Page 13

He glances at my battered clothing. My shirt is a rag, stained with blood and grime, and the trousers I wore in the kitchens of the Northern Estate are tattered at the knees.

My hair, in desperate need of a wash, hangs in ragged strands over my shoulders.

But what stands out most are the bruises that ring my arms, the fresh cuts from the scuffle in the ritual chamber. An ache throbs in my ribs.

I square my shoulders. “Let’s get on with it then.”

He opens the door a crack, scanning the alley for movement.

Rays of early morning light pierce the gloom, revealing a deserted stretch of cobblestone.

We slip out, hearts pounding. The street is narrow, hemmed in by half-collapsed buildings.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear a cart’s wheels bumping over uneven ground.

Malphas motions for me to keep behind him.

His stance is poised, every muscle coiled for a fight.

Even at a casual glance, he’s an imposing figure—eight feet tall, with ridged horns, black skin traced by molten veins, and a tattered wing membrane that drapes behind him like a cloak.

The faint glow beneath his flesh intensifies when he’s on edge, and right now, it pulses in a near-constant rhythm.

We glide through a maze of back alleys, skirting the mid-tier marketplace.

I spy glimpses of the city stirring for the day—a merchant setting out a stall of dried fish, a pair of humans scrubbing stoops under the watchful glare of an elf overseer, a donkey cart hauling crates of produce.

None of them notice us, hidden as we are among half-toppled walls and thick shadows.

Eventually, we reach a narrow canal. Dank water flows sluggishly beneath a series of arched bridges. Malphas halts, scanning the row of shabby structures. “We need to find something decent for you to wear,” he mutters. “And bandages. Possibly a coat to hide those bruises.”

I rub a hand over one sore bicep. “Sure you don’t want me to keep them visible for intimidation?” My tone drips sarcasm, even though I immediately regret it. His fierce gaze flicks over me, but he lets the remark pass.

“This quarter used to house a black-market trade,” he says instead. “With luck, someone still operates here, selling contraband the elves haven’t taxed into oblivion.”

I glance doubtfully at the sagging doorways. “I see no shops.”

He gestures to a partially boarded-up doorway, the faint swirl of arcane script visible on a wooden beam. “That sign means a hidden market is inside. The elves don’t trouble themselves unless something openly threatens their power.”

My heart hammers. Trading with black-market merchants in Vhoig is risky even on a good day.

Doing so while we’re both fugitives—one a demon enforcer turned traitor, the other a sacrificial victim who mysteriously escaped—feels like wading into shark-infested waters. But as Malphas said, we have no choice.

We slip into the building. Dim light and the musty scent of old incense greet us.

At first, it appears abandoned, the single room cluttered with crates.

Then a figure emerges from behind a curtain—a wiry, middle-aged woman with haggard features.

She’s human, scars marking her forearms. Dark hair streaked with gray frames a cautious expression.

Her mouth falls open at the sight of Malphas. She fumbles for a curved dagger at her belt, but he lifts a placating hand. “We mean no harm. We need supplies.”

She spares a glance at me, noticing the tattered clothes and injuries. Suspicion wars with curiosity on her face. “Supplies, hmm? I don’t run a charity.” She eyes Malphas warily. “Nor do I want trouble with your…kind.”

Malphas’s wings twitch, but he keeps his voice measured. “We can pay. Or exchange favors if necessary.”

Her gaze lingers on my bruises. “You’re with a demon. Must be in dire straits.”

I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to retort. She’s not wrong. “Do you have clothes, salves for wounds, anything that can help us blend in?” I ask.

She gestures for us to follow. We weave between crates into a cramped corridor lined with shelves.

Bottles of odd-looking potions glitter in the faint candlelight.

Rolls of cloth, some embroidered with complex runes, crowd a corner.

Another shelf overflows with battered garments—cloaks, pants, tunics.

Likely scavenged from bodies or stolen from caravans.

She rummages, tossing items aside. Finally, she pulls out a long, hooded coat of dark gray fabric, patched in places. “This might fit you, girl, though the arms might be short. You’re taller than most humans.”

I nod my thanks and slip it on over my ragged attire. The coat smells faintly of must and old leather, but it covers the worst of my bruises. I test the sleeves. They hit just above my wrists, but it’s better than nothing.

“Bandages?” Malphas prompts, stepping closer with silent menace.

She stiffens at his approach but hands me a roll of linen and a small tin of salve. “For the cuts,” she mutters. “Don’t blame me if infection sets in. I’m no apothecary.”

He inclines his head. “Payment?”

Her eyes narrow. “Coin, or something of equal value.” Then her gaze flickers. “You—demon. If you can enchant an item for me to ward off dark elf scrying, that would be worth these goods.”

Malphas glances my way. Perhaps he expects me to object, but I have no reason to.

If enchanting a trinket can pay our bill, I won’t stop him.

He exhales and snaps his claws, summoning a ripple of shadow around his fingertips.

The woman flinches, but he only reaches for a small glass amulet dangling among her wares, a worthless trinket otherwise.

In a hush, he traces a sigil on the surface.

Darkness seeps into the glass, swirling like trapped ink.

She watches, transfixed, as the amulet’s glow dims to a faint flicker. The artifact pulses once, resonating with the faint light of Malphas’s veins. Then he drops it in her hand. “That should foil basic scrying attempts,” he says flatly. “Use it wisely.”

She cradles the amulet, unable to hide her amazement. “You have my thanks. Now, go—before you attract a patrol. I’ve no interest in being raided.”

We move back into the front room, and she lifts a plank from the doorway to let us exit a side entrance onto another back street.

Before we leave, she halts me with a hand.

“You, girl,” she says quietly, expression softening.

“Take care. The demon might keep you breathing, but he’s still what he is. ”

I offer a tight nod, understanding the warning. With that, I follow Malphas outside, squinting as the morning light hits my eyes. The echo of hooves on cobblestones resonates from the main thoroughfare.

Malphas scans the lane. “We’ll patch you up in a quieter place,” he murmurs, leading me down a winding alley until we reach a stone stairwell leading to an abandoned courtyard. The walls here are covered in creeping vines, half of them turned black from pollution. The air stinks of stagnant water.

He waits until we’re hidden by an overhang of collapsed roofing, then gestures for me to sit on a broken pillar. He folds his wings around us, forming a partial shield from prying eyes. Carefully, I strip off the coat and unbutton my ruined shirt enough to reach the bruises crisscrossing my torso.

I bite back a hiss when I spread salve over the tender skin.

Malphas crouches beside me, expression grave.

Watching him up close, I notice details I missed before—the faint scarring across his jaw, the tension in his broad shoulders, and the near-silent crackle of arcane energy beneath his flesh.

Even kneeling, he towers over me. His horns curve in menacing arcs, one half-broken.

He offers no comforting words, only hands me the bandages. I swallow a sigh, wrapping them around my ribs, hissing at each jolt of pain. He doesn’t look away, which unsettles me more than if he were staring off in boredom. It’s as if he’s cataloging every wince, every faint gasp.

“Why do you even care if I bleed out?” I ask, trying to quell my discomfort.

His voice is steady. “I don’t want you dying before I’ve uncovered what makes you…different.”

I scowl, tying off the bandage. “So I’m just an experiment?”

His eyes narrow. “Better that than a corpse. You agreed to my terms. Survive under my control, or face certain death. Are you backing out already?”

I grit my teeth. “No.”

“Then be quiet and let me finish.”

He lifts the tin of salve from my hand, scooping a bit onto his claws.

I brace myself as he eases it along a scrape at my shoulder, strangely gentle for a creature with talons that could rend flesh.

Heat flutters in my chest, a weird mix of indignation and reluctant gratitude.

I’m not used to anyone tending to me without brutality or strings attached.

Yet Malphas’s very existence is a string, binding me to a fate I can’t foresee.

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.