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“Identify yourselves,” the dark elf demands. His voice is clipped, though there's an edge of caution as he notices Malphas’s imposing height.

“Late arrivals from the southern ports,” Malphas says smoothly. Even disguised, his voice carries a rumbling power that makes me shiver. “Carrying cargo for a K’sheng merchant. We were delayed by the swamp roads.”

The guard’s gaze narrows. “At this hour? Show me your papers.”

My stomach drops.We have no official documents.Then Malphas’s illusions shift. A slight shimmer crosses the space between them, and I see him produce an ornate scroll from a pouch at his waist. It’s as if it materialized out of thin air. Anillusion, no doubt. I hold my breath, waiting to see if the guard notices any discrepancy.

The dark elf squints at the parchment, scanning the glowing runes Malphas forged from raw magic. A second passes. Then the guard grunts, handing it back. “Looks in order,” he mutters, yawning. “You two best hurry in. Curfew’s tightening. There’ve been rumors of a demon on the loose.”

A chill creeps over me, despite the muggy night air. My gaze slides to Malphas, who inclines his head politely at the guard. “A demon, you say? Terrifying indeed.”

The guard waves a dismissive hand at the gatehouse. “Hurry along.”

We slip through the gate, heartbeats thudding in my ears. Once we’re clear, Malphas tucks his illusory scroll away, letting the illusions swirl and dissipate around that prop. My hand trembles on the hilt of the short sword he insisted I carry.A demon on the loose,the guard said. They must mean Malphas. They’re looking for him—and maybe for me.

We move deeper into the city’s mid-tier, where narrow streets wind between tall, cramped buildings. The darkness here is broken by sporadic arcane lanterns flickering with pale light. This district bustles less than the wealthier ring above or the slums below, but occasional passersby hurry along, arms laden with goods. My memories of Lowtown return, a bitter pang stirring in my chest.I was once just another slave in these streets.

Malphas signals for me to follow him into a warren of alleyways, presumably to avoid main thoroughfares. I catch glimpses of old shops with shuttered windows, worn signage creaking overhead. Every so often, we hear the clang of a patrol’s armor, forcing us to flatten into the shadows until the danger passes.

Eventually, we reach a cramped plaza near the Temple District’s outskirts. Overhead, the spires of Vhoig’s largest temples pierce the sky, dedicated to the Thirteen’s deities: the Deceiver, the Guide, the Tradesman, and so on. I’ve rarely ventured this far in the city, but Malphas said Enith lives above a bakery that supplies temple staff at odd hours. It’s not exactly a place I'd expect to find an expert in ancient demon lineages, but perhaps that’s why it’s the perfect hiding spot.

We approach the bakery, a modest building flanked by a tavern on one side and a row of shuttered workshops on the other. The aroma of yeast and sugar drifts from the open windows, incongruous at this hour. Dim candlelight glows within. My mouth waters despite myself—fresh bread is a luxury I rarely tasted in Lowtown.

Malphas gestures to a narrow set of stairs at the bakery’s side. “Enith’s apartment is up there,” he murmurs, stepping over a shallow gutter where stale water pools. “Stay alert.”

I nod, my breath shallow. Together, we ascend the stairs. Each step groans under Malphas’s weight. The illusions still cloak his horns and wings, but the sheer size of him is difficult to disguise in such cramped quarters. We reach a battered wooden door, the surface carved with faint wards that shimmer in the gloom.

I glance at Malphas. “This is definitely it?”

He nods, pressing a palm against the wards. “I can sense the magic. It’s not elf-work, but something older. Possibly dwarven or demon-forged.” His eyes narrow. “He’s expecting trouble.”

Before he can knock, the door creaks open an inch. A haggard elf peers out—a wiry male with silver hair pulled into a disheveled knot. His face is lined with worry, and a single gold hoop dangles from one pointed ear. He scans us with hawk-like intensity. “I told you, I’m not—” He halts mid-sentence, blinking.

Malphas inclines his head. “Enith?”

The elf’s gaze flicks from me to Malphas, lingering on the illusions. I see the moment realization hits—he senses something is off about my companion. The lines of his face deepen in alarm. He tries to slam the door. Malphas shoots out a hand, catching the edge before it can shut.

“Let me go!” Enith rasps, voice trembling. “I know who you are. You’re?—”

Malphas pushes the door wide, ignoring Enith’s frantic attempts to wedge it shut. “We’re not here to harm you, but we have questions only you can answer.”

Enith scrambles backward into a cluttered sitting room, nearly tripping over a pile of scrolls. I step inside behind Malphas, scanning the interior. Shelves sag under the weight of books, half-burned candles drip wax onto crates, and the air smells of ink and old parchment. A single narrow window overlooks the deserted street below, letting in meager starlight. My pulse races, conscious that we might appear threatening.

Enith grabs a small wand from a table, leveling it at us. “I’ll call the guard if you step any closer.”

Malphas meets my gaze briefly, as if to sayWatch him. I lower a hand to my short sword. “We’re not the guard’s friends,” I say, voice measured. “We just want information.”

Enith’s eyes dart between us, sweat beading on his brow. “You’ve no idea how dangerous it is for me to speak with you.” He pins Malphas with a wary stare. “You’re the demon enforcer. Malphas Ishiraya. There’s a bounty on your head in certain corners. The dark elf nobility wants you dealt with.”

My heart stutters.They’ve discovered he’s gone rogue.My gaze flicks to Malphas, but he remains outwardly calm. “We were told you have knowledge about demon lineages,” Malphas says coldly. “We can pay.”

Enith scoffs. “Pay? With what? My life? The monarchy will skin me if they find out I’ve aided you.”

Malphas’s illusions flicker around his face, revealing a glimpse of his true eyes—glowing crimson, slitted with menace. That subtle intimidation hits Enith like a bolt of lightning. He staggers, the wand shaking in his grip.

“Don’t test my patience,” Malphas warns, voice as smooth as a blade. “We know you’re skilled at forging genealogical records for highborn castes. We also know you keep hidden archives on demon-human crosses.”

Enith’s eyes widen fractionally. “Why does that matter?” He glances at me. “You’re… a half-demon?”