Kofi's hands still shook long after the last cultist's body had dissolved into ash.
Even as they walked, his eyes kept flicking to his blade. It was clean now—Darius had forced him to wipe the blood off with a rag—but the memory of it, warm and slick in his grip, wouldn't leave.
He had killed before the creature could kill Lyra. He knew that. But the man's final words echoed in his head:
The bird watches…
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Keep moving," Darius said gruffly as they trudged along the forest road. His voice was calm, but his eyes scanned every shadow. "There could be more of them."
Lyra walked in silence, her staff clutched tightly in both hands. When she finally spoke, her voice was low. "Those cultists… their bodies shouldn't have twisted like that. Something is corrupting them."
Kofi swallowed. "That… wasn't normal?"
She shook her head. "Not even for those who serve the Demon King."
No one spoke after that. The cheerful atmosphere from the village was gone, replaced with an uneasy quiet.
—
By the time the towering white walls of the capital came into view, Kofi's legs ached and his mind felt heavy. The gates opened with the creak of iron, and guards ushered them in quickly, murmuring about dangers on the roads.
The city was alive with noise and color. Merchants called out from stalls, children darted between carriages, and bells rang from temple towers. Yet even here, Kofi noticed the fear—posters warning of raids, soldiers patrolling every street, families whispering about villages lost.
"This way," Darius said, leading him through the bustling streets toward the castle. "You've got an audience."
"An… audience?" Kofi echoed.
"Word of your first mission spreads fast," Lyra explained, her tone neutral. "The people want to know what kind of 'hero' was summoned."
Kofi's stomach twisted. He wasn't ready to stand before nobles or kings. He wasn't even sure he was ready to stand before more monsters.
But the castle gates opened, and soon he was led into a grand hall. Tall windows bathed the chamber in golden light, banners of the kingdom's crest hanging from the ceiling. At the far end, on a throne carved from white stone, sat the king.
He was broad-shouldered despite his age, his crown resting heavily on his brow. His gaze fixed on Kofi with a mixture of hope and calculation.
"So," the king said, his voice echoing in the chamber, "this is the hero of prophecy."
Kofi felt dozens of eyes on him—nobles, generals, priests. His hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, he almost couldn't breathe.
Then he remembered the flower crown the little girl had placed on his head in the village. The warmth of Lyra's healing light. Darius's gruff encouragement.
He straightened his back.
"I don't know if I'm the hero you're expecting," he said honestly. "But I'll fight. I'll keep fighting until I'm strong enough to protect your people."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall. The king studied him for a long moment, then slowly nodded.
"Very well. We shall see if your resolve matches your words."
Kofi exhaled slowly. He had survived the summoning. He had survived his first battle. He had even survived cultists.
But as the king's advisors began to speak of strategies and armies, Kofi couldn't shake the feeling that something else—something darker—was already watching him from the shadows.
And in the highest rafters of the hall, unseen by all, a small black bird perched silently.