Fifteen years had passed since Miesha Emberwyn was taken from her home.
She was no longer the trembling girl who cried herself to sleep in the basement. She had grown into a quiet, watchful woman—scarred but not broken. Her days were spent in silence, her nights in dreams of fire and freedom.
The townsfolk of Duskmere whispered her name like a ghost story.
Some said she had died inside long ago. Others claimed she was cursed, locked away in the estate of Lord Varrick, the man who had once courted her mother and now ruled with spiteful cruelty. No one dared challenge him. His reach was long, his punishments swift.
And yet, Miesha endured.
In the shadows of the estate, she had become a healer worthy of her mother's name.
She learned from memory—Alyra's whispered teachings, the feel of feverroot between her fingers, the way certain herbs responded to sunlight. She bartered knowledge from sympathetic guards, studied the estate's overgrown gardens, and listened to the wind like her mother once did.
When servants fell ill, they came to her in secret.
When a guard twisted his ankle, it was Miesha who wrapped it with salve and cloth.
When a child in the kitchen burned their hand, Miesha whispered a calming chant and cooled the skin with a poultice of violet leaf and ash root.
Her unknown magic was still bound by the cuff, but her hands remembered.
Her heart remembered.
She had become a quiet legend within the estate—the Emberwyn girl who healed without spells. Her mother's legacy lived in her fingers, her voice, her presence.
She had one solace: the river.
Each week, she was permitted to forage herbs near its banks. There, she felt closest to her mother. There, the wind carried whispers. There, the amulet—locked away in Varrick's chamber—sometimes pulsed faintly, and she felt it in her bones.
She didn't know it yet, but the world was about to shift.
And the flame she had buried would begin to burn again.
"Go out and get herbs from the river, you' useless, good-for-nothing wench!"
Lord Varrick's voice echoed down the corridor, sharp and venomous.
Miesha didn't flinch.
She simply grabbed her satchel from the hook by the door, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped outside. The estate's iron gates loomed behind her, but she didn't look back.
The river was her only reprieve.
As she walked the winding path through the woods, the air shifted—cooler, softer. Leaves rustled overhead. Her boots crunched against fallen twigs. She muttered to herself, a habit born of solitude.
"Feverroot, violetleaf… maybe some duskberry if the frost hasn't taken it."
She paused to brush a strand of hair from her face, eyes scanning the underbrush.
"He's lucky I still care enough to keep his guards from dying of slime rot."
The path curved, and the sound of rushing water grew louder. The river shimmered ahead, silver and restless. Her usual foraging spot sat beneath a cluster of willow trees, their branches trailing like curtains.
But something was wrong.
Drops of blood dotted the moss.
Miesha froze.
Her eyes followed the trail—crimson smears leading toward the base of a tree. Her breath caught.
Leaning against the trunk was a figure.
Tall. Slumped. Cloaked in black and silver, one arm limp at his side, the other clutching his ribs. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood. His eyes were closed.
Miesha stepped closer, heart pounding.
"Hello?" she whispered. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
She knelt beside him, fingers trembling as she reached for his pulse.
It was faint.
But it was there.
She exhaled; relief and dread tangled in her chest. Whoever he was, he was alive. And bleeding.
Her eyes moved over him, assessing.
His cloak was torn, soaked in blood and river water. Beneath it, his tunic clung to a body sculpted by battle—broad shoulders, lean muscle, skin the color of storm clouds. His face, though streaked with dirt and bruises, was striking. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips parted in shallow breath.
But it was his horns that caught her breath.
Curved, obsidian-black, rising from his temples and sweeping back like polished bone. Not large—elegant. Regal.
A demon.
Her heart stuttered.
She had heard stories—creatures of war and fire, feared and hunted. But this one looked… different. Younger. Wounded. Beautiful.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, brushing damp hair from his brow. "Who hurt you?"
He didn't answer. His eyes remained closed, lashes dark against his skin.
Miesha hesitated.
Helping him could mean punishment. Discovery. Worse.
But she was her mother's daughter.
She reached into her satchel, pulling out a cloth and a vial of feverroot tincture. She tore the cloth into strips, soaked them, and began to clean his wounds.
"You're lucky I came today," she murmured, voice low. "Varrick would've let you bleed out just for breathing near his land."
As she worked, she kept glancing at his face.
There was something about him—something that stirred a part of her she thought had died. Not just attraction, but recognition. A flicker of fate.
When the bleeding slowed, she leaned close, whispering, "I'm going to hide you. Just until you're strong enough to leave."
She didn't know his name.
She didn't know his story.
But she knew what it meant to be caged.
And she wasn't going to let him die in one.
Miesha worked quickly, her fingers steady despite the blood. She had cleaned the gash along his ribs, packed it with feverroot paste, and was wrapping it with a strip of linen when his body tensed beneath her hands.
A sharp inhale.
Then—steel at her throat.
The dagger was small, curved, and wickedly sharp. It pressed just below her jaw, cold and unflinching.
His eyes were open now—piercing, golden, and wild with pain. His voice was a rasp, barely more than breath.
"Who sent you?"
Miesha didn't move. Didn't flinch.
She met his gaze with calm, unshaken eyes. The blade trembled slightly in his grip.
"I see you've regained consciousness," she said evenly. "That's good. But you're not out of the woods yet."
She returned to her work, fingers resuming the wrap as if the dagger weren't there at all.
He blinked, confused by her composure.
"I don't care that you're of the demon race," she continued, voice low but firm. "I can help you. If you're willing to accept it."
The dagger didn't move.
But neither did she.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—his blade at her throat, her hands at his side, binding the wound that might've killed him.
Then, slowly, his arm dropped.
His head slumped back against the tree, breath ragged.
"Why?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Why would you help me?"
Miesha tied the final knot, wiped her hands on her skirt, and sat back on her heels.
"Because someone once did the same for me," she said.
His dagger had fallen to the mossy ground, but his eyes remained sharp, wary. Miesha sat back on her heels, watching him with a healer's patience and a prisoner's intuition.
He winced as he shifted, his hand pressing to the bandaged wound at his side.
"You're lucky I found you," she said, voice calm. "Another hour and you'd have bled out."
He studied her, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable. Then, after a long silence:
"Why are you helping me?"
Miesha didn't answer right away. She reached into her satchel, pulled out a flask of water, and held it to his lips. He hesitated, then drank.
"Because I know what it means to be left behind," she said softly. "And because I'm not like him."
The demon's brow furrowed. "Him?"
She didn't elaborate.
He paused, jaw tightening. "I don't know how many made it out. I ran. I bled. I ended up here."
Miesha watched him carefully. His story was plausible. His wounds were real. But she'd lived under a liar's roof for fifteen years—she knew how truth could be dressed in half-light.
"You're a long way from the Vale," she said.
He met her gaze. "I didn't exactly have a map."
A beat passed.
Then Miesha nodded. "Alright. I'll take your word for now."
He blinked, surprised. "Just like that?"
"I've learned not to trust easily," she said. "But I've also learned when someone's bleeding out, the truth can wait."
She stood, brushing dirt from her skirt. "You need shelter. I have a place."
He didn't move.
"You're not afraid I'll kill you in your sleep?"
Miesha looked down at him, eyes steady. "If you wanted me dead, you'd have done it already."
She offered her hand.
The demon stared at Miesha's outstretched hand for a moment longer, then took it.
His grip was firm, but his body trembled with strain. Miesha guided his right arm around her neck, bracing herself as he leaned into her. His weight was considerable—muscle and armor and exhaustion—but she didn't falter.
He grunted softly. "You sure you can carry me?"
Miesha adjusted her footing, her arm steady around his waist. "I'm sturdier than I look."
The demon chuckled, low and surprised. "That's good to know."
They began the slow walk back toward estate, the forest quiet around them. Each step was deliberate, careful. Miesha's eyes scanned the path for signs of patrols, but the woods remained still.
After a few minutes, the demon broke the silence.
"My name is Kaydence by the way. And thank you for helping me."
"My name is Meisha. And you're welcome."
After the two exchanged greetings they continued back to the outer eastern wing of the estate. Meisha scanned the area for patrolling guards as they crossed the river. Once on the other side Kaydence broke the silence again.
"You said I was a long way from the Vale."
"I did."
"How long of a way am I?"
Miesha adjusted her grip, helping him steady his weight as they walked. "You're just outside the town of Duskmere. Overseen by Lord Varrick Hennis"
He blinked, startled. "Duskmere? My horse… I thought he'd run blind into the woods. I didn't think he'd bring me here."
She nodded, eyes scanning the path ahead. "Seems he had better instincts than most."
Kaydence was quiet for a moment, then murmured, "Lord Varrick Hennis… I've heard that name before. Somewhere. I can't place it."
Miesha's voice was firm but gentle. "Don't strain yourself. Focus on recovering. The rest can wait."
He didn't ask more.
The pain in his side was growing, and Miesha could feel his breath hitching with each step. She quickened her pace slightly, guiding him toward a narrow trail that curved behind the estate—one she had used only once before, in a moment of desperation.
The hidden passage was tucked behind a collapsed section of the outer wall, overgrown with ivy and shadow. She pulled it aside, revealing a narrow crawlspace that led beneath the storage rooms.
"Stay quiet," she whispered. "And don't touch anything glowing."
Kaydence gave a faint smirk. "Noted."
They slipped inside.
The stone was cold, the air damp. Miesha led him through the passage, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of what she was doing. For the first time in years since the death of her mother, she was breaking the rules.
And it felt like breathing.
The hidden passage opened into a narrow corridor beneath the estate's east wing. Miesha guided Kaydence carefully, her arm still braced around his waist, his breath shallow but steady.
They reached a wooden door tucked behind a stack of unused crates. Miesha pulled it open and on the other side lead them into a corridor in the east wing of the estate.
Once they were fully exited from the storage room. Meisha assisted Kaydence to the door diagonally across from the storage room, opening it, and leading him down a flight of stairs, leading into her living quarters.
She laid him onto her bed, rushed back up the stairs, made sure the storage door was closed, and returned back to her living quarters.
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Inside, the space was modest—but lived in.
A wood-burning fireplace crackled softly in the corner, its chimney snaking out through a narrow window carved into the stone. The warmth was faint but constant, a gift from the soldiers who had convinced Lord Varrick to allow it after one brutal winter nearly took her life.
A simple bed sat against the far wall, layered with quilts and blankets—some patched, some new. A basin and latrine had been installed through a narrow waterway, giving her a semblance of privacy and dignity. Shelves lined the walls, filled with herbs, salves, and folded linens.
Most of it had come in secret.
Villagers who still honored Alyra Emberwyn had passed food, clothing, and supplies to sympathetic guards. In return, those guards had whispered updates of her father's wellbeing—his health, his moods, the way he still visited Alyra's grave each week.
Kaydence glanced around as Miesha helped guide him down the short flight of stairs into the room. His eyes moved over the fireplace, the herbs, the worn but clean linens.
It was hospitable.
But not worthy of a healer of her stature.
He lowered himself slowly onto the bed with her help, wincing as his side brushed the edge of the mattress.
"Is this where you live?" he asked, voice quiet.
Miesha nodded. "Yes. Will it be a problem?"
Kaydence looked at her, then around the room again. "No. Of course not."
She gave a small nod. "Good."
She adjusted the blankets beneath him, her movements practiced, gentle. Then she turned to gather fresh bandages and a vial of moon root tincture.
Outside, the wind stirred the ivy.
Inside, the fire burned.
The fire crackled gently as Miesha knelt beside the hearth, placing fresh wood onto the embers. The warmth began to spread through the room, casting flickering light across the stone walls and the quiet figure resting on her bed.
Kaydence watched her, his golden eyes tracing the movements of her hands—steady, precise, and unhurried.
Then he noticed it.
The cuff.
Slender, etched in runes, wrapped around her wrist like a whisper of iron. It pulsed faintly, not with light, but with silence—an absence. A suppression.
He sat up slightly, wincing, and nodded toward it. "That cuff… what is it?"
Miesha paused, her hand still resting on the firewood. She didn't look at him right away.
Then, softly: "It's a memento."
Kaydence tilted his head. "Of what?"
She stood, brushing ash from her fingers. "Of everything I've survived."
Her voice was calm, but distant. "It reminds me of my mother. Of the day she died. Of the man who took me in and never let me go. It reminds me not to become what he wants me to be."
Kaydence held her gaze for a moment longer.
He knew what it was.
A magic suppressor—designed to bind, to silence, to control. He'd seen them used in war. On prisoners. On traitors.
But he didn't push.
She hadn't pressed him about his past. About the war. About the blood on his hands.
So he nodded. "I understand."
Miesha turned back to the fire, her silhouette framed by the glow.
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then she spoke again, barely above a whisper. "It's not the cuff that keeps me here. It's the promise I made to my father. To stay alive. To stay whole."
Kaydence didn't reply.
But something in him shifted.
Respect. Recognition. A flicker of something deeper.
After she stoked the fire. Meisha turned back to him with a smile of reassurance, seeing that the injured demon had fell asleep from exhaustion.
She wrote him a note stating to stay hidden and quiet and informed him that she would be back later in the afternoon.
Meisha places the note on her nightstand next to the bed, places a stone on top of it, and heads up the stairs leaving a wounded Kaydence in her quarters.Instead, she shifted the conversation. "What happened to you?" she asked. "Why are you bleeding out in the woods?"
He exhaled, slow and ragged. "I'm a soldier. Demon King Burruk's army."
Miesha's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
"We were stationed near the border of the Ashen Vale," he continued. "There's been tension with the neighboring clans for months. Last week, they struck first. A night raid. We were outnumbered. Scattered."