It's cold.
The boy awoke to an overwhelming chill pressing into him from all sides, as if the world itself had turned against him. He didn't know what was happening or where he was. His eyes felt sewn shut, every signal his brain sent going unanswered. But the noise reached him anyway.
The noise was a chaotic blend of voices, hurried movements and a piercing sound that cut through the air, merging into an indistinct cacophony.
Next was the sense of smell.
Burnt rubber, to be exact, and something sharper filled every breath he managed to pull in, each inhale taking grueling effort rather than the almost effortless breaths.
Blood soaked through the tattered remnants of his clothes, a stark reminder of the violence of the crash. His body temperature continued to drop, the feeling of warmth leaving him limb by limb.
Sound warped.
For a while there was no change, just a strange sensation here and there, pressure pressing against his chest like something physical.
Then something forced his eyes open. One of them.
The world bled red, as if everything had been filtered through a crimson red. A bright beam cut into his vision and he tried to flinch. His body barely responded.
"Hey, hey! There's movement!" The light steadied.
"H-he's responsive," the man said with surprise, and in an instant urgency flooded his voice. "I've got a stable heartbeat! Get the stretcher, now!"
Vision shook, shapes stretching and blurring before pulling into something recognizable. Figures leaned over him, hands moving with urgency, voices passing information.
"The other kid is alive too. Get a stretcher over here. Set up an IV line and have plasma ready."
Beneath him the asphalt was shattered and slick, reflecting the red and blue of emergency lights in broken fragments.
Sound warped. A car lay tumbled, crushed, twisted into something unrecognizable, metal peeled back and folded in impossible directions.
The pain from the crash surged through him, sharp and overwhelming, as if his body was a map of agony.
But it wasn't just the physical pain.
Two of the most important people in his life were gone. Just minutes ago they had been there, alive, present, real.
A few minutes before that they had been breathing. A few minutes before that their bodies had been full of life, warm and moving and everything that living meant.
But now they weren't.
None of it remained.
Not the warmth.
Not the movement.
Not a single trace of the minutes that came before.
The irrevocable loss settled into him, a heavy permanence that threatened to suffocate his very being.
They were dead.
The thought landed fully. And at that instant it felt as if the darkness itself reached out and embraced him, pulling him under gently, almost tenderly, the way sleep takes the exhausted.
As his eyes felt heavier with each passing second the last thing he saw was a figure being carried to an ambulance, her body limp over a stretcher.
"Si-sist"
-break-
In a place where light barely entered, a black haired youth lay on his side atop a cold stone platform, the kind that lined each wall of the cell, serving as the closest thing to a bed this place had to offer.
"Sister."
Oryn's face tensed, his expression pulling tight with something between anguish and desperation, the look of someone reaching for something just out of grasp. His brows drew together, lips barely moving.
"Sister."
The word left him again, smaller this time, like it was being pulled out rather than spoken.
On the opposite side of the cell, where the light didn't reach, a figure had outlined himself against the shadows. He leaned against the wall rather than sleep on the flat stone platform, one leg stretched out, the other folded at the knee. A sword with a scarlet scabbard was gripped between his legs, hugged loosely by both hands. He had not been asleep.
The figure pushed off the wall and moved toward the thin strip of light that filtered through a small rectangular opening near the top of the back wall. Even with the light reaching him now his features remained hidden beneath a worn out cloak that concealed everything except a portion of his face. Then, within that shadow, two pink circles appeared.
Tsk.
He rose, gripping the scabbard in his right hand, and crossed to the cell bars. Reaching one hand through he waited. Shortly after, a demon passed through the corridor carrying a lantern. Unlike the hulking figure of a Dulvar, this one carried itself closer to human proportions, its features almost refined aside from the twin horns curving back from its skull, its facial features reminiscent of a shoebill bird, sharp and angular, with feet that ended in bird like talons that clicked faintly against the stone floor with each step.
Its intelligence far exceeded a Dulvar's, giving it a better grasp of human language.
"What is it, Aiter."
"It's past six," Aiter said flatly. "Take me to the grounds."
The demon's jaw tightened. A low sound rumbled from somewhere deep in its throat, less a growl and more the kind of vibration that precedes one, felt more than heard. "You would do well to remember your position, SLAVE." Its grin spread slowly, lips pulling back with something that looked closer to hunger than amusement. "Favoured slave or not, you are still a slave, Aiter. Speak without respect and—"
"And what." It wasn't a question. Aiter moved at a speed the demon's eyes couldn't fully track, and by the time it registered the shift Aiter's hand was already through the bars, fingers twisted into the front of its shirt. "You'll eat me?"
The pink glow in Aiter's eyes deepened, thickening at the edges.
The demon felt it before it understood it. An overwhelming killing intent. Something pressing down from no particular direction, cold and deliberate. A cold sweat broke across Valen's face.
"Don't forget, Valen," Aiter said, his voice dropping to something quiet and threatening. "I'm half demon. You're not off my menu either."
The silence that followed had edges.
Then Aiter released his grip, smoothing Valen's shirt once before withdrawing his hand through the bars as unhurriedly as if nothing had happened at all.
Valen knew Aiter wasn't in the wrong. It wasn't against the rules for gladiator inmates to request permission out of their cell at any time, least of all the favoured ones. Valen was prideful of his demonic race, that much was simply in his nature, but he wasn't an idiot. And the fact that Aiter ran half demon blood through his veins was enough of an excuse to cool that pride when it needed cooling.
What Aiter had just done had genuinely shaken him, though he would not be putting words to that anytime soon.
"Understood," Valen said, plain and simple, though the irritation on his face was as clear as day. "I'll be back with the keys and I'll be informing the captain about you."
Just as Valen turned to leave Aiter spoke calmly, without looking up. "Tell your captain it's two."
He turned toward Oryn, still drenched in sweat and locked somewhere deep in his nightmare.
"The kid in my cell is coming too."
-break-
Oryn took uneasy steps as he walked behind a hooded figure and a bird-like demon, his head felt mushy and it felt like he was having a migraine session.
Where am I?
Valen led them through the building, reaching a flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. On the way, Oryn noticed several demons, almost each one having its unique characteristics but with an odd commonality of having bird-like features.
A sharp pain hit his temples. Pinching his nose, he tried to recall what had happened.
I thought I died, but I remember now. I killed the Dulvar and passed out.
Taking a deep breath, he looked at the hooded man who had woken him up abruptly. He didn't say much but commanded Oryn to follow him. Oryn couldn't see him entirely, but the presence he had when he spoke was overwhelming.
When a person uses magic, said person needs to have a clear sense of mind with concise thoughts, surrounding an area by releasing their refined mana. But this man was giving his mana no instruction.
only raw emotion.
It wasn't that the act itself was difficult to do, but the terrifying part was the sheer amount of mana and the thickness of the emotion Oryn felt radiating from him. It was like gravity multiplied severalfold.
Not wanting to get on the man's bad side, Oryn stayed silent and followed quietly.
Exiting the building, Oryn felt the cool air brush over his skin. Looking to his left he noticed a slightly ruined building seemingly carved out of black stone. Noticing towering wooden spikes behind the building he confirmed that he was still somewhere within the camp.
His eyes focused back on the building. He felt as if he had seen something like it before somewhere.
Then without warning Oryn slowed down, eventually stopping.
No way.
Clarity hit him. Those who possessed mana cores were split from the slave groups at the beginning. No one knew what happened to them but most assumed they were taken as food, since humans with a core were considered a delicacy among the high demons.
Valen and the hooded man noticed Oryn's pause.
"Move it," Valen said plainly.
Oryn didn't look at him but asked immediately, "Who is the lord of this land."
Valen questioned him back. "What?"
"Let me rephrase it." Turning to Valen, Oryn asked with clarity in his eyes. "What is the name of the Great Marquis who governs the border of this land, the one closest to Earl Raum's territory."
Oryn spoke in a way that would appease the demon, something that Aiter didn't have to tell him, it being common knowledge. To demons their rulers were gods.
Narrowing his eyes, Valen answered with quiet clarity, never breaking his slow, deliberate stride. "Grand Marquis. Lord Andras. The sixty-third spirit." Each title fell from his tongue like an announcement, weighted with something that sounded almost like reverence.
"Demon lord of discord."
Oryn's fists tightened at his sides. Every fragment of knowledge he possessed, every piece he'd gathered and turned over in his mind, collapsed into a single, inevitable conclusion.
Unknowingly Oryn lips curled into a short smile.
Oryn knew where he was.
Continuing their walk, the three eventually reached an open plot of land with wooden stands, weapons of various kinds were laid out, but most if not all in pristine condition.
While Valen was informing the other guards, Oryn walked absentmindedly, seemingly in deep thought. He didn't realize the wooden sword thrown at him until it hit his body with slight force.
Oryn flinched at the pain, turning to the sender. Aiter walked towards him. Since the moment Aiter had walked out of the building, his features beneath the hood had been easier to see in the morning sunlight.
Placing his scabbarded sword to his waist holder, he pulled his cloak back completely, his features now clear. Multiple scars across his face, the most prominent being the ones below his left eye and right cheek. Eyes like pink diamonds and hair of silver white. But the most notable feature was his ears.
"Elf?" Oryn slipped his thoughts aloud.
Aiter didn't react, he felt rather refreshed as he spoke, "To think there would be someone to call me that."
Oryn was confused by the comment.
Is he not one?
With an identical wooden sword in his hands, the man adopted a forward stance ready to attack, feet nearly shoulder width apart. Aiter brought his sword to his hip, its tip facing Oryn.
He's going to attack me, isn't he?
Just as Oryn's thought passed by, so did a sword.