Chapter 4

Time froze for an instant.

Urik, kneeling on the stone floor of the tower, could still taste blood in his mouth. His eyes, once gray, now reflected shades of violet and crimson. The black veins snaking along his arm climbed his neck, pulsing as if darkness itself were trying to escape from within him.

On the other side of the room, the three hunters held their formation. The leader, a man with white hair and amber-gold eyes, pointed his dagger firmly. The silver blade pulsed with glowing runes, vibrating as if it recognized the demonic presence—or the pact now coursing through Urik’s veins.

"Urik... what have you done?" murmured one of the hooded figures, a trembling female voice.

Urik didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on his own hands—now claws. They grew slowly, like bony thorns, a living proof of the corruption Melek had injected into him. He inhaled deeply. Every breath burned.

Melek, behind him, appeared absurdly calm. He leaned against the wall as if watching an amusing play. His eyes gleamed when the leader stepped forward.

“By the authority of the Order of Ardrien, I command your surrender, demon.” The hunter raised the dagger above his head. “And for the magical betrayal committed, the sorcerer Urik is hereby sentenced to purification.”

“So dramatic...” Melek sighed, adjusting his horns as if bored by the performance.

Urik rose with difficulty, muscles aching, but rage swelling inside him like a stormy sea. “Purification.” The word echoed like a sentence. They no longer saw him as a man. Not anymore. Only as a corrupted body to be burned in the name of their hypocritical justice.

“I’m still human!” he shouted, his voice reverberating with something beyond natural. “I’m still ME!”

The dagger gleamed.

“That’s not what your mark says,” the leader replied coldly.

Melek narrowed his eyes.

“Urik...” his voice sliced the air like a silk blade. “Choose.”

Time twisted around the sorcerer like a feverish spiral. Killing the hunters would be easy—one gesture, one word, and Melek would burn them alive. But what would remain afterward? More of the demon. Less of himself.

But then he saw the way the hunters looked at him. Not with doubt. With disgust. With fear. One of them, the youngest, even took a step back upon meeting his gaze.

There was no home anymore. No forgiveness.

“They came to kill me...” Urik whispered, bitterness in his tone. “Then let them taste the hell they fear so much.”

He extended his hand. The mark glowed dark purple.

Melek smiled.

“Good choice.”

The air exploded with cursed energy.

Spears of shadow burst from the ground, impaling the first hunter before his protection spell could form. He screamed as he was pierced, his blood evaporating upon touching the profaned runes on the floor. The second conjured a shield of light—but Melek was already upon him, moving like living mist. Claws sank into flesh, and the hunter fell lifeless.

The third — the leader — held his ground. He chanted ancient words in lost Elvish, his blade glowing like a sun. With a roar, he launched himself at Urik.

But Urik was no longer the same.

With a gesture, a wall of bones rose before the sorcerer, deflecting the strike. The mark pulsed like a drum, feeding on adrenaline, on rage — and on the twisted pleasure Melek transmitted through it.

Urik dodged the second strike like a dancer. Then, murmuring a forbidden spell he once feared even to read, he launched his own blade of energy.

The hunter dropped to his knees, his chest torn open, eyes wide. Still alive, but defeated.

Urik approached.

“You condemned me before you heard me.” His voice was deeper now. More... demonic.

The leader spat blood.

“You were already lost.”

Melek appeared at Urik’s side, his hands still stained with blood. He placed a clawed hand on the sorcerer’s shoulder.

“Shall we finish the job?”

Urik hesitated. Then, coldly:

“No. He must deliver the message. Tell the Order... that Urik, the Cursed, has accepted what he is. And that hell does not fear their judgment.”

The semi-conscious hunter was enveloped in a purple mist and hurled from the tower by one of Melek’s spells.

Silence.

Urik collapsed to his knees, exhausted. Yet, at the same time, energized. The heat inside him was no longer just lust. It was power. And a hunger that refused to fade.

Melek watched him in silence for a moment. Then he, too, knelt, locking eyes with him.

“You let me in. Now, sorcerer... there is no turning back.”

Urik tried to speak, but the words died in his throat.

His body trembled. Not from pain. Not anymore. It was the mark demanding... more. More energy. More pleasure. More darkness.

“I need... to control it...” he murmured.

Melek licked his lips, satisfied.

“Or surrender completely.”

And then, in a wicked whisper, the demon added:

“After all, Urik... you haven’t even seen me in my full form yet.”

The world trembled.

And the night — the true night — fell upon the tower.