Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 46 Duxtori

*Logan

Logan finished with the handful of demons in the smaller hall and followed Chiara's path into the balcony hall, hand pressed to a deep cut in his abdomen to keep his guts inside. He struggled to hold his daemonium at a half-shift, enough to fight but not so much that he lost control again.

Logan strode across the floor, sword raised warily against the hordes already there. In a single glance, he took in the situation. Chiara, on the cusp of freedom, must have been caught by demons hiding in the great hall. Her wings were tangled in a bola cord. He couldn't run to her, though, not with his wound.

Another demon walked across the dais towards his angel. That bastard Zeigfel. Logan slowed, wrath and rage burning through him. His daemonium almost broke free. As he watched, Zeigfel took a hold of Chiara, who faltered before him.

Then, fuck.

Zeigfel met his gaze. Everything Logan had ever desired came welling up to the forefront of his mind.

Hell played a million different games to fuck with your mind and bend you to its will, but the end goal was the same: to make you give yourself to Hell.

It dangled what you wanted right in front of you...

Zeigfel offered him a seat at the table. Power. Lordship. Legions of his own. Pleasure beyond his imagination. Logan still had the cursed bone coin in his pocket, given to him by the lurker in the corridor right before he went into Pride, proof of Zeigfel's promise.

It was right there in front of him—everything he had ever desired.

Hell dangled what you wanted in front of you, in order to hide the only treasure that mattered.

Logan had been here before, when he was paired against his twin in the arena—when they were in the Hall of Wrath, and Logan had to choose whether to kill him quickly or slowly, because not killing Jeraar was no longer a choice by then.

Hell fucked with him so many times before. He should have run long ago with Jeraar to the Midlands. They wouldn't have lived the centuries that Logan managed on his own in Hell, but they would have died fighting together, the two of them against their enemies.

Everything he wanted was right here, in this hall.

The poison was back, Logan realized and gave a bitter grimace.

Of course the fucking poison was back now. That aching, cold and hot, of death growing larger. He tried to ignore it.

The sword wound in his side wept blood, but muscle and viscera knitted together more with every passing moment. He had to be patient. He couldn't attack the hordes like this, much less an entire legion and the Duxtori, too.

He had to be smart.

But fuck.

His angel, his Chiara, stood in defiance of the darkest lord of Hell, wrapped in chains, wings tangled in a bola.

His heart....

The poison.

Fuck.

In his heart....

Demons weren't meant to love and it was killing him. It wasn't the drop of water from the Fountain poisoning him still.

It was love and it was killing him. He wanted to roar his frustration.

For the first time ever it was all clear to him. The path. The answers. What he had to do, but he didn't know how he was going to do it.

Save her.