The Forsaken died hard, as they always did.

Gall drove his Mordblade through the rebel Caretaker’s luminous form, feeling its essence being drawn into the weapon, feeding the daemon’s endless hunger. The creature had been beautiful once—all Caretakers were—but rebellion had twisted it into something monstrous.

Or perhaps that was just what Gall told himself to make the killing easier.

“Clean strike,” Drakar said, lowering his own blade. The older Shatain had more scars now—the Forsaken fought viciously when cornered. “You’re improving.”

“Thank you.”

They stood on a hilltop outside the city, the Forsaken’s corpse already dissolving into motes of light. Below them, Tenoach spread out in the evening gloom, thousands of lives being lived in ignorance of the supernatural battles fought in their defense.

Or perhaps not in their defense. Gall had learned enough in six months to question whether the High-King’s war against the Forsaken was truly righteous, or just another form of control. The Forsaken were Caretakers who’d rebelled against their celestial masters—wasn’t that, in its way, a form of freedom?

But such thoughts were dangerous. Shatain didn’t question. They served.

“You’re thinking again,” Drakar said. “I can see it in your face. Stop.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“I’m not your commander. I’m your mentor. Your warden. The one who keeps you from becoming what Ekhart became.” Drakar sheathed his Mordblade with practiced ease. “He forgot why we do this. Forgot everything except the hunt and the power. Became cruel because cruelty was easier than compassion. I won’t let that happen to you.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because someone has to. Because if I don’t, the daemon wins.” Drakar started walking down the hill toward their horses. “You made a terrible choice, Gall. Threw away everything for revenge. But you’re stuck with the consequences now, so you might as well try to be something more than a monster.”

Gall followed, the Mordblade heavy at his hip. In the distance, the city lights were beginning to glow. Somewhere down there, Master Brennan was teaching a new apprentice. Somewhere, people were living everyday lives, building normal futures, making normal choices.

He would never have that. Never be normal again. Would carry the daemon and the Mordblade and the weight of his choices for the rest of his immortal life.

But perhaps Drakar was right. Perhaps he could be more than just a monster. Perhaps he could serve with some shred of honor, could hunt the Forsaken without losing whatever small piece of humanity he had left.

It wasn’t redemption—he’d forfeited that when he drew Ekhart’s blade. But it was something.

It would have to be enough.

As they rode back toward the city, Gall thought of his mother one last time. Wondered if, wherever she was, she could see what he’d become. Hoped she couldn’t.

The daemon stirred in his mind, already hungry again, already looking for the next hunt.

Gall pushed it down and kept riding.

It was all he could do.

* * *

THE END