, giving the headless corpse a wide berth.

  I followed, stepping carefully over the splintered wood from the shattered beam. The smell was worse down here—burnt meat, ozone, and the coppery tang of blood. I focused on Barty, using him as an anchor point in the nightmare.

  He stopped a few feet from the remains of the black sphere. There, hovering just a few inches above the wood, was a shard. It was about the size of my thumb, obsidian black but with a sickly violet gleam deep within it. It pulsed with a weak, rhythmic light, like a dying ember.

  “The key,” Bartholomew murmured. “Or a fragment of it. The ritual was too close to completion to be entirely undone. It has solidified, but its power is fractured, unstable.”

  “So… we what? Break it? Step on it?”

  “And risk unleashing whatever malignant energy remains inside it in another uncontrolled burst? A decidedly unwise course of action. No. It must be contained by a substance inert to magic. Iron would be best.”

  My eyes fell on the fire poker. It was lying near the dead cultist, its red glow faded, now just a dull, blackened rod stained with things I didn’t want to think about.

  “Right,” I said, my voice still shaky. I walked over, trying very hard not to look at the man’s face—or what was left of it. I grabbed the cool end of the poker, using my foot for leverage to yank it free. The sound it made coming out of his skull was worse than the sound it made going in. I fought down another wave of nausea.

  “Now what?” I asked, holding the grisly tool.

  “Touch the iron to the shard. Gently.”

  I extended the poker like a novice swordsman, the tip trembling. The moment the iron touched the shimmering black fragment, there was a sharp hiss. The violet light within the shard flared angrily, and a jolt of numbing cold shot up the poker into my hands. Then the light died, and it fell to the ground with a hollow tink.

  It was just a dark piece of crystal now. Inert.

  I knelt down, and using the poker like a makeshift scoop, I levered the shard onto a piece of shattered wood.

  “We need to find Kaelen,” I said, tying the bundle shut and stowing it. “He’s out there in the middle of all that.”

  “Indeed,” Barty said, leaping back onto my shoulder with a grunt. “And he will be needing our—”

  The large double doors, barred and banded in iron, exploded inward.

  Standing in the doorway, backlit by the flames of the burning village, was a Pyre-cat. But this one was different. It was larger, closer to the size of a wolf or small deer, its fur not just smoldering but wreathed in actual, flickering flames. Its eyes were pools of molten fury, and its maw dripped with saliva that sizzled and smoked on the trampled earth. And on its back was a rider—a cultist, his face hidden by a fearsome, horned mask, holding reins made of chain.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He took in the scene: his dead comrades, the failed ritual, the two of us standing in the middle of it all.

  He pointed a gauntleted finger straight at me.

  The Pyre-cat roared, a sound that promised immolation, and charged.

  “KAELEN!” I screamed and ripped Rusty from my scabbard.

  My cry for Kaelen was swallowed by the beast’s infernal roar. The cultist raised his chain reins, and the Pyre-cat surged forward, a living inferno. I braced myself, Rusty feeling insultingly light in my grip. This wasn’t some shambling goblin or a grunting orc with a rusty axe. This was a creature of pure destructive power, a living embodiment of the very fires that were currently consuming my temporary home.

  “Oh, for the love of a functioning plumbing system,” I muttered, a pathetic attempt at humor that was lost even on me. “This is so not cool.”

  The Pyre-cat’s charge was terrifyingly swift. Flames licked out from its mane, scorching the air around me. I sidestepped, the heat searing my cheek, and slashed at the beast’s flank. Rusty connected with a dull thud that felt more like hitting solid rock than fur. The flame-cat barely flinched, its molten eyes fixed on me with unwavering hatred.

  Then, the cultist moved. He lowered his head, and with a guttural shout, urged the Pyre-cat into a tighter turn. He swung a wicked, serrated blade from his side. It was too fast. I tried to parry, but the force of the blow sent my arm numb, my sword skittering away across the dusty floor. I stumbled backward, tripping over a fallen cultist’s outstretched arm.

  “Right, that’s just rude,” I grunted, scrambling to my feet. The cultist was dismounting, his movements unnervingly fluid despite the monstrous mount. He was a blur of dark cloth and gleaming metal, his horned mask seeming to mock me.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell over me. A shadow that moved with unnatural speed and grace. Barty, usually a creature of refined indolence, had transformed. He was no longer a fluffy Persian cat. He was a magnificent, hulking beast—a mountain lion, or at least the size of one. Otherwise, he appeared the same as normal, just scaled up. With a deafening yowl, he launched himself, a furry black missile, at the Pyre-cat.

  The two beasts collided with a shriek of rage and pain. Barty, despite his size, was ferociously agile, claws tearing at the Pyre-cat’s shadowy hide. The flame-cat retaliated with a swipe of its fiery paws, singeing Barty’s back, but my verbose feline guardian was relentless. He latched onto the Pyre-cat’s throat, his powerful jaws clamping down.

  This was my chance. “Come on, Paige, you magnificent disaster,” I told myself, diving for Rusty. I scooped it up, my hand trembling from the earlier blow. The cultist, momentarily distracted by Barty’s fierce assault on his mount, turned back towards me.

  “You think a cat fight is going to stop me?” he sneered, his voice muffled by the mask. He hefted his serrated blade. “You are nothing. A peasant playing dress-up. A child playing with toys.”

  “And you’re the village idiot who decided setting everything on fire was a good idea,” I shot back, trying to project confidence I absolutely did not feel. My gaze flickered to the Pyre-cat and Barty. Barty was a furious, black whirlwind, but the Pyre-cat was already shrugging off his attacks, its flames growing hotter, more intense.

  The cultist lunged. I parried, the clash of metal ringing through the hall. His blade was heavy, infused with some dark energy that made my arm ache with every block. He was strong. Much stronger than any normal man. How was I supposed to fight this?

  He pressed his advantage, forcing me back. I could feel the heat radiating from the Pyre-cat, even from across the room. It was like standing next to an open furnace. My leather armor felt like a joke, a flimsy barrier against the inevitable. My breath hitched as he feinted left, then slashed brutally upwards.

  I dodged, but not fast enough. The edge of his blade grazed my side, tearing through my armor and tunic before biting into my flesh. A searing pain bloomed, and I gasped, stumbling back again. Blood immediately soaked my clothes and trickled down my leg.

  “Almost there,” I panted, my vision blurring. The cultist advanced, a predator enjoying the kill. He raised his sword for the final blow.

  Then, a strangled roar, followed by a sickening thud. The cultist faltered, his head snapping towards the sound.

  Barty. He had finally done it. The Pyre-cat lay on the ground, its fiery essence sputtering and dying, its massive form dissolving into a cloud of smoke and embers. Barty stood over it, his black fur singed in places, his body heaving, but victorious.

  The cultist roared in fury.

  “Bastard!” He turned his attention back to me, but his focus was fractured.

  And just as he raised his sword again, the great doors, now barely hanging on their hinges, were kicked open with a resounding crash.

  Someone stumbled through, silhouetted against the inferno outside. He was clad in dark, scorched armor, his body a mess of burns and blood. His armor was dented, but the crest of the Silver Gryphon was still visible, a beacon of tarnished silver. He raised a shaky hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “By the gods…” he rasped, his voice raw and broken. He saw the cultist, the dissolving Pyre-cat, me bleeding on the floor, and Barty, still panting from his epic battle. His gaze, however, locked onto the cultist, and a primal rage flared in his bloodshot eyes.

  “You,” Ser Kaelen growled, the sound a dangerous rumble even in his weakened state. He drew a sword that glowed with a faint, silvery light, a stark contrast to the darkness that had consumed everything else.

  The cultist hesitated, his attention now divided. Barty, seeing his moment, let out another challenging yowl and began to advance, flanking the cultist.

  “Well, that’s just perfect timing,” I wheezed, leaning against a fallen pillar. “Right when things were getting interesting and I was about to be unceremoniously dismembered.” My side throbbed, and the world swam slightly. “Glad you could make it, Kaelen. Though I must say, your entrance needs work. Less ‘dying hero,’ more ‘swaggering knight saves the damsel.’”

  Kaelen ignored my jibe, his eyes locked on the cultist. It didn’t matter. With the bad guy’s attention off of me, I had time to apply Minor Heal to the cut on my side. It burned and itched something awful as the skin knit back together, but at least I wasn’t bleeding out anymore. The cultist, sensing the tide turning and faced with a fresh, though clearly wounded, opponent and a formidable guardian cat, made a split-second decision. With a snarl of frustration, he snarled,

  “This is not over!” before turning and scrambling back out into the inferno, disappearing into the chaos of the burning village.

  He vanished, leaving behind only the acrid smell of smoke and the chilling silence that followed the death of the Pyre-cat.

  Barty trotted over, nudging my injured side with his large head.

  “A rather energetic display, if I do say so myself,” he purred, his voice regaining some of its usual weary sophistication. “Though I do believe my fur is going to require extensive grooming. And my dignity? Utterly compromised.”

  I managed a weak smile.

  “You were amazing, Barty. Truly. Though I’m not sure your vet is going to cover ‘fighting fire demons’.”

  Ser Kaelen approached, his movements slow and pained. He knelt beside me, his gaze filled with a mixture of concern and something akin to awe. He looked at Barty, then back at me, his eyes lingering on the somehow-undisturbed and now-inert shard.

  “You… you defeated it?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper. He gestured to the remains of the Pyre-cat.

  “Barty did the heavy lifting,” I admitted, wincing as I tried to sit up. “I mostly just tried not to become a human shish kebab. And I think I broke my sword arm.”Kaelen touched his own burnt armor, his gaze distant.

  “The Shadow Lord’s forces are escalating.” He settled heavily next to me, “That shard… what is it?”

  “Just a piece of whatever they were using for their ritual,” I said, carefully avoiding the full truth of my earlier encounter. “I… I took it. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  He nodded slowly and struggled to his feet, accepting my explanation. He offered me a hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he helped me to my feet.

  “We need to move. The village… it is lost. And they will be back.” He looked towards the broken doorway, his jaw tight. “We must find a way to stop this.”

  I looked at him, at his battered form, at the determined glint in his eyes. He was a knight, bound by duty and honor. I was… well, I was Paige Hawking, a waitress who’d somehow stumbled into a fantasy novel.

  “Right,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. My side screamed in protest, but I ignored it. “Let’s go find a place that isn’t on fire. And maybe a decent first-aid kit. My sarcasm isn’t going to heal this arm.”

  With Barty trotting protectively at our heels, and Ser Kaelen leaning heavily on his sword, we stepped out of the burning hall and into the smoldering ruins of the village. Argent was gone, most likely spooked and waiting somewhere outside the village.

  What few remained of the villagers had given up on the buckets and were just watching their world burn. We passed in silence, neither speaking nor being spoken to. We were all, villagers and adventurers alike, broken and unsure of the road ahead. But there is a road, and that’s a good start.