The general's office was on the top floor of Central Command.
Not the briefing room—the office. Wood panels, thick carpet, a window that overlooked the entire city. The general sat behind a desk cluttered with maps and reports. He didn't offer coffee.
"Sit down, Kade."
Aurelion sat. Gatekeeper leaned against his chair, the shard pulsing faintly. The general's eyes flicked to the blade, lingered for a moment, then returned to Aurelion's face.
"I've read your reports," the general said. "About the wyvern. About the temple. About the shard."
"And?"
"And I've decided not to act on them."
Aurelion didn't react. He had expected this. The government was good at listening. It was less good at acting.
"Why?"
"Because I have a city to defend. An army to prepare. And a Demon King who declared war on live television." The general leaned back, his chair creaking. "Your shard. Your gate. They're problems for another day."
"That's a mistake."
"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make." He slid a map across the desk. The paper was worn, creased, marked with dozens of pins and annotations. "Now tell me where he'll strike."
Aurelion looked at the map. It showed the region around Central—the walls, the supply routes, the fortified outposts. Red pins marked known demon positions. Blue pins marked human defenses.
"I don't have intelligence," he said.
"I don't want intelligence. I want your instincts."
Aurelion studied the map. The Demon King's army had been pulling back for weeks. Consolidating. Preparing. The question wasn't where they could strike—it was where they would.
He traced the eastern wall with his finger. The turrets there were older, the crews greener, the terrain rougher. It was the obvious choice—which meant it might be a trap.
But the Demon King didn't need traps. He needed results.
"Here," he said, pointing to a stretch of the eastern wall, about two miles south of the main gate. "It's the weakest point. The turrets are outdated. The terrain favors an assault—they can approach under cover of those ridges."
The general nodded slowly. "That's what my analysts said."
"Then why ask me?"
"Because they used math. You used something else." The general set down the map. "There's another matter. Something you need to be aware of."
He pulled a file from his desk. Inside were photographs—surveillance images of people in dark robes, their faces hidden, their hands raised toward the sky. Some were taken at night, in alleys and basements. Others were in broad daylight, on street corners, preaching to small crowds.
"Demon cultists," the general said. "They've been appearing in the city. Preaching. Recruiting. They think the Demon King is a god."
Aurelion picked up a photograph. The symbol on the robes was familiar—a spiral. The same spiral from the temple. The same spiral from Zarveth's door. The same spiral carved into the shard.
The Cult of Embers, he remembered. That's what they called themselves in my old life. Fanatics. Useless. They spent years preparing for the Demon King's arrival, and when he finally came, they did nothing.
They prayed. They sacrificed. They dreamed of power.
And then someone crushed them. Efficiently. Completely.
He set the photograph down. "They're not a threat."
The general raised an eyebrow. "You sound certain."
"I've seen their kind before. They're desperate people looking for meaning. They won't fight. They won't spy. They'll just… pray."
"And if they're wrong?"
"Then we deal with them when they become a problem. Not before."
The general studied him for a long moment. "You're very calm about this."
"I've had practice."
The meeting ended.
Aurelion walked through the corridors of Central Command, Gatekeeper tapping against his leg. The building was a maze of gray walls and fluorescent lights, filled with officers and analysts who nodded at him as he passed. They knew his face. They knew his name.
They didn't know him.
Ami fell into step beside him in the lobby. She had been waiting, leaning against a pillar, her arms crossed.
"What did he want?"
"To warn me about cultists."
"Cultists?"
"Demon worshipers. They think the King is a god." Aurelion pushed open the doors. The city air was cool, carrying the smell of exhaust and cooking meat.
Ami frowned. "What a bunch of idiots, are they dangerous?"
"No. They're just lost." He paused, remembering. "In my experience, they never accomplish anything. They talk. They scheme. They dream of power. And then someone competent cleans them up."
"Someone like you?"
He almost smiled. "Someone like me. Or the authorities."
"The authorities?"
"They've dealt with this sort of thing before. Cults don't last long when people are watching."
She nodded slowly. "Let's go see where they've been meeting."
The cultists' last known location was a basement beneath a shuttered bakery.
The building was on the edge of the hunter district, close to the walls, close to the warehouses where refugees were processed. The neighborhood was quiet—not abandoned, but watchful. People hurried past with their heads down.
Aurelion tried the door. Unlocked.
Inside, the bakery was empty. The ovens were cold. The counters were dusted. But the floor had been recently swept, and the air smelled of old incense.
The basement stairs were at the back.
He descended. Ami followed, her hand on her blade.
The basement was larger than he expected. A single room, maybe fifty feet across, with a low ceiling and concrete walls. The cultists had been here recently—the candles were still warm, the incense still smoldering.
And everywhere, the spiral.
Carved into the walls. Painted on the floor. Burned into wooden altars. The symbol was crude, uneven, but unmistakable. It pulsed in the dim light, as if the shard in Gatekeeper was resonating with it.
Aurelion knelt beside one of the carvings. The edges were fresh—the wood still splintered, the paint still wet in places.
They left in a hurry, he thought. Someone warned them.
Or something.
Ami stood by the stairs, her back to the wall, watching the shadows. "This doesn't feel like a prayer room."
"It's not. It's a staging ground."
"For what?"
He stood. "For whatever comes next."
He remembered the Cult of Embers from his old life.
They had been a nuisance—nothing more. A handful of desperate souls who believed that the Demon King would reward their devotion. They had gathered in secret, performed their rituals, offered their sacrifices.
And then someone had crushed them.
Not with fanfare. With efficiency. Intelligence operatives had tracked their meetings, learned their names, turned their members against each other. Within a week, the cult was shattered. Its leaders were dead. Its followers had scattered.
I never learned who led that operation, he thought. I didn't care. They were beneath my notice.
Now I need to understand how they think.
He touched Gatekeeper's hilt. The shard pulsed.
They searched the basement for another hour.
Found more symbols. More candles. A stash of robes in a back corner. A journal, half-burned, its pages charred but still readable.
Aurelion picked it up.
"The King has returned. We have seen his light. He speaks to us in dreams. He promises us power. He promises us a place in the new world."
"The hunt is coming. The faithful must be ready."
"We are not alone. There are others. In the city. In the walls. Everywhere."
Ami read over his shoulder. "Others in the walls?"
"Guards. Soldiers. People with access."
"That's… troubling."
Aurelion closed the journal. "It's a fantasy. They think they're part of something grand. But they're just pawns. The Demon King doesn't care about them."
"How do you know?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Not without explaining who he used to be.
"I just do."
They left the basement and returned to the street.
The sun was setting. The city lights were flickering on. The turrets on the walls glowed with soft blue light, rotating slowly, scanning the horizon.
Ami walked beside him. "What do we do about them?"
"Nothing. Not yet."
"They're recruiting inside the government."
"They're recruiting inside the hunter district. That's different. Hunters are watched. Hunters are vetted. If any of them join, we'll know."
"And if we don't?"
Aurelion stopped. Looked at her.
"Then we find them. The way they were found before."
"You keep talking about before."
"There's always a before."
She studied him. "You sound like you remember it."
He held her gaze. "Some things you don't forget."
That night, Aurelion stood on the balcony of his room.
The city glowed below him—a sea of lights, of life, of fragile peace. The turrets rotated. The walls stood. The people slept.
He thought about the cultists. About the journal. About the spiral.
In my old life, they were a joke. Someone swept them aside like dust.
But this isn't my old life. And the Demon King isn't the same.
He's not a distant figure. He's here. Watching.
And the cultists—
They might be useless. But useless things can still cause damage.
He turned and went inside.
Gatekeeper leaned against the wall, its shard pulsing softly.
"I'll deal with you later," he told the blade.
It didn't answer.