Chapter 60: Threads of Amber
Clash of Dawn
The training grounds trembled as Tasiya's blade collided with Kunji's shield, golden sparks scattering like shattered sunlight.
"Focus on the periphery," Kunji pressed, his voice taut. "What connects the banquet's excess to the slums' decay?"
Tasiya pivoted, her boot grinding sand to glass beneath primordial force. "Men."
The truth hung unsaid—both venues thrived on male dominance. Yet when Kunji gestured toward the market district, she followed without protest.
Shadow's Revelation
Nathaniel's quill hovered over the journal entry:
"Gods crave worship; demons hunger for essence. But what sustains a being forged of both?"
A shadow engulfed the rooftop. Eighth's Archdemon, Etto, tossed a wineskin with a predator's grin. "Writing your memoirs, old man?"
The demon lord's gaze never strayed from the distant figures of Tasiya and Kunji. "Merely documenting… curiosities."
Etto's laughter rattled stone. "Curiosities like blending light and dark?" His claw tapped Nathaniel's wrist—where faint golden veins pulsed beneath the skin. "Teach me that trick, and I'll spare your pet human."
Market Masquerade
Amber-tinted dust clung to Tasiya's lashes as she navigated the bazaar. Every stall confirmed Kunji's earlier claim:
Silversmiths hawked collars etched with "Eternal Devotion"
Florists bundled crimson sage—a bridegroom's obligatory offering
Weavers displayed veils thicker than prison bars
Kunji pressed a honey-drenched fig to her lips. "Taste the hypocrisy."
The sweetness curdled as a merchant's shout pierced the din: "Twenty camels for the widow's third husband!"
Pact's Price
Dusk found them at a desert shrine, its stone altar stained with generations of bridal blood.
"Why me?" Tasiya traced a weathered fertility rune. "You've no shortage of devotees."
Kunji's ceremonial dagger gleamed as he severed a lock of his hair—Eighth's courtship ritual. "Because you'll never kneel."
His palm bled dark essence into an ancient chalice. The terms hung unspoken:
His strength shielding her from Eighth's schemes
Her freedom intact, yet bound by reciprocated trust
Tasiya's fingers hesitated. Memories flashed—Nathaniel's journal, Etto's taunts, the creeping gold in her own veins.
"Not yet," she murmured, turning toward the howling dunes. "But keep the dagger sharp."
Veins of Gold
(Intercut with Nathaniel's rooftop confrontation)
Etto's wings blotted the sun as dark tendrils lashed at Nathaniel. "Show me the abomination you've become!"
The demon lord's counterstrike defied nature—light and void spiraling into a helix that atomized the attack.
Etto froze mid-air. "You're not hybridized…" Realization dawned. "You're converging them."
Nathaniel examined his palm, where golden filaments now threaded through obsidian essence. "An… unexpected side effect."
The journal page fluttered open, revealing a sketch of Tasiya's scar—the one that mirrored his own.
Chapter 61: Fractured Bonds
A Bouquet of Refusal
Two bouquets lay on the café table—one blazing with vermilion and gold, the other a frost-kissed tapestry of indigo and ivory. Tasiya set down her fork, swallowing her last bite with deliberate calm.
"I already have Nathaniel," she said, meeting Kunji's gaze across the untouched floral offering.
The half-demon's knuckles whitened around his teacup. "I know."
"Cecily has Lightforce too. She's unbound."
"I know."
Silence pooled between them, broken only by the metallic shink of Tasiya's knife sawing through roasted lamb. "We train together because our skills matched," she continued, her voice glacial. "Not because I crave another chain."
Kunji flinched. For months, he'd parsed her every gesture—the way she dismissed polygamy debates, her indifference to SS-rank hierarchies—as tacit approval. Now her words carved deeper than any blade: "You assumed wrong."
When he gestured to the second sigil behind her ear—the one mimicking dual pacts—Tasiya's laugh held winter's bite. "This was always Nathaniel's mark. I don't collect demons like trinkets."
The half-demon fled soon after, leaving his rejected bouquet to wilt.
Absence in Velvet
Caspia Manor's halls echoed with hollow luxury. Tasiya traced Nathaniel's abandoned armchair, its velvet still dented from his weight.
"Gone sparring with Lord Et," a maid giggled, oblivious to the ice thickening Tasiya's veins.
She arranged the blue-violet blooms in a funerary urn, their petals bruising under her grip. Water too cold, she noted. Like his silence after yesterday's fight.
The bath scalded her skin raw. Tasiya pressed the pact sigil—once, twice—but the bond throbbed mute.
Glaciers and Ghosts
In First District's glacial womb, Nathaniel watched Et batter ice walls with manic fervor.
"Frost's been nesting here since the Third Cataclysm!" The Eighth District lord howled, tail lashing as another frostbite bloomed on his claw. "Help me dig, damn you!"
Nathaniel remained statue-still. Centuries had taught him patience—and the cost of trusting allies.
When Et finally shattered the inner sanctum, the sleeper within gleamed like a cursed jewel: Lord Farsht, hair fused to ice, lips curved in eternal mockery.
Et's punch rattled the crypt. "Wake up, you frostbitten—"
A glacier-blue eye snapped open.
Blood on Snow
Annette counted breaths between blizzards—seven, eight, nine—as the outsider stumbled into her kill zone.
The bone dagger found his throat before snow settled. She cradled his convulsing form, warmth leaching into her bearskin cloak.
Good leather boots, she noted, stripping the corpse. No frostbite—city-softened.
Her tribe's teachings guided her hands:
Muffle death-rattles with snow.
Plant false tracks eastward.
Lace the boots with wolfsbane thorns.
By dawn, three more outsiders would freeze prettily for the ravens.
Chapter 62: Threads of Resolve
Amaro's Descent
The training hall's torches guttered as Amaro slumped against the wall, fresh blood crusting his temple. Redthorn's shadow loomed over him like a funeral shroud.
"Instructor… am I beyond redemption?" His voice cracked—a far cry from the princeling who'd once charmed courtiers with honeyed lies.
Redthorn's gauntlet clanked against her thigh. "Regret tastes bitter, doesn't it?" Her tone scalded. "You chased a mirage. Now you drown in its reflection."
The truth hung unspoken: You gambled your pride on a woman who never needed your protection.
When Amaro fled to his chambers, even his contracted demon, Gemma, recoiled at his stench of desperation. "Master, your pulse races like cornered prey."
"Undo Carmela's enchantments!" he demanded, clawing at his chest.
Gemma's pity curdled. "There are no enchantments."
The silence that followed smelled of burnt parchment and shattered delusions.
Sicily's Cage
Elsewhere, Sicily of the moonbeam curls trembled in a nest of embroidered pillows. The letter in her hands bore Eighth's wax seal—and the cloying musk of Fourth's Archdemon, Firth.
"Return before the frost claims your roses, little songbird."
Her finger traced the glyphs, each stroke resurrecting memories:
Damp stone bleeding lichen into her gowns
Firth's serpentine gaze dissecting her every flinch
A gilded cage masquerading as sanctuary
When guards reported a missing nun, Sicily's scream lodged in her throat. Another pawn vanished. Another warning.
Carmela's Gambit
Dawn found Carmela coiled in her solar, polishing a coil of golden gauze. The fabric hissed—a living thing woven with Eighth's volcanic glass and betrayal.
"Archdemons circle like vultures," her steward warned.
Carmela's laughter slithered through the room. "Let them watch their feathers burn."
At the arena, she unfurled her weapon—a sunrise given sentience. The crowd roared.
Tasiya answered with a warhammer crucifix, its shadow cleaving the sand.
"Your toy blunts easily," Carmela purred, gauze rippling like liquid fire.
Tasiya's grin mirrored a whetstone's bite. "Then let's see whose faith shatters first."
Collision of Crowns
The first strike birthed a sandstorm.
Carmela's gauze lashed Tasiya's arms, glass filaments etching bloody filigree
Tasiya's crucifix cratered the earth where Carmela had stood milliseconds prior
Primordial light clashed with Eighth's obsidian essence, fracturing the air into prismatic shards
Spectators shielded their eyes, yet none dared blink.
"Is this…" a novice stammered, "…what gods witness when titans quarrel?"
Carmela's taunt cut through the chaos: "Still clinging to your puppet strings, Saint Candidate?"
Tasiya's retort came between shattered ribs and reborn adrenaline: "Strings make excellent garrotes."
Chapter 63: Dance of Blades and Whispers
White Inferno
Tasiya's muscles coiled, her Lightforce sharpened to lethal precision. Across the arena, Carmela—Kunji's sister and Eighth District's deadliest dancer—spun her gilded veils with lethal grace.
The first strike was a declaration:
Tasiya's Lightforce erupted like a supernova, bleaching the sands to glass.
Carmela's Darkflux surged in response, tendrils morphing into serpents that hissed and recoiled from the purity.
Spectators scrambled backward as primal forces collided. Cecily clung to Kunji's arm, her awe laced with terror: "They're rewriting the desert's bones!"
Veils and Vows
Carmela's laughter rang crystalline as she shed her outermost robe—a signal.
Phase 1: Entrapment
Metallic threads glinted within her silks. Tasiya's boots frayed with every step, the veils' edges sharper than assassins' tongues.
Phase 2: Seduction
The dancer's hips swayed, each pivot calibrated to hypnotize. Men wept; women bit their lips bloody. Tasiya alone stood unmoved, her crossblade raised like a heretic's defiance.
Phase 3: Revelation
Lightforce detonated at Tasiya's feet, shredding veils mid-pirouette. Chains lashed outward, ensnaring Carmela's silks in a mimicry of her own tactics.
"You're no fun," Carmela pouted, though admiration flickered beneath.
Stormbringers
The sky cracked.
Nathaniel descended like judgment incarnate, his shadow merging with Tasiya's Lightforce in a helix that scorched the air. Beside him, Et materialized with a showman's grin—and Farsht, the glacial lord, stumbled into the carnage like a sleepwalker.
Critical Exchanges:
Nathaniel to Tasiya (via pact-bond): "Merge, don't oppose."
Et to Carmela (mouthing over thunder): "Play along!"
Farsht to No One: "…frost lilies…need more frost lilies…"
Crescendo
Carmela lunged at Nathaniel, veils billowing into phoenix wings. Tasiya intercepted with a chain-whip strike that sang of territorial fury.
"Twenty moves," Carmela bargained mid-leap, "then we pretend this was civilized."
Tasiya's blade grazed her throat. "Ten."
The dancer's veils stilled.
Aftermath
Cecily vomited from sensory overload.
Kunji traced Tasiya's silhouette with something akin to grief.
Farsht began methodically freezing sand into fractals.
Nathaniel's hand found Tasiya's lower back—a silent "well fought" that burned brighter than any victory cheer.
Chapter 64: Fractured Revelations
A Dance of Sparks
The arena sand hissed beneath Tasiya's boots as she signaled Nathaniel with a flicker of their pact sigil. Across the field, Carmela's golden gauze coiled like a serpent awaiting its strike.
Nathaniel's next blow shattered Et's obsidian shield with surgical precision—a controlled implosion that scattered debris just enough to sell the illusion. Twenty choreographed exchanges later, both sides sheathed their weapons to thunderous applause.
Carmela's parting kiss lingered like poison ivy on Tasiya's cheek.
"No blush? No stutter?" The Eighth District queen sighed, her cedar-and-rain fragrance clashing with Tasiya's sweat-soaked tunic. "Even stones weep under summer rains, yet you…"
Tasiya wiped her face with a gauntlet. "Your perfume interferes with combat focus."
Tailored Truths
In their chambers, Nathaniel's tail materialized—a quicksilver ribbon betraying his forced nonchalance.
"You've been consulting Abby about demonic anatomy," he accused, ears burning crimson as Tasiya experimentally tugged the appendage.
"Merely verifying tactical weaknesses." Her fingers traced the velvety underside. "Though it seems more… liability than asset."
The bouquet she'd gathered—indigo asters veined with frost—thrummed faintly on the windowsill. Nathaniel's gaze softened. "The gray ones mimic your eyes during twilight."
A beat.
"You sulked."
"You noticed."
Their laughter tangled, sharp and bright, as the demon recounted his expedition to First District's glacial crypt.
Caverns of Flesh
Twenty turns past the weeping stalactites, Mayrada's breath crystallized. The chamber ahead writhed.
Humanoid shapes fused with limestone—mouths gaping in silent screams, limbs petrified mid-contortion. Lud's shadow fell across her trembling form.
"Failed prototypes," he crooned, prodding a twitching mass. It mewled in High Imperial: "Hurts… make it stop…"
Mayrada's herb satchel slipped from numb fingers.
Lud caught it mid-air. "Your predecessor dissolved three subjects' lungs with mismeasured wolfsbane. Will you fare better?"
Chapter 65: Harvest of Hollow Crowns
The Alchemist's Bargain
Meralda's breath hitched as the thing at her feet writhed—a mockery of humanity with eroded features. Luther's shadow loomed behind her, his voice silk over steel:
"Heal them. Name your herbs."
The laboratory reeked of dragonblood ivy and desperation. Vials of demonic ichor glowed like poisoned honey on Luther's belt. When one test subject clawed at him, he hurled it against stone with casual violence.
"Why… save them just to continue experiments?" Meralda whispered.
Luther's laugh chilled her marrow. "To birth true Ashscale Plague."
He pressed closer, breath hot on her neck: "Succeed, and I'll reunite you with Mary."
Pistol District: Sisters' Gambit
Florora twirled her fan, its ostrich plumes scattering sunlight across the parlor. "Father always said demons breed chaos. Why fret?"
Delilah slammed the scandal sheet onto mahogany. Headlines screamed of District Three's collapse. "Fairness isn't a luxury, Florora. It's survival."
Their butler, Rien, bowed with glacial precision: "Demons adapt. Your sister's weapons auction… timely."
Florora's grin sharpened. "See? Even hellspawn know—feed the wolves or become meat."
Cathedral Carnage
Sidney's wings shredded twilight as he descended upon the Holy Order's spires. Two guard-demons intercepted—and died mid-question, their hearts glistening in his talons.
The Dance:
First Kill: Ribcage torn through a feigned surrender
Second: Throat slit during a negotiator's plea
Third through Tenth: Hearts harvested like overripe fruit
Cardinals scrambled, crimson robes pooling like bloodstains. "Compromise!" one shrieked.
Sidney's smile mirrored broken stained glass. "Compromise requires survivors."
Motherpool's Requiem
By midnight, the cathedral's demonic nursery lay silent. Sidney dumped his gory haul into the primordial magma pool, watching bubbles fade to stillness.
Memories flickered:
Mary's laugh as she explained "quantum physics" from her world
Nathaniel's blade shearing through his wings in District Eight
The Motherpool's first whisper—promise of a demonless epoch
When the last ripple died, Sidney's claws dug into his palms. Emptiness tasted sharper than betrayal.