Per aspera ad astra

One human garnered its attention more than the rest. The staff in his hands moved with purpose, every twitch of it pulling the demon’s gaze like a hook sunk into old muscle. Gabe. His presence was loud—not just in sound, but in intention—and the demon responded as it had learned to over centuries: with destruction.

When the crackling pulse of energy struck near its feet, light flaring briefly against stone, the demon reared back with a guttural roar. Flames gathered at the corners of its maw, and it hurled another fireball in retaliation, the projectile searing through the air with a scream of heat, aimed squarely at the one who dared provoke it.

Its focus wavered, briefly, as a tremor passed through the hall. Something else was happening—power was shifting. Across the room, another force had begun to coalesce, Jareth’s words calling forth echoes from the veil. The demon’s head turned slightly, enough to register the mounting energy. It could feel the dead stirring.

But Gabe didn’t let up. Another flare of light snapped near its feet, dancing wild arcs of electricity across the stone floor. The demon snarled, chains dragging behind it as it pressed forward. Each step left behind scorched impressions, as if the very ground resisted its passage.

Then the spirit came.

The ritual reached its peak, and the hall split with a blinding pulse of golden energy. From the aether, the towering figure emerged—ancient armor gleaming with spectral light, its presence an affront to the demon’s dominion. This was not just another mortal. This was a challenge.

The demon stopped. The humans—flickering, fragile things—were suddenly beneath notice. Its hollow gaze fixated on the radiant amalgam Jareth had called forth.

Flames surged around its shoulders as it reeled back one arm. The fire it summoned now was different—deeper, older, laced with the corruption of ages. With a wrenching twist of its torso, the demon hurled the inferno toward the armored spirit, the blast trailing black embers that burned the air itself.

The hall groaned with pressure. Gabe and Jareth were no longer targets. They were witnesses.

@Jareth
@Gabriel Poulin

“Witnesses, huh?” Gabe muttered, watching the inferno tear across the room toward Jareth’s armored spirit. “That’s rich. I don’t do sidelines—I cause problems.”

He darted into motion, slipping along the cracked edge of the hall, cloak whipping behind him. The fire skimmed his shoulder as he rolled behind a fallen pillar, teeth clenched against the searing heat.

From his coat, he pulled a small, battered flask. The label was half-burnt off, the contents shimmering with a sickly blue glow. He popped the top with his thumb and downed the mana potion in one swallow, grimacing at the bitter sting.

“Tastes like piss and regret,” he growled, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it’ll do.”

Behind him, the demon’s roar echoed through the corridor, chains rattling like war drums. Gabe didn’t flinch. He needed seconds—just a few—for the potion to hit his veins, to spark the magic itching beneath his skin back into motion.

He shoved another rune into the floor beside him, one hand pressed flat as he whispered a trigger word under his breath. The rune pulsed, dormant—for now—but waiting.

“Just need a breather, not a bloody miracle,” he muttered, glancing toward Jareth and the spirit now clashing with the demon.

Then he smirked.

“Buy me a heartbeat, Jareth. I’ll make sure it’s the last one that thing ever hears.”

A golden radiance defiled the demon’s lair—sacred brilliance trespassing upon unholy ground.

There he stood—tall, resolute, a living monument of defiance clad in divine light, daring the abyss to blink first.

Your name, Jareth demanded, voice sharp with reverence and command, the irises in his eyes aglow—still tethered to the spirit he had conjured from beyond.

Speak it, champion.

The answer came, deep and resonant, like thunder rolling across ancient stone into Jareth's mind:

"Vigil."

In that breathless instant, the air itself bowed in reverence. Spirit and summoner—bound not just by magic, but by unspoken purpose—moved as one.

Then came the inferno.

Not just a fireball—no, something far worse. Hate-fueled calamity unleashed from the pit. Yet Vigil surged forward, unflinching.

He met flame with valor and conviction—shield raised high, crashing through the heat with a defiant roar. The blast struck, wreathed the knight in fire—but it did not touch him. It parted around him like waves against a rock, his shield glowing, punished, but unyielding.

Behind him, Jareth gritted his teeth, fingers clenched tight around his staff. He held the arcane threads together with every shred of focus he could summon. The shield, the enchantments, the bond—every flicker of mana coursing through him, he poured into the fight like lifeblood.

He would not let it falter.

“Buy me a heartbeat, Jareth." Gabe instructed.

Guess that means he has a plan, Jareth whispered, his voice tight with concern.

Then, the second command rang out—clear, resonant, absolute:

Vigil! Hold it down!

And the knight obeyed.

From Vigil—a warrior's cry. The kind of sound that made the very walls flinch. With a thundering stride, he closed the distance, sabatons cracking stone, shield raised like a crescent moon forged in heaven’s wrath. He slammed into the demon, with elegance, and with the full, crushing weight of judgment incarnate.

Vigil pressed in—unyielding, precise. He drove the shield into its chest, hoping to stagger the creature.

@Ivy