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She’d been through so much more since then. She nearly died multiple times because of the guild, and was kidnapped by bandits when her team had been called to stop raids at a nearby town. She’d seen more death, more blood, and had lost many friends.

Her life had truly been unpleasant.

But it’s mine.

No one could take it away from her. No one could change it. And, if living it meant someone else didn’t have to, she would do it.

Her mistakes were her burdens to bear, and her life was the penance for them. She was all that remained of her parents and Gideon, and until she took her last breath, she would fight for her life and avenge them by killing Demons in their honour.

In the last eight years, she stopped being a foolish little girl who snuck out in the middle of the night where Demons lingered, and she wised up. She sought knowledge, drowned herself in books, and made sure she used her brain and common sense in everything she did.

At least, she tried to.

So, why was she here with the Duskwalker?

Had she made the right decision, or had she made another mistake?I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

Knowing Ingram was likely staring at her made her feel as if she was being inspected while at her worst. He’d even stopped walking, and she didn’t know how long he’d just been standing there, holding her, watching her.

A sob broke from her, and when she tried to wipe her face, she abraded her facial scars with the sleeve of her uniform.

“W-why did you s-stop?” she asked, her voice weak and hoarse.

Instead of continuing their journey, Ingram lowered until he knelt upon the ground. At the same time, he gently moved her, being careful of her wounds, until he forced her legs around his narrow waist. With her arms squished between them, he placed her chin on his shoulder, as he did the same to her, but with his beak.

He wrapped his arms snugly around her.

“I do not know what to say to take this pain away from you,” he stated with a dark tenderness. “But I can hold you, as you did for me.”

In the past, many people had brought Emerie in for a comforting hug, and it had done little to help. They’d told her they understood, or that it was okay, and she hadn’t been able to swallow their lies.

Yet, this Duskwalker did understand. He had loved, and he had lost. He had suffered torment and had come out the other side different and broken – just like her. He didn’t need to tell her, he didn’t need words.

That’s why, when she pushed her arms out from between them and wrapped them around his skull, a shuddering, hollowing cry broke from her. Gripping the small amount of fur at his nape, she heaved against him.

She buried her face into the soft scales on the sides of his corded neck, tightened all her limbs around him, and clung to the first being that truly gave her comfort from their sympathetic embrace. As much as it was soothing, it was painful in a way that was cathartic.

She sobbed against him, wetted his scales with her salty tears, and dug her nails into the backs of his rigid, spikey shoulders when she drew him closer. He squeezed her, and it wasn’t enough to still her heaving chest, but the pressure felt remarkable.

I want him to squeeze me until he pushes out all my pain.

Despite her unbecoming behaviour, she sensed there was no judgement. It allowed her to share this side she had never shown another. To share these cruel and unfair emotions with someone who was a monster, and yet was purer than anyone she’d ever known.

He was huge, and strong, and scary. His body was too hot to be human, too hard and scaley, and yet it created a blanket of security she hadn’t worn since she was a naïve teenager.

Even his scent of burnt sugar and hickory bark smelt inhuman, like he was a part of the forest. Yet its pleasantness cut through the salty tang of her tears and gave her something nice to focus on.

“Even though you have a raven skull, I’m really glad you don’t have wings, Ingram,” she admitted on a muffled whisper, digging her nails harder into his scales. “They would have frightened me.”

“Aleron had wings,” he responded.

“W-were they made of feathers?”

“Yes. They were black ones.”

Emerie shuddered in repulsion at the thought; he would have reminded her of the Demon that tore everything away from her. In some of her nightmares, those soft, fluffy feathers turned into millions of sharp, tiny daggers.

“They were big and comforting,” he continued. “When I was inside them, they blocked out everything but him. The world disappeared except for us.”