Page 7 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Son (Demon Daddies #7)

KALEEN

T he zarryn's hooves find their rhythm on the winding forest trail, each step carrying me further from Domiel's worried expression and deeper into the mist-shrouded mountains of Kaerion.

I settle into the steady gait, letting my body move with the creature's natural motion while my mind wanders between the task ahead and the man I've left behind.

The morning air bites at my exposed skin, sharp with the promise of altitude and weather change.

Tendrils of mist curl between the towering pines, their silver-green needles heavy with dew that catches the filtered sunlight like scattered diamonds.

The forest feels ancient here, untouched by the careful cultivation of city life, and I breathe deeply of air that tastes of earth and growing things and wild spaces.

My zarryn—a sturdy mare the stable master assured me was "mountain-broken and sensible"—tosses her shaggy head occasionally but maintains her pace without complaint.

Both silver tails flick at imaginary insects, and her ears swivel constantly, alert to every sound in the surrounding woods.

Smart creature. These mountains demand respect, even from those bred to traverse them.

The trail winds steadily upward, carved into the mountainside by generations of traders and quarry workers.

It's wide enough for a loaded cart but narrow enough that I keep well away from the edge where the ground drops away into misty valleys far below.

The sound of my passage echoes off the rock faces—the steady clip of hooves, the creak of leather, the soft jingle of my pack's metal fittings.

Hours pass in peaceful solitude. I stop twice to rest the zarryn and stretch my own muscles, sharing water from my travel flask and dried jerky from my provisions. The creature accepts both offerings graciously, her temperamental reputation apparently not extending to well-deserved breaks.

I make it to Silverbrook with no issues, as well as booking a room at the end.

Muscle memory takes over tasks I learned during my hardest years as I get ready to settle for the night.

Unsaddle the zarryn. Check her hooves and coat for any signs of strain or injury.

Block the door so I can sleep without anyone coming after me.

The night passes quietly except for the usual forest sounds—the hoot of hunting birds, the distant howl of something wild and lonely, the whisper of wind through pine boughs.

I sleep deeply despite being alone in unfamiliar territory, exhaustion from the day's travel overriding any nervousness about my solitary state.

Morning comes gray and misty, the sun struggling to penetrate the low-hanging clouds that cling to the mountainsides like gossamer veils.

I break camp quickly, eager to reach the quarry before midday.

The sooner I can complete this transaction, the sooner I can begin the journey home to Domiel's anxious embrace.

The trail climbs more steeply now, winding through narrow passes where the trees thin and give way to exposed rock faces.

The air grows sharper, thinner, carrying scents I don't recognize—mineral-rich stone, alpine flowers, and something else.

Something wild and predatory that makes the hair on my arms stand up despite the morning's chill.

My zarryn notices it too. Her ears pin back against her skull, and her step quickens without any urging from me.

She tosses her head nervously, both tails lashing with agitation rather than the lazy swishing of yesterday's peaceful travel.

When I try to calm her with gentle words and steady hands on the reins, she fights the bit for the first time since we started this journey.

"Easy, girl," I murmur, but my own voice carries a tension I can't quite suppress. "What's got you spooked?"

The answer comes as a low rumble from somewhere behind us—not quite a growl, not quite a roar, but something that vibrates through the mountain air with predatory intent.

My blood turns to ice water in my veins as I recognize the sound.

Something large. Something hungry. Something that's been following us.

I don't look back. Every instinct screams against giving whatever's stalking us the satisfaction of seeing my fear, and besides, I need to focus on the treacherous trail ahead.

Instead, I lean forward in the saddle and give the zarryn her head, trusting her mountain-bred instincts to carry us both to safety.

She needs no further encouragement. The moment she feels the slack in the reins, she breaks into a reckless gallop that sends loose stones skittering over the cliff edge.

Her hooves find purchase on surfaces that seem too narrow, too unstable to support our combined weight, but she doesn't slow.

Behind us, the rumbling grows louder, joined by other voices—a pack, then, hunting together with the coordination that makes mountain predators so deadly.

The trail curves sharply around an outcropping of granite, and for a heart-stopping moment I'm suspended over empty air as my zarryn leaps a gap I didn't see coming.

We land hard on the far side, the impact jarring through my bones, but she recovers quickly and plunges onward through the morning mist.

Something crashes through the underbrush to our left—massive, moving fast, paralleling our desperate flight.

Through the swirling fog I catch glimpses of dark fur and yellow eyes, hear the scratch of claws on stone as our pursuer keeps pace with terrifying ease.

It's hunting us, driving us toward something.

That realization sends fresh terror racing through my system because predators that coordinate their attacks are infinitely more dangerous than solitary hunters.

My zarryn's breathing comes in harsh gasps now, foam flecking her silver coat as she pushes herself beyond safe limits.

But she doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate, even when the trail narrows to a ledge barely wider than her body.

I press myself low against her neck, making myself as small as possible, feeling the terrible emptiness of open space just inches from my right knee.

The attack comes without warning.

Something huge and dark launches itself from the rocks above, landing squarely on my zarryn's hindquarters with enough force to drive her stumbling sideways. She screams—a sound of pain and terror that cuts through me like a blade—and her rear legs skid toward the edge of the trail.

I have a split second to see massive jaws lined with finger-length teeth, to smell the rank musk of a predator that hasn't bathed in blood for too long, before my zarryn bucks violently in an attempt to dislodge her attacker.

The motion sends me flying from the saddle like a stone from a sling. For a moment that stretches into eternity, I'm weightless, suspended in mist and terror, watching the ground rush up to meet me with implacable certainty.

My head strikes something hard and unyielding—a jutting piece of granite worn smooth by countless storms. White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes, followed immediately by a darkness so complete it swallows sound, sensation, and consciousness itself.

The last thing I register before the void claims me is the echo of my zarryn's terrified scream, fading into silence as black closes over my mind.

Pain splits through my skull like a white-hot blade, dragging me from the merciful darkness into a world that tilts and spins with every heartbeat.

I press my palm against my temple and feel something wet and sticky—blood, matted into my hair and crusted along my scalp.

The metallic taste coats my tongue, sharp and nauseating.

Where am I?

The question echoes in the hollow spaces of my mind, finding no answer. I'm lying on cold stone, mist swirling around me like ghostly fingers. Trees tower overhead, their branches lost in gray fog that seems to muffle all sound except the steady drip of moisture from pine needles.

I struggle to sit up, my body protesting with aches I don't understand.

My clothes are torn, dirt ground into the fabric.

One sleeve hangs in tatters, revealing scratches along my forearm that sting when the damp air touches them.

But the wounds feel old somehow, partially healed. How long have I been here?

Think. Remember something.

But when I reach for memories, I find only fragments—the taste of fear, the sound of something snarling, the sensation of falling through empty space. Nothing concrete. Nothing that explains why I'm alone on a mountain trail with blood in my hair and terror lodged in my chest like a living thing.

Nothing that tells me…anything.

I'm tossed among the trees, far from any path, but I know I can't stay here. This is dangerous. So I force myself to my feet and use the sun to track north. I don't have a good reason behind it, but it at least gives me direction.

After some time of walking, I spot a small break in the dense forest. A narrow path winds downward through the trees, carved into the mountainside by countless feet. My legs shake when I try to stand, forcing me to lean against a moss-covered boulder until the world stops spinning.

One step. Then another. The trail slopes steeply downward, and I follow it because moving feels better than staying still with only the whispers of wind and my own ragged breathing for company.

Time becomes meaningless as I stumble through the mist. The sun, when I can glimpse it through the canopy, seems low in the sky, painting everything in shades of gray and amber. My stomach cramps with hunger, though the thought of food makes bile rise in my throat.

"Help." The word comes out as barely a whisper, lost immediately in the vastness of the forest. I try again, louder. "Someone help me."

Only echoes answer.