Moonlight dripped silver across Velmara's shattered rooftops as Elira slipped through the rubble‑strewn alleys toward the abandoned granary. The air reeked of rot and old magic—ripe for Blackthorn's experiments. She could taste the fear lingering in the darkness.
Inside, cages lined the walls like a grotesque gallery. Pale figures huddled, eyes hollow. At the far end, Dante lay blood‑soaked and unmoving, fangs bared in a silent scream. Elira's chest tightened. She'd never wanted to face him again—yet here he was, a brother in suffering.
With trembling fingers, she pried open the rusted lock on his cage. Dante's eyes flickered when she touched his wrist. Shadows pooled around him as he stirred, rising with bone‑cracking strength. When the first guard stormed in, Dante unleashed a whirlwind of smoke and fangs; Elira followed with a gout of flame that reduced metal bars to slag. Together they cut a path through half a dozen armed men—his razor‑sharp blades in the dark, her blazing aura through the spark‑scarred floor.
When the last guard fell, Dante staggered, voice ragged.
"You… came back."
"I didn't leave you to die," Elira said, pressing a healing herb to his wound. "We both lost families to this war."
He winced as color returned.
"Blood binds stronger than steel. You saved me—now let me save you."
An uneasy pact formed under dripping lanterns: two broken souls, one fiery purpose.