Chapter 3: The Devil's Due

Chapter 3: The Devil's Due

The coordinates Kael had given her didn’t lead to a sterile office or a quiet home. They dropped her into hell.

Or, at least, a very convincing mortal approximation of it. The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning fuel and melted rubber. Red and blue lights strobed across a nightmarish tableau of twisted metal, painting the rain-slicked highway in frantic, pulsing strokes. A luxury sedan, now a barely recognizable hunk of mangled steel, was engulfed in flames that hissed and roared against the downpour.

This was Elara’s new office.

She stood unseen on the median, a ghost amidst the chaos of the living. Firefighters shouted, paramedics moved with grim urgency, and the wail of sirens was a constant, piercing scream. For them, this was a tragedy. For her, it was a collection.

TARGET LOCATED: THORNE, MARCUS. STATUS: EXPIRED. SOUL-BINDING DETECTED.

Elara’s gaze passed through the wall of fire and the crumpled chassis. She saw him. The spectral form of Marcus Thorne was still strapped into the driver’s seat, his expression a mask of dawning terror as he watched the first responders fail to reach his body. His soul was a flickering, panicked light, but it wasn't the primary feature.

The real problem was the thing attached to it.

Using the strange, new sight that had earned her a penalty, Elara focused. This was no simple, silver thread of love. Coiled around Thorne’s soul was a greasy, black cable, thick as her wrist and pulsating with a sickening, malevolent rhythm. It looked like it was woven from congealed greed and desperation, and tiny, barbed hooks dug deep into the soul’s essence, siphoning its light. This was the demonic pact Kael had mentioned. It was uglier than she could have imagined.

A low growl, like the sound of grinding stone, echoed in the ethereal plane. A presence was here, guarding its prize. A smog of pure malice began to coalesce in the passenger seat beside Thorne’s soul. “Mine,” the voice rumbled, a sub-sonic threat that vibrated in Elara’s bones. “The contract is fulfilled. The property is mine to collect.”

Elara tightened her grip on her scythe, its ethereal glow a lonely beacon against the inferno. Her heart, which no longer beat, hammered with a phantom rhythm of fear. This was it. Her first suicide mission. The thought of Chloe’s message, a tiny spark of warmth in the cold void of her existence, hardened her resolve. She had to survive this. For Chloe.

“Sorry, but there’s been a change in management,” Elara called out, stepping through the shimmering heat haze. “The universe is foreclosing on this asset.”

The smog swirled, forming two glowing, red embers that fixed on her. “A Reaper whelp. Kael sends children to do his dirty work now?” The voice was mocking, ancient. “Flee, little ghost, before I unmake you.”

Elara ignored the taunt, her focus entirely on the barbed, black tether. She couldn't fight this thing head-on. Kael’s training had covered basic soul-severing, not demonic pest control. But her thread-sight gave her an advantage. She didn’t just see the chain; she saw its structure. She saw the knots of power, the anchor points where the hooks dug deepest.

She lunged forward, not at the demon, but at the soul. The scythe became an extension of her will, its glowing edge aimed not to slash, but to unpick. The demon, Xylos, roared in fury as it realized her intent. A tendril of shadow lashed out, striking her across the chest. The impact was brutally solid, sending her stumbling back with a psychic crackle of pain. It felt like being hit by a train made of pure spite.

WARNING: ESSENCE-SHELL INTEGRITY AT 82%.

Ignoring the System’s unhelpful update, Elara pushed through the pain. She had to be faster. She ducked under another sweeping tendril and brought her scythe up in a precise, surgical arc. She didn’t cut the main cable. She sliced through the tiny, intricate barbs connecting it to Thorne's soul.

One by one, they snapped. With each cut, a psychic shriek echoed through the veil, and the black cable writhed like a wounded serpent. Thorne’s soul, freed from the parasitic drain, began to shine brighter.

“Insolent gnat!” Xylos bellowed, its form swelling, becoming more solid. The smog thickened into a hulking, vaguely humanoid shape of shadow and fire, its red eyes burning with rage. It was done playing.

Elara made the final cut. The main cable snapped free from the soul with a sound like a breaking anchor chain. Immediately, she swung her scythe in the practiced, clean motion of the harvest. The blade passed through Thorne's soul, severing its last tie to the mortal plane. A small, terrified orb of light was now free, hovering beside her. Collection complete.

But she had made a fatal error. In her focus on the pact, she hadn’t considered the aftermath. The demon was no longer bound to Thorne. It was free, enraged, and its full attention was now on her.

“You have stolen my meal, Reaper,” Xylos snarled, its voice a chorus of damnation. “Now I will feast on you.”

The demon lunged. Elara raised her scythe to block, but it was like trying to stop a tidal wave with a stick. The weapon was knocked from her hand, skittering across the ethereal pavement. A clawed hand of shadow and embers seized her, lifting her off the ground. A crushing pressure enveloped her, her essence-shell cracking and groaning under the strain.

INTEGRITY AT 45%... 30%...

Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. This was how it ended. Ground into cosmic dust on the side of a highway. Kael had known this would happen. He’d sent her to her death.

Just as the pressure intensified, ready to shatter her completely, a new presence entered the battlefield.

The temperature dropped instantly, the roaring flames of the car crash seeming to dim as a cold far more profound than the rain swept over the scene. A man stood a few feet away, his back to the wreckage. He hadn’t been there a second before.

He was cruelly, unnaturally beautiful, with a face that belonged on a fallen angel sculpted from marble. Long, platinum blond hair was slicked back from his face by the rain, and his eyes… his eyes were a piercing, impossible shade of amethyst. He wore ornate silver-inlaid armor over black garments, and in his hand, he held a scythe of his own—a wicked, corrupted thing of twisted obsidian that seemed to weep a slow, black ichor.

Xylos froze, its grip on Elara faltering. A new emotion radiated from the demon, overwhelming its rage: terror.

“Lysander,” the demon rasped, its voice trembling. “The Heretic.”

The beautiful man, Lysander, offered a slow, cold smile. It didn’t reach his amethyst eyes. “Xylos. Still preying on the desperate and foolish, I see. Some things never change.” He took a step forward, his movements possessing a liquid, predatory grace. “Release the girl. She is with me.”

“She is a Harvester of the old order! An agent of Kael!” the demon protested, its form shrinking back.

“And you are a nuisance,” Lysander said, his smile vanishing. He raised his corrupted scythe, not in a swing, but in a simple, almost casual gesture. The black ichor that dripped from its blade shot forward, not as a liquid, but as a bolt of pure annihilation. It struck Xylos dead center.

There was no explosion. No grand sound. The demon simply… unraveled. It dissolved into screaming, black dust that was instantly extinguished by the rain, its final, silent shriek absorbed by the night.

Lysander lowered his weapon. The immense pressure on Elara vanished, and she dropped to the ground, gasping for non-existent air. She scrambled to retrieve her own scythe, its gentle light seeming childish next to the monstrous weapon Lysander wielded.

He turned his full attention to her, his amethyst eyes sweeping over her from head to toe. It was a gaze that felt like a physical touch, analytical and possessive.

“Well, well,” he purred, his voice a silken venom. “Kael has found himself a new little fledgling.” He took a slow step toward her. “That little trick with the threads… severing the anchors instead of the chain. Clever. Kael never taught you that, did he?”

Elara stared, speechless. How did he know about the threads? Who was he?

He stopped before her, close enough that she could see the intricate, alien patterns on his silver armor. He tilted his head, his cruel smile returning. “Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her silver hair. “My name is Lysander.”

He let the name hang in the air for a moment before delivering the final, world-shattering blow.

“Kael didn’t mention me? I’m hurt. After all, he was my master, once.”