“I have.” Silver’s voice rings in the air like a sword drawn before battle.
Scholar Amon watches her with eager eyes, hungry to hear from someone who has been so quiet. All eyes turn to her, but she doesn’t utter another word. It’s like she’s no longer even here. Whatever distant memories of Ashenvale’s fall have resurfaced in her mind, they’ve pulled her back there thoroughly.
“Yes, very well. As I was saying, it’s not just demons and fiends to fear in the Shadowthorn. There are other unimaginable and horrific creatures that dwell there. There are blind worms and ravagers, arachnids the size of houses and nevermores that would sweep you into the air and terrorize you with a plummeting fall to your death before finally commencing their feast. We will discuss the variety of shadowcreatures you will encounter at another time. For now, we review the basics.
“Who can tell me about fiends?”
The demon-man’s face glares at me through my mind’s eye again. My fingers curl. I try blinking him away, I try refocusing, but he won’t disappear. For two weeks or more, his existence has haunted me, but I’ve been too afraid to mention him to anyone. I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me. I’m not even sure I believe me.
Maxwell’s hand shoots into the air. This time, he doesn’t wait to be called on before gushing, “Fiends are more like pests than they are wicked. I mean, they’re still evil incarnate—obviously, Qaeus created them, so they have to be—but they aren’t as outright dangerous as demons. Fiends will toy with you. They’ll steal your voice and use it to lure others away from the group. They’ll make you think you’re seeing something that isn’t there, like a bridge across a lake, but then when you walk forward, there’s no bridge, only the sirens awaiting you.”
“Good. Yes. Anybody else?”
The silence tempts me, coaxing me to ask what I’ve been dying to ask.
Before I can, Saimenimus speaks, his voice sounding bored, and his eyes squinting from the hangover he’s still nursing. “Fiends mostly appear as animals?”
“Excellent. That is correct. Small animals, especially. They take on the appearance of rats, snakes, owls, anything that is small and will allow them to lurk without being seen until they are ready to make their move. Fiends are not as brutal as demons. They won’t rip your heart from your chest. Mostly, they seem to simply enjoy playing their tricks. Sometimes, those tricks lead Crusaders and other citizens to their deaths, so be vigilant.”
The longer I listen, the greater my irritation grows. I’ve wondered what that demon-man was for weeks now, I’ve wondered how he could do such a thing as cloak himself as one of us. I don’t want to learn about the basics of fiends. I want answers. For my parents’ deaths, but also to prepare me for what is to come when we are finally sent into the Shadowthorn.
I raise my hand.
“Yes, Ms. Devonshire,” the scholar calls on me.
When the rest of the initiates twist around in their seats to watch me, heat pricks my chest and cheeks. I know better than to ask such a bold question, to even suggest that a thing could be possible. It will make me look strange, and strangeness is often associated with mages, and mages are burned or hung.
Still, before class today, I hadn’t been sure that shadowcreatures other than demons and fiends existed, so maybe there really is something to learn about that demon-man.
“Can any demons or fiends look…human?”
Scholar Amon adjusts his spectacles. “Well, I suppose a fiend could make someone believe that it looked human. But I imagine such a ruse would be difficult to perform and would be easily disrupted by the slightest movement or sound.”
“Not a fiend,” I blurt. After all, it’s common knowledge that fiends cannot leave the Blighted lands, and this demon-man definitely had. He’d crossed clear across the border, entered my home, and tore another demon to pieces. “Could something other than a fiend make themselves look human?”
Scholar Amon frowns behind his cobweb beard. “Hmm, none that I’m aware of. But I suppose there is still much to be learned about the Shadowthorn and its creatures.”
Defeated and even more perplexed than before, I crumple into my chair and gnaw on the inside of my lip. If he wasn’t a fiend and no other shadowcreature can do what he was able to do…then what was he?
Maxwell raises his hand enthusiastically to respond to the scholar’s rhetorical question. “Like where the Primordials came from.”
The classroom awakens with grumbles and retorts, but with Saimenimus sitting right in front of me, his is the only one I hear.
“Everyone knows it was those bastard mages. They made the Primordials to kill the humans, but then the creatures revolted against them, and they left us to pick up the scraps.”
Scholar Amon holds up his knobby finger. “Your information is hearsay. The origin of the Primordials has long been lost. Some speculate that those who possessed such knowledge were lost during the Great Rift.”
“Besides,” another student argues. “If they wanted the Primordials to kill us, why’d they make shadowsteel?”
The class becomes a boisterous cacophony of shouts competing against one another.
“Settle, students, settle. You have the rest of your lives to blame the mages for their sins, but such a discussion should be saved for your political classes. Here, we discuss the beings you will slaughter, and how to do it right.”
As the scholar turns the conversation to our next topic of discussion, the ways in which demons manifest and slaughter, my mind still reels. I know I should just drop it; I should do as Dimitri said and let my past stay in my past. But no matter how hard I’ve tried to distract myself from that horrific night, it always resurfaces.
If I faced such a creature once, I could come upon one again. Worst, a demon like that could almost certainly walk among the people unnoticed. Given a heavy cloak and a cane, no one would look twice at a hunched man hobbling down the uneven streets of the Wallows, nor any of the other border towns.
And if I know myself, I won’t be able to focus on anything until I know.
“Precisely,” Scholar Amon says to Maxwell upon answering another question. “A demon’s bite is lethal, but so is a scratch. One nick, and their toxin seeps in through the bloodstream. Once it reaches the heart, there is no saving the poor soul. It is a death known to most of our fallen Crusaders. I say this, not to scare you, but so that you are informed and aware of the dangers of allowing a demon too near. Always wear your leather. Keep as much of your skin as possible covered at all times.”
“Of course,” slurs Saimenimus from the back row. “No one wants to run into the Shadowthorn half-naked. That’s like waving a juicy steak before a lion.”
I haven’t seen him drinking today, but the man doesn’t seem to need booze in order to seem inebriated. Liquor must course through his veins or something because he is constantly staggering, constantly slurring his words and hiccupping. I can’t help but wonder what’s led him to be this way. Dimitri and I have suffered great loss, just as I’m sure everyone here has, but there’s something more dire about his past that I can’t put my finger on.
“Fair point, Master Saimenimus, even if it was articulated in poor taste.” The scholar looks down past his spectacles, glaring at him to make his point. “Demons appear to serve but one purpose: they are Qaeus’ minions, sent to massacre humans. They feast upon us, alive or dead.” He waggles his finger when a thought strikes him. “In fact, another lesson for you today: demons are especially drawn to the dead.”