My back flush against the wall, I don’t have the range I need to swing my axe with any lethality. If the demon lunges for me now, at best I can hope for is to shove it aside.
But the creature throws me off when it lunges instead for my weapon. Its jaws clench around the pole of my axe and it twists it from my grip, casting the blade aside with a jerk of its head.
Chest tight, I fumble for my dagger as the demon slowly returns its crimson gaze to me. Its eyes have been playful until now, the impish kind of mischief that has made it clear how this game will end. And the end is now. The play seeps out of its red eyes, leaving nothing but the cold darkness of death reflecting back at me.
My dagger finally comes free, and I clutch it in my sweating grip. I have nowhere to run, nowhere to dodge, and my weapon is too small to reach the demon until it’ll be too late. This is where I’ll die, I know that. The Crusaders will retrieve my mangled corpse and squeeze me dry of any necro-ink that might be lingering in my veins. They’ll take my axe, Tor’s dagger, and I know I should hold no remorse over it, that I should hope that the next to wield them will be far more skilled than I, but something sour tinges my heart. I’m not ready to give up. I wanted to do more, to avenge more of the fallen, my brother, my family.
My fingers tighten around the hilt of Tor’s dagger. I’m not going down without a fight. If not for me, then for the people residing in the border towns, for the ones who fled Ashenvale and Gravenburg, and for all those who came before them. I will take this demon down with me if it is the last thing I do.
The demon’s eyes flicker, its intent silent but I understand completely. Now.
My eyes focus on the creature’s neck, to the place I need to strike, no matter what comes before or next or after.
The demon’s legs bend as it readies itself for a massive leap. I do the same, sinking into my defensive pose and hoping that my blade will strike true.
But before the creature can clear the air, its black body is rammed aside by a blur of darkened limbs. The two demons and the demon-man crash to the ground together. I start to slide down the wall, to put some distance between me and death, but then my grip tightens on Tor’s dagger.
Running would be too easy. Running is what all of Arcathain has done. Running is not what a Crusader does. I made a vow to kill these beasts, for my parents, for the future Crusaders, for all of Arcathain.
The larger demon flips to its feet and charges the demon-man again. Its claws tear at his chest, but my gaze is fixed on my match. My lips pull back in a vicious snarl, and I dive, dagger thrashing. The creature’s chest is cold and damp, its body rigid as stone. It feels as cold as death already, but its evil has not yet been uncleansed. My shadowsteel blade punctures its skin effortlessly. Once, twice, a dozen times. I keep stabbing until the demon finally stills, and even long after.
I collapse against its stiff fur, only faintly aware of the black blood oozing from its wounds beneath me. Something grabs my shoulder, and I bolt around, dagger drawn again.
But I find myself staring up into the russet eyes of the demon-man. He’s clutching his chest with his other hand, red streams trickling all the way down his stomach. Red, not black.
My dagger falters. “W-what are you?”
He releases my shoulder as if to say he means me no harm and begins backing away slowly. He indicates to the large demon he’s slain, bowing ever so slightly before turning away.
My already spasming heart crashes against my ribs. He cannot go yet. There is so much I still don’t understand. Besides, why would he leave? He’s been hunting me for weeks, and here I am: alone, an easy target.
“You spoke last time I saw you,” I call out across the grey expanse. In the quiet that follows, I can almost hear the fiends nearby awakening. They will soon descend upon this place if I’m not careful.
The demon-man halts in the middle of the road, his black wings twitching and tensing.
I continue before he thinks to take to the sky. “You said Ry. Is that what your kind are called?”
He sniffs. “My kind.” And soon he’s marching away again.
“O-okay, not your kind. I didn’t mean to offend y—” Before I can finish, a flutter of laughter escapes me. “What am I doing? Am I apologizing to a demon?”
He whirls around, a dark shadow flickering over his expression. “I am no demon.”
“Then what are you?”
It’s like I’ve slapped the anger off his face. He staggers back, confusion racking through him. “You…you can understand me?”
An airy laugh bolts from my lungs. “Apparently I can. Should I not be able to…” I ask, but remembering our last encounter, I add, “Ry?”
It takes him a moment to recover his resolve, but when does, he finally says, “Ryven.”
“Ryven then…” In truth, my question could end there. There is no greater mystery to me than what he is. In all the books I’ve scoured in the library of Nigh, none of them have mentioned creatures like him, demons with human attributes. But when I notice a muscle feather in his jawline and see the hurt flash across his face, I try to backpedal. “Why have you been following me? What’s your game?”
A wry smile ticks up the side of his mouth. “Game? I might ask you the same. Do you have a death wish or are you just this unlucky?”
“I’ll have you know, I was just fine until you came along,” I snap, heat rushing to my face. It’s a blatant lie, and a terrible one at that, but I don’t appreciate what he’s insinuating. I point to the fallen shadowcreature, the large beast I killed before his arrival. “I was able to take this creature down without your help, wasn’t I?”
Footsteps pad softly from around the corner. I barely have time to worry about what might appear before a small group of people emerge, but instead of filling me with relief, concern thrashes through me again. They’re not in Crusader leathers. Their garments are every color of autumn, though in the Shadowthorn, their brightness is muted.
“There he is,” one of them cries, pointing to Ryven. “I thought we’d find you in the middle of trouble—” But his jaw falls slack before he can finish. His honeyed eyes mist as they cross over to me. “Halira?”
As the party draws closer now, I recognize the roguish man in the lead. “Uncle Adrien?”
He sheaths his drawn cutlass with a disbelieving chuckle and throws his arms wide. “Come here, you.”
I fling myself into him.
In all my life, I’ve only met my Uncle Adrien a handful of times. My father, Oddo, and him were close when they were younger, but once Esmond became Magistrate, Adrien became shunned in a sense. He’d been no stranger to petty theft and tomfoolery, and had already been outlawed from more towns and villages than I could count. But being the Magistrate’s brother, meant that his actions now reflected on Esmond as well. The Magistrate wasted no time in placing a bounty for Adrien’s arrest so that Esmond could deal with him before the eyes of Arcathain and prove that not even family was above the law.
With nowhere else to go, my father said Adrien left years ago for the Forgotten Forest of Eyve, and we hadn’t heard from him since.
Despite having little to no relationship with the man I call uncle, his embrace is just as familial and comforting as one from my own father. I sink into his arms, giving myself over to him fully. He smells of salt and leather and dirt. I pull back to look at him, and upon seeing the grime caked into his beard and covering the rest of him, I wonder if he’s been wandering the Shadowthorn ever since the day he left.