The smoke was in Damon's lungs, his eyes, his throat. Every breath was a struggle.
Somewhere above him, his mother was screaming in pain, and somewhere behind him, the house was caving in.
He pressed against the wall, trying to find the door. His fingers touched wood, then stone, then nothing. The smoke was too thick and he couldn't see.
The heat pressed against him from all sides, sucking the air from his lungs, making his skin feel like it was peeling off. The roar of the fire was everywhere, drowning out everything except his mother's voice, getting weaker now, fading.
Tears pricked his eyes. He couldn't do anything. He was too weak to save her.
He thought about his life.
'I'm going to die here. I'm seventeen years old and I'm going to die in my own house before I've ever done anything'
He'd never left the village. He'd never seen the ocean. He'd never done anything his father or mother would be proud of.
And now he was going to burn to death with the rest of his family, in a house that smelled like his mother's cooking and his father's old books.
A small hand found his in the dark.
Myra.
Her fingers were cold and trembling. She was humming. That little tuneless thing she did when she was scared, when she was waiting for their mother to finish a story or trying to be brave. He'd heard it a thousand times. He'd never hated it until now.
He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back too tightly. She was only Six. She should have been in bed, not here. Not like this.
"It'll be alright Myra"
It was a lie that he couldn't help but tell.
He dragged her toward where he thought the door was. The floor groaned beneath their feet, shifting, the boards starting to give under his weight. He tightened his grip and pulled her faster.
"Come on. We're almost there."
He didn't know if she could hear him. Her hand had gone limp in his. She had probably passed out but he was too lost to notice. The smoke was everywhere. His lungs were burning. His eyes were burning. His whole body was burning.
Then the floor suddenly shuddered.
A section of it gave way behind him. He felt Myra's hand slip from his own as she fell through the floor. He quickly lunged for her, pulling her upwards, trying to hold on. His fingers caught her sleeve, then her arm, then her hand.
Then nothing.
He heard her fall, heard the sickening crash as she struck wood and stone below.
Then he heard nothing at all.
"Myra!"
He screamed her name until his throat gave out. He stood there with his hand still outstretched into the smoke, waiting for her voice to answer, waiting for her to hum that same stupid tune, waiting for her to say something... Anything.
She didn't.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
His father.
Evans Ashfield's face was black with ash. His clothes were smoking. Blood ran down his cheek from a cut on his forehead that he hadn't bothered to wipe off. In his hand was the old blade from above the hearth.
The one Damon had never seen anyone touch. The one that hung there like a decoration, like something from a story no one believed anymore.
His father had never held a weapon in his life. He was a farmer, a reader, a man who told stories by candlelight and taught Damon which mushrooms wouldn't kill him. He wasn't a fighter.
But the man standing before Damon now was none of those things.
"Damon." His father called out grabbing his shoulders. His grip was like iron. "Listen to me."
"Dad, Myra fell—"
"Listen." His father's voice was urgent. "They came for the Chronicle. They know we have it. I thought we had more time. I thought I could prepare you."
"What Chronicle? What are you talking about? Dad, what's happening?"
Behind his father, the flames parted.
A figure stepped through.
He was massive. Armor the color of dried blood covered him from neck to foot. A helmet hid his face, but his eyes were visible through the slit. A blaze of crimson flame.
He walked through the fire like it wasn't there, like the heat didn't touch him, like burning a house down with a family inside was just another day's work.
Damon couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He'd heard stories. Everyone had heard stories. Demons who slipped through the cracks in the seal. Creatures from another realm. They came, they killed and they went back before the gods noticed. Only the strong ones made the journey.
...And this one was definitely strong.
"There's no more time," the demon said. His voice was flat. He looked at Damon's father like he was looking at something already dead. "You're the keeper right?"
His father didn't answer. His grip on Damon's shoulders tightened.
"The Chronicle." The demon stepped closer. "Give it to me. The Emperors need it. Let the boy live. That's the only offer you're getting."
Damon's father looked at him. Something in his eyes Damon had never seen before.
Then he smiled. "Run."
Evans moved with the blade aiming for the demon. He was faster than any man his age had any right to be.
The blade found a gap in the armor beneath the demon's arm and It slid in deep.
The demon grunted. Looked down at the blade in his side like it was an inconvenience. Then he backhanded Damon's father across the room.
Damon heard him hit the wall then hit the floor. Heard the blade clatter away across the boards. It had broken in half.
"Dad!"
He tried to move, but his legs wouldn't respond. He could only stand there, rooted in place, as his father's body crumpled against the far wall. Blood spread beneath him. His chest rose once, then again… and then it didn't move at all.
His father didn't get up.
The demon pulled the other half of the blade from his side and dropped it. He didn't even look at the wound. It was already closing.
He walked toward Damon. The smoke parted around him and the fire bent away.
"The Chronicle," he said. "Where is it?"
Damon's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"Your family has carried it for generations. The First Demon Emperor's knowledge. His power." He tilted his head. "Where did your father hide it?"
"I don't know what that is." Damon's voice came out small, like a child's voice. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Something stirred inside him. A weight in his chest. A heat behind his eyes. He didn't understand what it was. He didn't have time to think about it. It pressed against his ribs, heavy and warm, like something waking up after a long sleep.
"The boy doesn't know." The demon raised his hand. Fire gathered from the room, from the walls, from the ceiling, twisting, condensing into something solid. Something sharp. Something that buzzed with a heat that made Damon's skin blister from feet away. "But his blood will tell me."
'Say something. Do something. He killed your father. He's going to kill you.' He screamed inwardly.
Damon's father's voice came back to him.
'Run'
Damon forced his legs to move and ran.
He didn't think. He just moved. The blade of fire came down where he'd been standing. Heat seared his back.
He ran through the flames, through the smoke, past his mother's body, past the hole where Myra had fallen and out the door, into the night.
Behind him, the demon laughed.
---
He didn't remember how he'd gotten to the forest. The cold air hitting his burned skin, or the sudden silence after the roar of the fire.
But he remembered running. Branches cutting his face. Roots grabbing his feet. The darkness of the night pressing in on all sides.
He remembered falling, getting up and falling again.
He remembered the weight inside him growing heavier with every step, pressing against his chest, his throat, his skull.
He remembered his father's face. The way he'd smiled. The way he'd said run.
He remembered the demon's eyes, the fiery hunger and madness in them.
Then suddenly everything became blurry.
He didn't remember collapsing.
He didn't remember hitting the ground.
He didn't remember the stars going out.
---
He woke up in darkness.
This wasn't the usual darkness of night. This felt like the darkness of a place that had never seen light. The air was thick and heavy. It smelled of sulfur and old blood. He lay on stone that was cold against his back.
He tried to sit up but his body felt wrong. He felt too light and small.
His arms didn't reach as far as they should. His legs didn't bend the same way. Something dragged behind him when he moved.
He reached back and touched it. It was a tail, long and thin. It twitched under his fingers.
He brought his hand in front of his face. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but he could feel it. It was small and hard. Claws where his nails used to be.
He tried to remember his mother's face. He knew she had brown hair. He knew she smiled when she was nervous but he couldn't remember her.
He tried to remember Myra. Her hand in his. Her humming. But there was no face to connect the memory to.
Tears formed in his eyes. He tried to cry but nothing came out.
He lay there on the cold stone, in the dark. His mother was dead. His sister was dead. His father was dead. He was in Hell. He was a demon.
'Is this really how I'll end up?'
Something was inside him, something heavy and warm, pressing against his ribs. He didn't know what it was. He didn't know what his father meant by Chronicles. He didn't know why the demon wanted it.
The demon had said the Emperors. The rulers of Hell had ordered his family killed. He didn't know which one. He didn't know why. He didn't know anything.
'No. I'm not dying here. Not like this. Not with them still breathing.'
He pushed himself up but his legs couldn't hold him. He fell back down in a heap. Pushing past the pain, he crawled instead, dragging his tail behind him, his claws scraping on the stone.
The darkness stretched in every direction. There was no sound or source of light.
He crawled until his arms gave out. He rested and crawled again.
For one terrible moment, he let his forehead rest against the ground. 'Maybe this is easier. Maybe I should just stop.'
Then he saw his father's smile. The one he'd given right before he ran at the demon with the sword from above the hearth.
Then he kept crawling.
He didn't know how far he'd gone. He didn't know if he was going anywhere. His arms burned and his claws were numb from scratching the stone.
He was about to stop when something flickered ahead.
A blue light in the darkness. It was faint but there.
'I'll definitely make it!'
He mustered all the energy he could and crawled towards the light.