The Wrath Ring fairgrounds were a riot of noise, heat, and barely restrained violence—an endless, roaring organism fueled by anger, pride, and cheap alcohol.
Fire pits dotted the open fields like glowing wounds in the earth, each surrounded by cheering imps throwing bones, coins, and the occasional tooth into the flames for luck. Barbed carnival prizes swung from warped wooden stalls: stuffed hellbeasts missing eyes, knives chained to hooks, live snakes in glass jars labeled WIN ME OR DIE TRYING. The smell was overwhelming—burnt meat, sulfur, sweat, gunpowder, and blood, all mixed into something uniquely Wrath.
This wasn't a festival meant to distract people from suffering.
This was a celebration of it.
Max and Loona walked along the outer edge of the chaos, deliberately keeping to the shadows cast by tall fences and stacked crates. They were both tall by Hell's standards, and here—among a sea of compact, thick-built imps—they stood out even more than usual. Heads turned. Conversations paused. A few glares lingered too long.
Loona didn't care.
She leaned against a post near a knife-throwing booth, lazily scrolling through her phone while occasionally glancing up to watch the carnage unfold. Nearby, two imps were beating each other senseless in a dirt ring while a crowd screamed bets over the clash of fists and horns.
"Gotta admit," Loona said, tail swaying idly, "even if the food here looks like recycled garbage, watching these idiots beat the crap out of each other is kinda therapeutic."
Max folded his arms, eyes tracking the crowd automatically—counting exits, noting weapons, identifying who was drunk enough to be unpredictable.
"Wrath doesn't do subtle," he replied. "If it doesn't leave scars, it's considered a waste of time."
They stayed well clear of the central barn—the epicenter of the festival—where Blitzø was almost certainly either starting a fight, losing a fight, or loudly insulting someone important enough to kill him. Max didn't need to see it to know it was happening.
Loona shifted her weight, ears twitching.
Her stomach growled—quiet, but not quiet enough.
She scowled and pressed a hand against her midsection. "Traitor."
Max glanced down at her, amusement flickering across his face. "You hungry again?"
"Don't say it like that," she shot back, but her ears flattened slightly. "You still got those… steak bites? The ones you were bragging about earlier."
The last word came out softer than she probably intended.
Max smiled.
"I do," he said. "But I've got a better idea than just handing them to you."
Loona narrowed her eyes. "That sentence has never led to anything normal."
"Fair," he admitted. "Still—give me your ring."
She frowned immediately. "Why?"
"So you can stop pretending you're not hungry every five minutes," he teased gently. "Trust me."
She hesitated. Not long—but long enough for Max to notice. Then, with a small huff, she slid the silver band from her finger and dropped it into his hand.
Magic stirred.
It wasn't loud or flashy—just a low, pulsing pressure, like the air itself was holding its breath. Crimson light threaded with shadow wrapped around Max's fingers as he worked, murmuring an incantation so quiet it was almost more intent than sound.
The ring shimmered, its surface briefly liquefying before settling again—unchanged in shape, but heavier somehow. Older.
"There," Max said, handing it back. "Indestructible. Can't be stolen. And now it's linked directly to my shadow storage."
Loona slipped it back on, flexing her fingers. "Okay… but what does that actually mean?"
"It means," Max said, stepping back, "you don't need me hovering every time you want food. Just… give me a minute to organize things."
Before she could ask another question—
He vanished.
Not teleported. Not dissolved.
He simply melted into his own shadow, leaving behind nothing but cooling air and the faint echo of magic.
Loona stared at the empty space.
"…Rude," she muttered, crossing her arms. "Could've at least said bye."
She leaned back against the post, waiting.
Minutes passed.
The festival raged on. Someone fired a gun into the air. A nearby stall caught fire and was immediately used as a barbecue pit.
Then—
A sharp, shrill whistle sliced through the noise.
Blitzø.
Loona winced. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
She pushed off the post and jogged toward the barn, already bracing herself.
By the time she arrived, the situation had gone exactly as expected.
Gunshots cracked. People screamed. Moxxie was shouting something about angles and cover. The barn doors exploded outward as Loona kicked them open hard enough to rip them clean off their hinges.
Moxxie stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own tail as Striker vaulted through a side window, boots kicking up dust as he vanished into the night.
"DAMMIT!" Blitzø yelled, sprinting toward the opening before skidding to a stop. "HE GOT AWAY!"
The floor behind them rippled.
Shadows twisted.
And Max rose from them like something dragged up from deep water.
Blitzø spun on him instantly. "AND WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU, YOU OVERPOWERED FURRY PROBLEM?!"
Max brushed dust from his coat calmly. "Working on something for Loona. And I couldn't intervene with Striker anyway."
His voice dropped, just a little.
"Though he already tried to kill me earlier."
The room went still.
Moxxie lowered his rifle slowly. "…You knew it was him?"
"Blessed pistol," Max said, eyes flicking to the weapon in Moxxie's hands. "Same type. He's lucky I was in a good mood."
Blitzø groaned. "Great. Just great. Add 'murder cowboy' to the list of shit I gotta deal with."
Then he smirked at Loona. "And try not to fuck during the festival, okay?"
Loona's face went nuclear. "DAD!"
She stormed out before Max could stop her.
Max turned to Blitzø, unimpressed. "You really don't know when to shut up."
"Eh," Blitzø shrugged. "Runs in the family."
Max found Loona near the stalls again, leaning against a wooden post with her arms crossed and her jaw set tight. Her ears flicked when she sensed him approaching.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"I'm gonna murder the next person who brings that up," she muttered, kicking a rock. Then, after a beat: "So… you gonna show me how this ring thing works or what?"
Max smiled. "Gladly."
He guided her toward a patch of shade cast by a crooked stall. "Find a dark spot. Focus on what you want. Reach in. It'll feel cold—like chilled water."
"Sounds gross," she muttered.
Curiosity won anyway.
She crouched, pressing her clawed hand into the shadow.
Her fingers slid through it like black liquid.
She flinched. "It's cold! And kinda sticky!"
"You get used to it," Max said, grinning.
Her hand brushed something warm. Solid.
She pulled back, staring at the steaming steak bites in her palm. The smell hit her hard—rich, real, comforting.
She popped one into her mouth.
Her eyes half-lidded instantly. "…Holy hell."
Max chuckled. "I reorganized everything so you wouldn't grab something raw. Or worse—one of Octavia's rats."
Loona froze. "You keep rats in there?"
"Frozen," Max said calmly. "Nothing alive survives long between shadows. Food's safe."
She grabbed another handful. "Good enough."
He draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as the Harvest Moon cast them both in amber light.
"Eat as much as you want," he said softly. "I bought out half a warehouse topside just to stock it for you."
Loona leaned into him, tail flicking lazily.
For a rare moment, Wrath's chaos faded into background noise.
Two out-of-place souls.
Sharing warmth.
Surrounded by fire.