The sky above the estate had begun to dim, stained in the gray-orange hues of a dying firestorm. Smoke still curled from the cracked ground where Reapers had once stood, their remnants swept away by the wind. The battle was over, but none felt victorious.
Slacovich was the last to leave the grounds.
He turned away from the blackened soil where Ara had once been, his shoulders set with a grim finality. "Nicholson," he said.
A single word, but it carried the direction of the entire clan.
But before they moved out, Tyler went to Ara's room to get her urn. In his heart, she'll always be with him. As Tyler, regrouped with them, they all saw the glow of the golden urn, and the gentle breeze that caresses their bruised and wounded bodies.
"Seems like Ara's worried about us." Tyler, gripped the urn closer to his chest.
"Seems like it." Li, gave Tyler as smile. "That even in her death, she still cheered for us".
They started to move out together, battered and bruised, blood drying on their skins. The journey was silent. No one dared break it. Not even Diego, whose sarcastic remarks usually filled the air like smoke after battle. Not this time.
Nicholson lay east, nestled beyond the veil of forest and mountain, far enough to be forgotten, close enough to matter.
Once a haven for hunters, it had been prepared with caution and foresight: a safehouse, built into the earth itself. Hidden, reinforced, untouched by time and war. A place only spoken of in passing, a myth even to the younger hunters. But Slacovich remembered. And so did Sofie.
When they arrived at the outskirts, they found it untouched. Iron-bound doors stood half-buried beneath overgrown vines, the land itself trying to conceal its secret. With a flick of her hand, Sofie whispered to the shadows, and the earth responded. The doors groaned open.
Inside, it was dark, quiet.
But safe.
Harry was already there, standing near the entrance, a hand resting protectively on Ania's shoulder. Relief broke across his face when he saw them. "You made it," he whispered.
"We had no choice," Slacovich replied, voice gravel rough. "This is all that's left."
They filed in slowly, each member of the Demonfire clan finding their place in the forgotten halls. Sofie took a spot by a broken window, the last rays of twilight casting her silhouette in sharp contrast. Tyler leaned against the stone wall, tending to his wounds in silence. Li sat cross-legged, sword across her lap, gaze unblinking.
They didn't speak of the battle.
They didn't need to.
The air reeked of it.
Diego finally muttered, "This place smells like dust and regret."
Harry cracked a tired smile. "Then it suits us."
The safehouse wasn't meant for comfort. Just shelter. Bunk beds lined the walls. A rusted sink groaned with water. But it stood strong, even after years of abandonment. And for now, that was enough.
Slacovich looked to Ania, her face pale but calm, seated quietly beside a small fire Harry had managed to light in a metal barrel. She didn't say anything, but when she met his eyes, it was clear she knew.
Ara's sacrifice. The Reapers. The war that now breathed louder than ever.
They all knew.
Slacovich closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself to feel tired. Truly tired. Just this once.
The sound of boots echoed through the corridor, measured, unhurried, but heavy with weight.
Nicholson emerged from the far hallway, followed by Carolina. Both went hurriedly the moment they knew the Demonfires made it safely to the safehouse.
Slacovich opened his eyes and looked up first.
"Nicholson," he greeted with a nod.
Nicholson's eyes swept the room, taking in the sight of them, bruised and bloodied, leaning on shadows and silence to stay upright. His expression faltered just slightly. Then he let out a slow breath.
"You all look like death gave you a handshake and forgot to let go," he muttered.
No one laughed.
His eyes lingered on Sofie, still standing, but her aura dimmed under the strain. Then to Li, whose hands trembled slightly despite her closed eyes. And Tyler, who winced every time he shifted.
"I can see it," Nicholson said at last, stepping into the room, voice lowered with concern. "The silver… it's deep. Lodged close to the bones. It's slowing your regeneration. Your systems are trying to heal, but they're being choked from the inside."
He glanced toward the darkened ceiling. "I'm sorry for the state of the safehouse. I didn't expect to open it again… let alone for you."
Carolina rested a hand gently on his arm, her silence full of shared guilt.
Harry stood from where he knelt beside Ania. "It's not the house's fault," he said firmly, slipping on a thick, reinforced glove that shimmered faintly with a blue-tinted sheen. "You gave us somewhere to breathe. That's more than most have."
He moved over to Tyler first, crouching beside him. "This'll sting," he warned softly.
Then, with a careful touch, the glove sank toward the wound, almost magnetized to the embedded silver. Tyler gritted his teeth as the metal shivered, then slid free with a hiss.
Harry dropped it into a reinforced vial and turned toward the others. "One by one. I'll get it all out."
Diego muttered, "Hope your glove's stronger than your bedside manner."
Harry smirked, unbothered. "I've been working on a new serum too," he added, his voice more serious now. "Experimental. Not quite refined, but it's designed to bind to regenerative cells, amplify them. Could offset the damage you're all carrying."
Li opened her eyes, narrowing them just slightly. "And the risk?"
Harry glanced at the vial now glowing faintly with silver residue. "Less than what you've already survived."
"Also, I'll be checking on this silver shards in my lab, after handing each one of you the serum."
He continued working, moving with silent precision from one Demonfire to the next. Every extraction brought a sigh of relief, a lessening of the burn beneath their skin. The silver was losing.
Slacovich sat quietly, watching it all unfold, his fingers still curled into fists. "Ara would've survived," he said without looking up.
Harry didn't respond right away. He just moved to the next warrior, his voice low but clear.
"Don't start being dramatic Slacovich, it won't suit you."
Everyone felt into deep silence, remembering Ara's sacrifice in her battle with Stacy.
Outside, the wind stirred.
But inside, the healing had begun.
Tomorrow, they'd prepare for what was next. Train. Recover. Bleed again if they had to. But for now…
They were safe.
And for one single night, that was victory enough.
Elsewhere, far from the safehouse, far from the ash-covered battlefield, the shadows moved with a different rhythm.
Volton stood at the center of a vast chamber, his silhouette cutting against the dark red glow of pulsating veins embedded into the walls, organic, like the room itself was alive and feeding off his rage. The air around him crackled faintly, thick with blood magic and corrupted silence.
He clenched his fists, then released them. The veins along his arms bulged, crawling up to his neck, his face, pulsing with power that had once waned, but now surged with full recovery.
The failure burned.
The Reapers, his creations, had been torn down. Contained. Killed.
And the Demonfires were still breathing.
His veins throbbed harder, skin stretching over muscle as power swelled in furious waves. "Defective trash…"
He slammed his palm against the stone altar at the room's center. The impact fractured the obsidian slab, silver dust erupting from the cracks.
His eyes narrowed into slits glowing with crimson fury. But then…
He laughed.
Low at first. Then louder. A wicked, guttural chuckle that echoed through the chamber like a hymn of madness.
"Let them bask in their little victory," he sneered, tilting his head back. "Those Reapers were nothing. Defects. Barely stabilized. If they're struggling with two... what happens when I send three? Four?"
His lips curled into a devilish grin. "Hundreds?"
He paced the room slowly, arms spread as if addressing a phantom audience. "I don't need to waste my perfected ones. Not on the Demonfires. They're not worth it."
From the far corner of the room, movement stirred.
On a long, curved couch sat two figures, hands intertwined, silent, unmoving, their presence cold and unreadable. They didn't react to Volton's outburst. They didn't need to.
The other, reclined with one leg over the couch's armrest, flipped a dagger between fingers with utter boredom. A yawn escaped him as if he'd rather be anywhere else.
And the last...
Stood by the window.
Motionless.
Staring out at the storm brewing beyond the glass. Lightning danced across the clouds in the distance, illuminating sharp eyes locked in deep contemplation.
These were not the defects.
They were the perfect Reapers.
Volton's grin deepened as he glanced at them.
"My children," he whispered with reverence, almost awe. "The world doesn't know what it's up against. And when it does----"
He turned back toward the altar, dragging his fingers through the silver dust, leaving trails like runes.
"----it'll be too late."
Behind him, none of the perfect ones spoke.
They didn't need to.
They were waiting.
And unlike the defects, they wouldn't fail.