Page 17

As I tug the coat back on, he stands, wings folding behind him. The span of them, though damaged, is still intimidating. I imagine him in full flight, blotting out the sun with those leathery sails. A creature shaped by war and corruption, forced under a monarchy’s spell, yet somehow still fierce enough to break a ritual circle.

He must feel my scrutiny. “Ready?” he asks, his voice gruff.

I nod and follow him through another series of twisting alleys. The hush between us is uneasy, but neither of us breaks it with idle chatter. My world is shifting with every step, and I’m struggling to keep pace. Yesterday, I was a kitchen slave, scrabbling for scraps. Now, I’m allied with a demon who demands total obedience but offers me a chance at life—and, possibly, answers about my lineage.

We pause at a dilapidated gate that opens onto a busier thoroughfare. A wave of midday clamor greets us; pushcart vendors hawking wares, donkey-drawn wagons rumbling over the stones, elves in sleek attire strolling as if they own the world.We melt into the crowd, or at least as best we can with Malphas towering over everyone. But the illusions he conjures—thin veils of shadow—blur his horns to the casual eye. If someone looks too closely, they might see a monstrous silhouette, but so far, passersby appear distracted.

I keep my hood low, head down. My stomach clenches each time I see a guard, but we manage to shuffle past unnoticed. The color and noise of this district are a stark contrast to Lowtown’s squalor. Stalls overflow with exotic fabrics, glass-blown trinkets, and vibrant flowers. Arcane crystals hang from decorative stands, emanating faint glows. Carts with steaming street food waft scents of sizzling fish and spiced rice. The throng moves in a tide, carrying us forward.

Malphas slows near a stall selling cheap leather bracers and belts. A squat, bald elf behind the counter barks prices at potential customers. My companion fishes out a single coin from somewhere beneath his damaged armor. “We’ll need a belt to hide your knife,” he murmurs to me, even though I don’t currently have a blade. He glances around, spots a battered dagger tucked in a corner of the stall.

I start to protest, why would he arm me?—but he tosses the coin onto the elf’s counter. The merchant snatches the payment, eyes flicking warily over Malphas’s bulk, then hands over the belt and dagger with trembling fingers. The entire exchange is over in a blink.

We slip into the crowd. I loop the belt around my waist, tucking the small blade at my hip. The weight feels strange yet comforting. Malphas’ reasoning is obvious, a weapon might be necessary if we split up or if he’s cornered by too many foes to protect me single handedly.

Suddenly, a disturbance erupts down the street. Dark elf guards, distinctive in black leather armor emblazoned withsilver snake emblems, shove through the throng. People scatter, cowering. The guards bark commands, “Halt! Clear the road!”

My heart jumps. For an instant, I think they’ve found us, but their attention is elsewhere. Two battered humans in tattered clothing stand pinned against a wall, tears streaking their cheeks. The guards jab them with polearms, demanding they produce identification. The helpless pair stammers about lost papers, fear etched in every line of their bodies.

A wave of anger surges through me. I know exactly how that ends. The crowd gives them a wide berth, eager to avoid the guards’ scrutiny. Malphas catches my arm before I can do anything foolish.

“They’re not after you,” he warns, voice tight. “Drawing attention will doom us both.”

I cringe at the ugly truth. If I intervene, I’ll be arrested on the spot, or worse. My nails press into my palms, but I let him pull me away. The guards’ shouts fade as we push deeper into the flow of traffic. Yet guilt gnaws at me. I escape while others still suffer. The memory of Lowtown’s misery, the child I fed stale bread, the endless cruelty… it all weighs on me.

Malphas’ hold on my arm lingers, as though he senses my turmoil. He doesn’t speak—no hollow reassurances—but there’s a flicker of empathy in his gaze. Maybe he understands what it is to be powerless against a monstrous system. We keep moving until we reach a more discreet side street.

I notice a series of run-down buildings with cracked tile roofs. Malphas halts by one bearing a half-faded sign: a stylized raven perched on a sword. Though the windows are boarded, I sense movement inside. Another black-market contact? Or an abandoned safehouse?

He tests the door. It opens with a groan. Inside, a musty corridor leads to a wider space crammed with mismatched chairs, dusty shelves, and a solitary table piled with old ledgers.A single figure sits in the shadows, hunched over the documents. At our entrance, the figure springs upright, revealing a silver-haired elf wearing a threadbare vest and ink-stained gloves. His sharp features tense the moment he sees Malphas’ imposing shape.

“Malphas?” he sputters, stepping back. “I—I heard rumors that you’d turned against the Crown.”

Malphas strides forward, ignoring the frantic look in the elf’s eyes. “Yes, you heard correctly, Beranel.” He flicks a gaze at me before returning his focus to the elf. “I have questions about certain genealogical records the monarchy keeps hidden.”

Beranel’s eyes flick to me, then back to the demon. “You think I have them?” He stammers. “I deal in cargo manifests and contraband ledgers, not noble lineages.”

Malphas’s lip curls. “Noble or not, you have connections to the city’s archivists. You once forged papers for highborn castes seeking discreet marriages, yes?” His voice carries the weight of unspoken menace.

Beranel pales. “That was… that was long ago.”

“I’m sure you still have contacts.” Malphas’s wings flex, spanning half the room. “I want a name or location. Someone who can decode the significance of a particular bloodline.”

The trembling elf nods hastily. “I might—there’s an archivist who deals in off-the-record genealogies. He resides near the Temple of the Tradesman, above a bakery. His name is Enith.”

Relief edges through my tension. Finally, a lead.

Malphas extends a clawed hand. “Write down the address.”

Beranel fumbles for a scrap of parchment. With shaking fingers, he scrawls directions. “Here,” he whispers, offering it to the demon.

Malphas snatches it, scanning the note. Satisfied, he tucks it into a hidden fold of his battered armor. Without another word, he turns to go. I follow, casting one last glance at the coweringelf. His fearful eyes bore into me. He knows we could destroy him if we wanted to.

Outside, the midday sun has reached its zenith, making the alley swelter. I shield my eyes, inhaling a lungful of sour air. Malphas steps onto the street, tail swishing behind him in a restless pattern.

He glances at me, expression unreadable. “We have a name. This Enith might be our next stop.”

I nod, adjusting the hood over my hair. “Then let’s hurry.”