All Chapters of The Devil's Broken Doll: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

(Arkael Ashborne)The flames woke him.Not ordinary flames. Not heat. Not light. Something older—something he had not felt in nine hundred and sixty-eight years. The sensation slid through his marrow like a remembered song, one he had sworn never to hear again, one the world itself had tried to forget.Arkael’s eyes snapped open as a violent ripple of magic tore through the Emberborn camp. Fire did not burn here unless they willed it. Their clan—once a legion of proud warriors, now a ragged shadow shielded rut—lived scattered on the volcanic ledges and obsidian ridges of their hidden refuge. Heat was as natural to them as breath. But this—this was different.The air itself shuddered. Ash drifted down from the cavern roof in a slow, shimmering fall, each grain glowing faintly before dimming, as if the mountain had exhaled for the first time in centuries.Embers rose from the ground without spark or source, floating like drifting stars before collapsing into thin ribbons of gold. The ob

(Caelum Ashborne)The ember-flame stretched, sharpening into a rough outline of a man’s face—no clear features, just the impression of strong bone and old scars. Eyes like coals. A crown of shadowed horns made of smoke and memory. Heat radiated off the projection with such intensity that the nearby shadows hissed and shrank back, leaving Caelum momentarily exposed.Arkael Ashborne. Leader of the Emberborn. The man who had taught Caelum to walk on hot stone before he could walk on grass.“You felt it,” Arkael said. Not a question.Caelum swallowed. “You sent it hard enough. The entire palace felt it.”“Not my doing,” his father said. “Hers.”Her flame, then. Unshaped and wild, reaching for its kin without meaning to.Caelum forced his voice steady. “She’s in the palace.”“I know.” There was a thread of hate in Arkael’s tone that could have melted metal. “The surge came from the Devil’s direction. Did you think I would not feel where our Heir was caged?”Heir. Caelum’s jaw tightened. He

(Apollo)He felt it again— the memory of Adelaide in flames, screaming his name, fire curling around her like a lover.He remembered falling to his knees in shock. He remembered fear—raw, real, choking him.He remembered the Queen’s fire, a millennium ago.No. No, no, no.His whole body shook. “You dare compare this fire to her?” he snarled.“My lord—”Apollo grabbed the prophet by the hair and hurled her across the room.She skidded across the scorching stone— then hit the wall with a sickening impact.She crumpled— alive, but broken. Her rosary snapped, bone beads skipping across the floor and melting where they landed.The other scholars flinched. Some turned to flee. Apollo let them run— just so he could chase.He blurred into motion. He was a storm. A hurricane of claws and wings and raw fury. The world reduced to impact and heat and the delicious crunch of breaking bone under his hands.He slammed one demon into the floor.Kicked another into a pillar so hard it shattered.Rippe

(Apollo)Slowly—very slowly—Apollo’s awareness crawled back into place.He felt the weight of his horns. The drag of his wings. The rough scorch of stone under his knees. The lingering taste of ash and blood and fear on his tongue. Every breath scraped like he’d inhaled ground glass, every exhale came out laced with smoke and a frustration that tasted too much like fear.He tried again. “Shift.” His body refused.Pain crackled through his bones as he forced his magic inward, trying to peel skin from scale, shape from monstrosity. He clawed his way toward his humanoid form with sheer, stubborn will.Not for dignity. Not for vanity. For control.He would not be trapped in the war-form. Not again.A snarl ripped from his chest as something inside his spine cracked, sliding back into place with a sickening pop. Muscles constricted. Horns receded by painful inches. His wings shortened, folding closer to his body.It was like forcing a boulder through the eye of a needle. Bit by bit, the be

(Adelaide)“Coward,” she murmured.She sat up, shoving the fur aside, letting it fall to her waist. The air lapped at her bare skin, hot and thick. The faint red glow from the walls painted her in ember-light.She stared at the door. It stared back.She considered screaming again. Considered throwing the water basin at it. Considered pounding her fists until her knuckles bled again just to do something.Instead, she slid off the bed.The smooth stone was warm under her feet, like it remembered fire. She could feel the faint thrum of the palace in the soles of her feet, like standing on the chest of a sleeping beast and praying it stayed asleep.She walked slowly to the door, every step echoing in the strange stillness of the room. She pressed her palm flat against the iron.“I know you can hear me,” she whispered. “Wherever you are.”Silence. Of course.She could imagine him though—horns, wings, eyes like molten coals—standing in some other chamber, doing unspeakable things to souls a