Page 33 of Red Demon (Oria #1)

Istaran

T o Galen, I was a demon.

I knew he wasn’t himself, but in his final moments, I was no longer his son. I was not even human. Ghosts—it had to be ruren-sa in his mind. We were all so stupid. And now, the Red Demon was about to get away again. No—I couldn’t let that happen.

I grew dizzy, chest heaving in quick breaths and sobs, unable to keep my mind from splintering in the silent street. I needed to keep it together, just as Iden said long ago. I needed to take Asher’s sword and…

Istaran.

Galen once told me the sword could track anyone that killed its master. Istaran could track the Red Demon. That cleared my head: a plan. I could end this, act now and feel later. Turning back in the moonlight, I bolted toward the market.

I found Istaran gleaming under the stars.

Sheathing Asher’s blade against my back first, I picked it up.

Istaran pulsed in my hand as the engraving lit blue, syncing to my heartbeat, just as it did the first time Galen let me hold it in his shop so many years ago.

Cleaning it on the curtain of a market stall, I rushed to my taam’s body for the scabbard, shaking as I slipped it off his belt.

I touched his cooling forehead before I forced my feet back up with a sob. I needed to go after her.

But how? Galen had never explained how to make the magic work, and touching it did not seem to be enough. Okay. Fine. Maybe I had to make myself the new master.

I pricked the tip with my finger and ran the blood down the fuller.

“I pledge myself to you, to protect you as you protect me. But help me find the one who killed Galen—Galen Eirini, your last master.” I choked out the words, hoping I got them close enough, hoping the sword could read the desires of my heart.

The glow brightened, twisted, then did the same thing Asher’s borrowed sword did, pulsing with my heartbeat, with no other bonds or connections I could feel.

Frustration gnawed. I sheathed it and grabbed Asher’s sword to search for the souls of my friends, the remaining militia.

Maybe someone could help, maybe someone else had escaped.

A tremor threatened to engulf me. Then—a faint sensation pulsed through the sword’s hilt.

Meragc, and a pulse of Ruan. Meragc had sworn to protect the elderly and children huddled in the temple. I could feel his terror, but he lived.

“I’m coming,” I told him. My heart lurched.

Maybe Meragc was safe. He’d locked himself in behind the temple’s khels, with those secondary levels of protection.

I sprinted toward the stone spires, my legs pumping against the worn cobblestones.

The familiar street lay quiet, the dead fallen in the street.

The sword pulsed and sputtered against my skin as I felt Meragc’s heart breaking, failing. With heaving breaths, I burst through the temple doors, bracing myself.

In the main sanctuary, I could taste the steel tang of blood in the air. The candles flickered their prayers in the windows as the young and old lay dead in heaps in front of the pillars. Faces I knew, all innocent, dead by the sword.

“Anyone?”

Only candles stuttered back.

White marble pillars, once gleaming, stood stained with dark streaks as I forced myself to find Meragc. The ornate woven rug that cushioned the stone floor sloshed under my feet. I saw no red robes of Z’har priest or acolytes among the dead. They’d all heeded the warning and left for the Bend.

There he was.

Meragc, his once-proud form slumped against the central dais. A crimson stain bloomed down his slit throat, while his boy Nestor lay dead beside him, spine twisted. To this day I can’t unsee that.

I fell to my knees, pounding the wet stone with my fists, their blood still warm on my skin. But I couldn’t succumb to grief. Not yet. Istaran renewed its glow in my hand as I forced myself to rise. I jogged out of the sanctuary, refusing to look at any more faces staring back, my ears ringing.

Under the stars and cold void, I held the blade in my hand and begged, voice rasping. “Please. My taam—Galen Eirini’s been killed. Please show me how to find his killer, the Red Demon.”

Silence. The mute engraving on Istaran flashed its mazes for the moon.

I latched my eyes tight, forcing myself to stay still, to think.

The grove—the place in the woods where Oria pulsed strongest with the memories of the Asri during festivals, the place where Galen had retreated almost daily since Asher’s departure.

I started running. I’d never heard a voided thing there, but I had no better idea.

Istaran pulsed in my hands, strong. I took that as a good sign.

Clouds wrapped over the silver moon, but my night vision kept my feet steady as I tore through the rustling leaves.

The twig under my foot reminded me of the snap of his ribs; the low rumble of the distant gorges reminded me of the huff of his laugh.

They fueled my resolve as I pushed my body faster, the air thick with the scent of autumn and damp earth.

I broke into the clearing. The ancient redwood stretched its branches high above me. Moonlight dappled the ground where generations of Asri had knelt eons before me, seeking solace or guidance. My fingers trembled as I brushed aside the leaves, revealing the pulsing blue network of Oria beneath.

“Oria, Ancestors, I’m Galen’s son,” I said into the still night, my voice hoarse with desperation, my palm to the ground. “The Red Demon murdered him, the whole town. Help me find her.”

Silence. No whispers on the wind, no comforting presence, no ethereal visions. Just the fungal aroma and the relentless blue glow of the Oria network. A deafening silence, a rejection that echoed in my hollow soul.

Die Demon.

“I’m Galen’s son! Jesse! The town held a ceremony so you’d know my name, remember? Asher said—” My voice broke. “I’m Jesse Eirini. Help me.”

Nothing. I calmed my breaths, listening in every way I knew how—trying to push aside the hot fury threatening to surge. I removed Istaran from the scabbard and laid it on the ground. Die Demon.

“Please,” I begged, sobbing. “Please, I’m Galen’s son. I’m doing all I can. Please let that be enough.”

Nothing. I put my head to the glowing ground, rocking.

“You want blood?” I sliced my finger, dropping it on Istaran, sprinkling the ground. “Some fucking magic words?”

It was not enough. I was not enough.

“Taam, if you’re in there—” I choked out. “Please be in there.”

Nothing.

A scream tore from my throat. I slammed Istaran into the soft earth, the blade embedding itself in the ground with a thud before toppling.

A flash of icy light, a pause.

I held my breath. Then I grabbed Istaran again and plunged it into the ground.

Tendrils of lacy, bioluminescent mycelium erupted from the base of the sword, quickly weaving themselves toward me, pulsing as the wind picked up in the trees.

“Galen? Taam?” I whispered.

The wind breathed warm on my neck. The ground beneath me roared with light.

“Galen.” The lights pulsed faster with their blue etchings, stretching like a westward wave across the clearing.

I reached out for Istaran with a trembling hand, hesitating before I pulled it from the ground. A warm breeze washed over me when I touched the blade, like the first time my taam told me he was proud. Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked, as I grasped the sword and stood, feeling strong.

The lights waved at my feet, laying out a path to the edge of the clearing.

I followed it, and a new path spread its glowing tendrils in front of my feet.

When it pulsed faster on a deer path, I started running.

The cool night air whipped through my hair as I sprinted deeper into the woods.

My breath picked up, my chest finding a steady rhythm as I ran through the blurred world of black and white and cyan pulsing bright under the leaves.

Five minutes, ten: the path twisted and turned a little south.

At a half hour in, I began to flag, but the lights flashed brighter, urgent.

I licked my dry lips and kept going on through the dark night as fast as I could make my body move.

Upstream from the dam, I fell beside the river and drank, allowing my chest to ease. Then the lights pushed me again. I jogged as the ground grew rocky under my feet, and gorges rose on either side. I no longer recognized the landscape.

Dawn crawled behind my back, painting the sky with streaks of pink and orange as I finally reached the crest of a hill. Below, the lights of Oria twirled and circled by the bank of a gurgling river. The finish line: empty.

I slid down the clay-soiled gorge, Istaran warm and bright in my hands. No one, but the lights pulsed at the base of a log. Sword ready, I hopped over. Just a bag under some leaves, leather. A cold, abandoned campfire lay doused nearby. Beside it lay a bedroll, unfurled.

Still catching my breath, I inched closer, every muscle taut with tension. The air hung heavy with woodsmoke, dampened by the mist from a bubbling stream.

I reached out of a tentative hand for the bag, the worn leather cool and damp beneath my fingers.

My heartbeat raced and rebelled as I lifted the flap and loosed the drawstring.

Inside, nestled amongst crumpled clothing and some dried herbs, lay a worn leather journal, its cover embossed with swirling Asri script, a name carved at the bottom: Faruhar.

I was about to open it when I heard a rustle at the top of the gorge, sending a flock of crows scattering into the sky. My gaze snapped upward, landing on a tall figure silhouetted against the dawn.

The Red Demon.