Hellfire

“Minister Frollo, the gypsy has escaped.”

“What?”

“She’s nowhere in the cathedral. She’s gone.”

“But how?” Frollo snarls. “Never mind. Get out, you idiot. I’ll find her. I’ll find her if I have to burn down all of Paris.”

The door slams shut, leaving Frollo alone with the flames. Or nearly alone. He notices, out of the corner of his eye, the puff of black miasma, as something materialises out of the shadows. He can’t see it clearly in the flickering firelight, but every so often he catches a glimpse of a catlike shape, and buttons sewn on in place of eyes.

“Who’s there?”

“A friend,” the creature in the shadows says. “An ally. If you want to capture this … gypsy girl of yours … I can give you a weapon.”

Frollo peels his lips back into a sneer. “A weapon? And what would you want in exchange?”

“There’s someone here I want dead as well. One whose very nature invites decay and destruction wherever he goes,” the creature says. “It will benefit you to see him dead as well. If he’s allowed to remain in this world, it will inevitably fall to ruin.”

“And what is this weapon?”

The creature waves a paw. Behind him, looming up out of the firelight, is something vast and shadowy, wreathed in flame, horned and furious.

“A demon,” Frollo whispers.

“A Heartless,” the creature says. “So named Ifrit.”