Eastbridge mourned in silence.
The fires that had consumed the old cathedral were extinguished weeks ago, but their ash clung to the city's bones. What remained of the Ashen Veil scattered like rats into shadowed corners. Yet the air had changed. People stepped lighter, hope flickering in their eyes. They spoke in hushed tones of him—the boy with the fire in his eyes. The Smoke That Walks.
Lucas Thorne.
He was no longer human. Not entirely.
By day, Lucas roamed the outskirts of town, where cultist safehouses once flourished. Now abandoned, some had become dens for addicts and vagrants—people broken by the Veil's long rule. Lucas never approached directly. He watched, learned. Any sign of corruption, and he would return at night. As smoke.
By night, he burned.
Inside him, Malgros stirred fitfully. The demon hadn't spoken since the cathedral collapse, since Lucas had nearly sacrificed them both to destroy the Veil. But the bond remained—silent, simmering, like a coal refusing to die.
Lucas lived in the bones of Eastbridge now—abandoned buildings, rooftops, old train tunnels. Every step he took left a whisper of heat. Every breath carried a promise: I will finish what I started.
But something new haunted the city.
People were disappearing again.
Not like before—not rituals or public executions hidden behind charity fundraisers. These were quiet vanishings. A child lost from a locked house. A woman torn apart inside her bedroom with the windows unbroken.
Lucas found a sigil at the third scene.
Not Ashen Veil.
Something older.
That night, Malgros finally spoke.
"They have come through the breach you made."