Markus opens his eyes into an emptiness that isn’t night but space itself. Stars drift past like dust in a broken lantern, cold points of light sliding through a vast, indifferent dark. He feels weightless, untethered; his heart slams in his chest as if trying to chase something that has already vanished.

  Around him, the darkness shifts to a slow, soft blue. Shapes of light draw together and resolve into a figure robed in starlight. The face that looks down at him is older than memory and younger than a season — a presence made of galaxies.

  “Sapientia,” Markus breathes, hearing the name echo as if it comes from many mouths at once.

  “It is good to hear you, young one,” the voice flows through the void, gentle and impossibly patient. The stars spin in slow circles at her command.

  Markus tries to climb to his feet in the dream and finds himself floating instead, turning as if in a current. “They poisoned me,” he says, voice raw. “The priest—he brought the dragon back. He hurt Liddle. He deserves—

  Sapientia raises a hand, and the motion stills the stars. Her eyes are not unkind, but they are unyielding. “We had a vote, and at three to one, your request for berserk mode is declined.”

  The words hit him hollow. The question rises in his chest before he can stop it. “What do you mean? If I kill him—if I end him—then it’ll be over. He can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “Perhaps.” Sapientia’s tone carries the weight of something older than revenge. “Perhaps your blade would end a life. But you must ask what ends follow that single strike. There are followers—angry people who look for purpose in another’s shadow. If you remove their leader, they do not simply vanish. They turn. They look outward. They take a new target. They burn brighter, wider.”

  Markus’s hands clench, and even in the dream the motion feels like sand slipping through fingers. “No. I don’t want more to die. I… I only want to keep people safe.”

  “Listen,” Sapientia says. The stars tighten into a ring around him, and her voice narrows to a single, clear tone. “Your heart is not wrong to ache. But wisdom is not the same as wrath. To answer violence with a final violence risks unmaking what you strive to protect. You will know what to do — not by extinguishing yourself in a blaze, but by finding where your blade and your mercy can both hold.”

  The light softens, folding into itself until the stars shrink into a pale, steady point. Sapientia’s last words drift after him as the void begins to unravel.

  “You will face him soon. Remember when to stop.”

  White floods his vision—then warmth.

  Markus jolts awake, eyes darting around the small wooden room. A faint smile tugs at his lips as he spots the frogs hopping lazily across the floorboards. Their soft croaks fill the quiet morning.

  Beneath the blanket, Liddle stirs at the sound of his movement. She blinks sleepily and mumbles, “Oh, the dragon’s brother… you again, sweetie?”

  Markus chuckles softly and leans down to kiss her forehead before pulling her closer. Liddle purrs faintly, her tail curling around his arm like a ribbon.

  “I was just thinking,” Markus says, his voice low, “about the priest. If he really can bring the dragon back… it’s—”

  Liddle presses a finger gently to his lips. “I understand,” she whispers. “No need to force it.”

  Markus rests his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For always making you worry.”

  Liddle’s eyes soften. “It’s good to have you back,” she breathes before closing the distance between them.

  Their lips meet in a slow, lingering kiss. Markus slides a hand to her back, pulling her close, the world outside their little room fading until there is only warmth — and the quiet sound of their breathing falling into sync.

  After a long moment, Markus pulls away just enough to breathe. He pushes himself up and stretches, his joints popping as he straightens to his full height.

  Liddle’s eyes widen, her face lighting up. “Markus! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you stand.”

  Laughing, Markus scoops her up and spins her around, her surprised giggle filling the room. “I know — I feel great! Whatever you and Ange gave me worked wonders.”

  When he sets her back down, Liddle’s cheeks are flushed, her tail curling happily behind her. Markus brushes a few strands of hair from her face, letting his fingers linger for a moment.

  “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s see if Ange’s awake. We should talk about getting my Mahoishi back.”

  Markus and Liddle step into the dim kitchen. Ange stands at the workbench, carefully slipping sleeping potions into empty wine bottles. She caps one, sets it aside, and looks up as they enter.

  “Good to see you on your feet,” Ange says, placing the finished bottle on the table. “I’ve been working on a way to get Priest Urban to stand down without you having to fight him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I fight him?” Markus asks, cautious. “As long as I don’t kill him—”

  Ange’s eyes harden. “Markus, have you ever won a clean fight? You lost to the dragon, you got poisoned—your win-rate isn’t great. You’re going to need a better strategy.”

  The word dragon lands like a stone. Markus breathes slowly, keeping himself steady.

  “We drug the wine,” Ange continues, blunt and practical. “He drinks. He sleeps. We take the stone and run.”

  Markus lets out a long sigh. “I don’t love the idea, but I see what you mean.”

  He slips the cap back onto the bottle and tucks it into the satchel at his side. They move along the side of the church, keeping to the shadow of the buttress until they reach a narrow service door. Ange crouches, works a thin pick into the lock, and the mechanism clicks open with a soft sigh.

  Inside the anteroom, a single wooden table holds a neat row of bottles — one of them still warm where it was handled recently. Markus’s stomach tightens. He steps forward, hands steady, and digs out the potion-filled bottle he brought. In a practiced motion, he swaps it for the priest’s wine — slipping the sleeping vial into the spot the priest’s bottle occupied, then capping and sliding the real bottle into his satchel.

  “Done?” Liddle whispers.

  “Done,” Markus answers. He swallows and eases the door shut behind them. They creep back toward the main hall just as the sermon begins.

  Priest Urban’s voice fills the pews, smooth and sanctimonious. “Let us pray to the Lord,” he intones, “for the Rapture is near, and the sinners will be purged.” His gaze slides—too deliberately—to the trio near the back. “We must rid ourselves of those who poison the faithful.”

  He points—slowly, theatrically—at Markus.

  The world narrows.

  In one fluid motion, Urban reaches into his pocket. Markus steps forward, sword half-drawn by reflex. “Give me back the stone that’s mine,” he calls.

  “You mean this one?” the priest says, cool as ice.

  He produces the Mahoishi and—rather than offering it—flings a small knife toward Markus.

  Liddle’s reflex is faster. She slams up an ice wall; the knife strikes with a sharp chime and skitters harmlessly to the floor.

  Markus lunges, blade flashing. He drives Urban back and presses the sword to the priest’s throat. The hall drops into a tense, held breath of silence.

  “No one moves,” Markus says, voice low and steady. “Or I kill him.”

  He keeps the blade tight against Urban’s skin and reaches for the Mahoishi—

  —but the priest jerks away at the last second and, with startling speed, baits and strikes, landing a brutal punch across Markus’s face.

  Markus staggers but recovers, snapping the Mahoishi on. The battle whips flare to life, crackling with light.

  Urban slips from reach, and chaos erupts.

  Guards surge forward. Some hesitate, caught between fear and loyalty. Shouts ricochet through the hall as men try to surround Markus. Others lunge for Liddle and Ange.

  Markus flicks his wrist, the whip cracking across a guard’s face. “Over here!” he shouts, holding the portal open behind him.

  Liddle sprints past, diving through the swirling light just as two worshipers pull guns from beneath their coats. They level them at Markus and Ange.

  “Move!” Markus barks, snapping the whip again. The Life-Giving Blade shoots forward, slicing through one gun’s barrel and sending it spinning out of the shooter’s hands.

  But the other gun fires.

  The blast tears through the church, echoing off the stone walls. Markus’s body jolts—then goes still.

  He looks down. Blood blooms across his shoulder, warm and fast. His legs buckle, dropping him to one knee. The Mahoishi’s glow flickers as he struggles to stay upright.

  “Markus!” Liddle screams from the other side of the portal.

  Ange’s eyes widen in horror, her hand flying to her own weapon.

  The priest raises his voice above the chaos. “Tie her up!” he roars, pointing at Ange. “Burn the demon at the stake!”

  Markus grits his teeth, summoning what little strength he has left. The Life-Giving Blade hums in his hand as he slams it into the floor. A second portal snaps open beneath him—glowing, unstable, but real.

  “Not today,” he mutters.

  With the last of his strength, Markus shoves Ange toward the light and falls through after her.

  He hits cold stone hard. Blood seeps fast across his shoulder, and his vision flickers. The sounds of chaos fade until only the priest’s voice lingers, distant and hateful.

  “Tie the demon up!” Urban shouts. “We’ll burn her like a witch!”

  Markus groans, breath shaky. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  The Mahoishi pulses weakly in his hand. With one final effort, Markus slams the blade into the ground. Light erupts beneath him, a swirling portal that snaps open and swallows his fading body whole.

  When Markus opens his eyes again, he’s lying in the grass—right outside Alexia’s house. The air is cold and sharp against his skin.

  “Markus!” Alexia’s voice cuts through the haze. She sprints toward him, staff already glowing. “Hold on!”

  She drops to her knees beside him, pressing her Mahoishi to his shoulder. Healing light floods the wound, slowing the bleeding, then sealing it shut.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He winces but forces the words out through the pain. “The priest—he caught Ange. They’re going to burn her.”

  Alexia’s brow furrows, anger and disbelief colliding in her eyes. “Markus, no. You don’t have to go back there. Why are you risking your life for that Satori?”

  “She’s a good person,” Markus says quietly, meeting her gaze. “I know you haven’t seen her best side, but I have.”

  Alexia hesitates, the light in her staff dimming as the healing finishes. “No, Markus… why you? Why does it always have to be you?”

  Markus pushes himself up, his whole body trembling, but his resolve unshaken. He reaches for his sword; the Mahoishi glows faintly in response, like it already knows his decision.

  “Because no one else will,” he says simply. “And as the wielder of the Life-Giving Blade, I have to.”

  Before Alexia can stop him, he slams the weapon against the ground. A new portal bursts open beneath him, light swirling like fire.

  “Markus!” Alexia shouts—but he’s already gone.

  The church is waiting.

  When Markus steps through, smoke fills the air. The scent of burning wood and incense stings his lungs. At the center of the hall stands a wooden cross—and bound to it, head hanging, coat torn—is Ange.

  Markus stands in the doorway, the heat from the torches washing over him. The crowd is wild—cheering, howling, raising their wine cups high as they jeer at the girl tied to the cross. Their laughter echoes off the stone walls like a fevered chant.

  He takes a slow, steady breath and draws his sword. “Hey!” he shouts, his voice ringing through the hall. “I’m not going to allow this!”

  Dozens of heads snap toward him. For a heartbeat, the room freezes—

  then the crowd erupts in boos. Curses fly. Empty bottles arc through the air toward him.

  But before any hit, a strange hush ripples through the hall.

  One by one, people begin to sway. The jeering falters into confused murmurs, then slurred protests, and finally—silence—as most of the congregation collapses in a drunken sleep.

  Urban’s eyes widen, then narrow in furious realization. “Idiot,” he snaps at one of the acolytes. “You mixed up the bottles!”

  He turns back toward the cross, rage contorting his face. “Whatever. Today we burn the witch!”

  Markus’s grip tightens around the Life-Giving Blade.

  He charges, cutting through the staggering few who remain conscious. The first man lunges with a club; Markus parries and shoves him aside. Another swings from behind, but Markus twists, the whip snapping across the man’s wrist.

  He’s almost halfway to Ange when someone slams into him from the side.

  The impact knocks him to the ground, stealing his breath. Rough hands seize his arms; another presses hard between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the stone.

  Blows rain down—fists, boots, frantic and vicious. Each hit drives the air from his lungs, but he refuses to give in. With a hoarse grunt, he wrenches his sword arm free and swings. The flat of the blade cracks against a man’s skull—hard enough to drop him, but not kill.

  Another lunges. Markus strikes again.

  One by one, his attackers fall—unconscious but alive

  The crowd’s fury wavers as the Mahoishi’s blue glow flares brighter, reflecting in their suddenly terrified eyes.

  He doesn’t stop.

  With a final surge of strength, Markus forces himself through the last cluster of bodies and steps straight into the circle of fire burning beneath the cross. Heat sears his legs, but he raises the sword high and slashes downward.

  The ropes split cleanly.

  “Got you,” he breathes. Ange falls forward, and he catches her in his arms. Before the smoke can rise any higher, Markus slams the blade into the ground. Light spirals outward—then swallows them both.

  In a blink, they reappear inside Ange’s house. The smell of smoke and ash still clings to their clothes.

  “Quick—whatever you need to do to move it, do it now,” Markus says, his voice hoarse.

  Ange stumbles to the table, fumbling for her vials. Markus catches her before she collapses and grabs two health potions from the shelf. He uncorks both—pressing one gently to her lips before she can protest, then downing the other himself.

  Color slowly returns to her face. She blinks, her voice unsteady. “I thought you were going to leave me, Markus. I thought my life was over.”

  “You know I could never do that,” Markus says softly.

  Ange turns away and steps into the adjoining room—a chamber lined with tall, silver-framed mirrors. Their reflections shimmer faintly, each surface rippling like water. She raises her hand and brushes her fingers across one of them. The glass stirs to life, revealing a distant image—Markus’s home, its quiet yard bathed in morning light.

  She reaches for a lever beside the mirror and pulls it. The air vibrates with a low hum. Through the windows, Markus watches as the scenery outside begins to blur and twist, colors spiraling like a storm of light. Then, with a sudden jolt, everything settles.

  Outside the window now stands his backyard—familiar, still, safe. The house has moved.

  Ange exhales shakily and gives him a tired smile.

  When Markus opens the front door, cool air rushes in—and Ange collapses.

  She falls to her knees with a cry, her skin blistered and burned, the fire’s mark etched deep across her arms and shoulders. The smell of char and ash clings to her as she trembles, unable to move.

  “Ange!” Markus drops beside her, slipping an arm behind her back. “Hold on—I’ve got you.”

  He lifts her carefully, cradling her against his chest as he steps out into the sunlight. His legs shake beneath him, every breath sharp with pain.

  By the time he reaches the yard, his strength gives out. He drops to his knees, still holding Ange, and then finally collapses onto the grass beside her.

  “Daddy!”

  Sally’s voice rings across the yard. She sprints toward him, eyes wide with panic. “Daddy, are you okay?!”

  She skids to a stop, turns, and shouts over her shoulder, “I’ll get Mom!”

  Sally dashes back inside, grabs Liddle’s hand, and drags her outside.

  Liddle freezes for a heartbeat at the sight—Markus sprawled on the ground, blood soaking his shoulder, and Ange motionless beside him. Then she drops to her knees, checking both their pulses with shaking hands.

  “Hang on, hang on,” Liddle whispers, fumbling for her phone. Her thumb flies across the screen. “Alexia—please, it’s Markus. He’s hurt. Bad. And Ange… she’s burned all over.”

  Alexia arrives moments later, staff glowing as she kneels beside Markus. “This should help—”

  “No.” Markus lifts a trembling hand and points at Ange. “Her first. She needs it.”

  Alexia blinks, taken aback. “That’s the same demon, isn’t it?” she murmurs, eyeing the unconscious woman. “You really need to start numbering them—it’s getting hard to tell.”

  “Alexia,” Markus says, tone firm despite the pain.

  He draws the Life-Giving Blade and plants it into the ground between them. Its crystal pulses with light.

  “Use it. Channel through the sword—it’ll make the magic stronger.”

  For a moment, Alexia hesitates. Then she nods and places her hand on the blade. A soft blue glow spreads from the sword into her staff and then pours gently into Ange’s burned skin. The air shimmers as the wounds begin to close—blistered flesh smoothing, angry welts fading until only faint scars remain.

  Ange draws a ragged breath. Color slowly returns to her face. She blinks, dazed, then looks up at Alexia and Markus.

  “How are you feeling?” Alexia asks quietly.

  “Better,” Ange says after a moment. “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me,” Alexia replies flatly as she rises to her feet. “I would’ve just left you to die.”

  She tilts her head toward Markus. “He’s the one you should thank.”

  Ange’s gaze drifts to Markus—still slumped on the grass, breathing hard but smiling faintly. Her lips part, and for the first time, she looks almost unsure.

  Alexia exhales and turns her glowing staff toward him. “Alright, your turn.”

  Healing light spreads from her hands to Markus’s wounds. He winces as warmth floods through him, but the pain fades quickly. When she finishes, he pushes himself upright with a small smile.

  “Thanks, Alexia. I promise next time I call you, it’ll be for something fun.”

  Alexia smirks. “Oh, like our park dates? I miss those.”

  Markus groans, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t call them that—Liddle can hear you.”

  “Aww,” Alexia teases, grin widening. “Don’t want your demon wife getting jealous?”

  Markus laughs and gives her a light punch on the shoulder. “You never change.”

  For a moment, it almost feels like the old days—before the dragons, the poison, and the endless battles.

  Then Markus yawns, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

  “You can go to bed, Markus,” Alexia says gently, lowering her staff. “I promise the world isn’t going to end while you rest.”

  He chuckles, but instead of heading to his room, he turns toward the hallway where Ange is resting.

  “I should at least make sure she’s alright first,” he murmurs.

  Ange looks up at him, weak but alert. “Can you walk?”

  Before she can finish the thought, Markus slips an arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting her gently. “I’ve got you,” he says softly.

  She doesn’t argue.

  The frogs hopping across the hallway seem to guide them, their soft croaks echoing through the dim house as Markus carries her upstairs. He pushes open the door to her room—a simple space lined with books, half-finished potions, and scattered papers—and lowers her carefully onto the bed.

  He adjusts the blanket over her shoulders. “If you need anything,” Markus says quietly, “just let me know.”

  Ange turns her head toward him, eyes half-lidded, her expression softer than he’s ever seen. “I think all I want right now,” she murmurs, “is to enjoy the quiet.”

  Markus nods, smiling faintly. “Then you know where I am.”

  He steps out of the room and closes the door gently behind him. The frogs continue their slow, steady chorus as he descends the stairs. Outside, the night air feels cool and clean against his skin.

  He spots the kids nearby, laughing as they explore the new houses that now dot the field.

  “Hey!” Markus calls, jogging toward them with a tired grin. “Mind if I come see your new homes?”

  Kanna brightens immediately and leads the way down the row of buildings, the other kids hurrying after her, their laughter echoing in the open air.

  “These are so cool!” she exclaims, pushing open one of the doors. “Thank you so much!”

  Inside, each room is small but cozy—like a tidy motel suite. A twin bed sits beneath a reading light mounted on the wall. A wooden dresser and nightstand fill the space without crowding it. In the corner stands a tiny kitchenette with a mini-fridge and a stovetop, and beyond that, a small bathroom complete with a real bathtub.

  “And we each get our own room!” Kanna cheers, bouncing on her heels.

  Markus smiles and rests a hand on her head. “I’m glad you like it. If you need anything, just let me know, alright?”

  Kanna nods enthusiastically and throws her arms around him in a quick hug before darting back to join the others, who are already playing games and comparing rooms.

  Markus stands for a moment in the hallway, watching them laugh—the sound filling the once-empty house like sunlight breaking through clouds.

  As he steps through the doorway, Sally runs straight into him, throwing her arms tight around his waist.

  “Daddy!” she squeals.

  He lifts her easily and swings her side to side. “I missed you so much!”

  Markus laughs, light and genuine. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

  “Me and Kanna played tag and hide-and-seek and built a fort and—”

  Sally keeps going, her words tumbling over each other as Markus carries her farther inside.

  “That all sounds wonderful,” he says with a grin. “You’ll have to tell me more later, okay?”

  Liddle sits curled on the couch, her hoodie loose around her shoulders. Markus sets Sally down, then joins Liddle, sinking into the cushion beside her.

  “So,” he says softly, “what do you want to do now?”

  Liddle smiles and rests her head in his lap. “I’ve got you now,” she murmurs. “Forever.”

  Markus brushes his fingers through her hair, lingering briefly along the curve of her horns. “You look tired,” he says gently. “Want to go to bed for a bit?”

  Before Liddle can answer, Sally giggles from across the room.

  “Aww, Mommy and Daddy are gonna kiss!” she teases, hiding her face behind her hands.

  Markus groans good-naturedly. “You’ve been spending too much time with Alexia.”

  He scoops Liddle into his arms, earning a surprised squeak as he carries her toward their room.

  “So,” she says in a mock-sultry tone, making exaggerated kissy faces at him, “you planning to make love with little old me?”

  Markus chuckles and brushes his thumb along a strand of her hair. “Tempting,” he admits, “but we should wait until we know it’s safe. Human–demon biology is… complicated.”

  He smiles softly. “Besides, I’d rather just cuddle for now—and watch your tail twitch when I poke it.”

  “My tail doesn’t twitch!” Liddle protests.

  Markus reaches back and gives it a gentle poke.

  It twitches immediately.

  Liddle’s cheeks puff in a pout, her tail curling tightly around her.

  “Your tail’s cute,” Markus says, leaning in to kiss the side of her neck.

  His heartbeat begins to race.

  “It’s just been… so much,” he says, his voice shaking. “I… I thought I wasn’t going to make it home.”

  The words crack mid-sentence, and before he can stop himself, the tremor in his voice turns into a sob. His whole body shakes as he presses his forehead against Liddle’s shoulder.

  Liddle doesn’t speak at first. She just holds him—arms steady, her heartbeat slow and sure against his. “It’s okay,” she whispers eventually, brushing her fingers through his hair. “You’ve been brave long enough. I can be brave for you right now.”

  Markus’s breath hitches. “I just… I keep seeing it. The fire, the smoke, the faces…”

  “I know,” she says softly. “But you’re here now. You made it back.”

  He clings to her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. Slowly, his breathing steadies, the tremors easing as her warmth anchors him. The room around them is quiet except for the faint hum of the frogs outside and the soft rustle of blankets.

  Liddle leans her forehead against his. “You’re safe,” she murmurs. “You did enough.”

  Markus lets out a long, tired breath—the kind that carries every ounce of tension leaving the body. His eyes flutter closed, and his hand finds hers, holding it tight.

  Within minutes, his breathing evens out, his body relaxing completely. Liddle smiles faintly and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.