Now he could see his attacker clearly. Like him, they were cloaked in a hood, their mouth obscured by a cowl. But unlike him, their weapon was anything but inconspicuous—a long-handled silver scythe, which they wielded with surprising skill. Fortunately, in such a confined space, Damian had the advantage with his knife, as long as he could close the distance without getting dismembered by that deadly blade.
Making a split second decision, Damian lept towards his attacker, narrowly missing the curved blade as he slashed across their arm. If he could incapacitate them, he should be able to bring them back with him and get some answers.
His opponent seemed to hesitate a moment, before Damian felt a hard strike against the side of his head. Stumbling to the side, stunned by the unexpected attack, Damian saw what had happened. He had put himself right in between his attacker and a door, and unfortunately what must be this person's accomplice. The large man behind him had smashed him with the pommel of his sword.
He was pincered between two enemies for the second time in as many days.
Seeing no other way out of this, Damian readied himself to make a rush at the scythe-wielder and a break for the door. Even if he didn’t get away, that could get him out from between the two enemies.
With a sharp breath, he charged forward, feigning a strike at the scythe-wielder's midsection. The attacker reacted instinctively, bringing the scythe down in a defensive arc. Damian ducked under the swing and darted past, adrenaline propelling him toward the door.
He felt the rush of wind as the blade barely missed his back, but he didn’t look back. He grasped the doorknob, yanking it fiercely. The door creaked open, and he burst through into the hallway, his heart pounding in his ears.
But freedom was short-lived. The moment he stepped out, he could hear the heavy footfalls of the large man following close behind. Without hesitating, Damian sprinted down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder just in time to see the scythe-wielder spill out behind him, eyes narrowed with intent.
“Stop him!” the sword-wielder bellowed, the urgency in their voice fueling Damian’s resolve. He dashed around a corner, aiming for the stairwell at the end of the hall. He could hear the echoes of their pursuit, the scythe cutting through the air as it aimed for him once again.
Reaching the stairwell, he skidded to a halt and glanced back. The large man was barreling toward him, sword raised. Damian knew he needed a plan, and fast.
He could use the stairs to his advantage. In the tight confines, the large man would struggle to swing his sword effectively. Damian positioned himself at the top of the stairs, waiting for his opponent to close the distance.
As the large man reached the landing, Damian sprang forward, using his momentum to shove the attacker back. The man stumbled, losing his balance on the steps. It was just enough for Damian to dart past him.
But the scythe-wielder was right behind, relentless. Damian descended the stairs quickly, calculating his next move. He reached the bottom and turned sharply, hoping to put some distance between them. He spotted an exit at the far end of the hallway, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
He sprinted toward it, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. Just as he reached for the door, he heard the scythe-wielder’s footsteps thundering closer.
With a surge of determination, he flung the door open and burst into the alley outside. The cool night air, thick with smog hit him like a splash of water, invigorating and sharp. He glanced back to see the two attackers emerge from the building, momentarily disoriented by the change in environment.
Without pausing to catch his breath, Damian bolted down the alley, adrenaline spurring him on. He could hear their footsteps pounding behind him, but he was determined to find a way to shake them off.
He veered left into a narrow passage between two buildings, ducking beneath a low-hanging awning. The alley twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the labyrinth of streets. He knew he couldn’t outrun them forever, but if he could find a way to outsmart them, he might just turn the tables.
He spotted a nearby market stall, its crates stacked high, and made a snap decision. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he dove behind the stacks, flattening himself against the cool ground. He held his breath, listening intently as the footsteps drew closer.
The two attackers skidded to a halt nearby, their voices muffled but tense. “Where did he go?” the smaller man growled, frustration evident in his tone.
“He’s here somewhere. Split up and find him,” the sword-wielder commanded, scanning the area with hawkish precision.
Damian’s heart raced as he listened to them separate, each step echoing in the silence. He felt the weight of his knife in his hand, the cold steel reassuring against his palm. If they were going to find him, he needed to be ready.
He waited, listening for the right moment, his mind racing with possibilities. When the silence stretched long enough, he made his move, preparing to confront one of them head-on. The fight wasn’t over yet.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Damian’s pulse thundered in his ears as he crouched behind the crates, his breath shallow as he listened to the footsteps echoing in the narrow alley. The scythe-wielder’s footsteps grew closer, steady and predatory. Damian’s grip tightened on his blade, his muscles tensing, ready to spring into action.
Just as the figure rounded the corner, Damian burst from his cover, lunging low. His knife flashed, aiming for the scythe-wielder's legs. His blade nicked their thigh, and they staggered back with a grunt of pain, giving Damian a moment’s reprieve. But his opponent recovered quickly, swinging the scythe in a wide arc.
Damian ducked, narrowly avoiding the deadly sweep, but before he could counter, a hand slammed into his back, sending him crashing into the alley wall. The larger attacker had caught up.
“Stay down!” the deep voice growled as the heavy boot pinned Damian’s shoulder against the rough brick.
Damian winced, rolling his shoulder to dislodge the foot, but his movements were too restricted. Gritting his teeth, he twisted, managing to sweep his leg under the large man’s feet, knocking him off balance. The attacker stumbled, and Damian seized the moment to throw his weight into a forceful shove, sending the large man crashing into a pile of crates.
Breathing hard, Damian straightened and squared off against the scythe-wielder again. But something shifted in the air between them. The figure hesitated, their posture less aggressive now that the large man was momentarily down. The scythe-wielder tilted their head, as if reevaluating Damian.
“What... do you want from me?” Damian spat, his blade still poised defensively. His eyes darted between the two figures, trying to assess their next move.
The scythe-wielder took a step back, lowering their weapon slightly. “You’re... not with the cult?”
“Cult?” Damian echoed, his brow furrowing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who the hell are you?”
The larger man groaned, pulling himself from the pile of crates, stepping up beside his companion as he wiped a streak of blood from his mouth. His hood had slipped slightly, revealing the sharp, chiseled features of a man with silver-streaked grey hair, and eyes that glinted a sharp, icy blue.
Damian froze, his heart skipping a beat. That hair. Grey—not the kind that came with age, but the unnatural, silvered hue that always made him feel exposed. It was the same shade as his own, the color he had worked so hard to hide, dying it orange for as long as he could remember. His mother had insisted on it, even in his earliest memories, demanding that he blend in. The grey marked him as different, as something wrong.
Demons and their offspring had a multitude of hair and skin colors, varying with lineage and magic. Everything except grey. He could still vividly recall being younger, his mother gripping him too tightly, shoving him over a wash basin as she poured dye over his scalp. Her eyes had been wild, her hands trembling as she forced him to promise—promise that he would never show the world what he truly was.
“This is a curse to our kind,” she had told him, yanking on his hair, fear crackling in her voice. “Never let anyone know.”
Even after she abandoned him, the memory lingered, that manic look in her eyes haunting him. Every time he dyed his hair, it hurt—something deep inside him, as if he were stripping away a piece of his soul. But the fear she had instilled in him was seated just as deeply.
The scythe-wielder pushed back their hood as well, revealing the face of a younger man with the same unnerving shade of grey hair. He looked strikingly similar to the older man, though his features were more delicate, almost handsome, and his icy blue eyes glinted with the same sharpness.
Damian’s grip on his knife faltered as the realization set in. These two... they were like him. Demons—or at least part demon, judging by their features. He had never met anyone else with hair like that, and now two stood before him, not even bothering to hide that they were “cursed”.
His mind reeled with questions, but he forced himself to focus.
“We’re the ones asking the questions,” the younger man growled, though his scythe was now lowered. “What are you doing skulking around the scene of a murder?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Damian shot back, his gaze flicking between them, trying to mask the unease creeping up his spine. “You attacked me without asking, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood for answering your questions.”
The older man, now fully upright, raised a hand, gesturing for calm. “Wait. This might be a misunderstanding.” His voice was smoother, with an authoritative tone that carried weight. “You were at the victim’s apartment, weren’t you?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, his mind still racing. He had no time to dwell on the color of their hair, no time to question what it meant. “I was. I’m investigating the same murders. You thought I was... part of it?”
The younger man lowered his scythe completely, a look of realization crossing his face. “Damn. We thought you were one of them.”
“One of who?” Damian’s grip on his knife didn’t relax, his mind remained sharp. These two—part of some demon bloodline like his—had assumed he was their enemy. Could they know more about what he was?
The older man sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “We thought you were part of a cult responsible for these deaths. We’ve been tracking them for months, across multiple cities. When we saw you sneaking around the scene...”
Damian’s mind churned. A cult? It was worse than he had imagined. But now wasn’t the time to get caught up in his own past or in their shared heritage. He needed answers.
“And you are...?”
The older man exchanged a glance with Ash before speaking again. “I’m Kelvin. This is my nephew, Ash. We’re... specialists, investigating a series of ritualistic killings tied to a cult. We came here through the Hub after hearing about these deaths in your city. We assumed you were connected.”
Damian lowered his knife, though his guard remained up. “I’m not. But I want whoever’s behind these murders just as badly as you do.”
Kelvin nodded slowly. “Then maybe we’re on the same side.”
Ash still looked wary, but his expression had softened. “You should’ve just said something. Would’ve saved us both some bruises.”
Damian smirked grimly, tucking his knife back into its sheath. “Next time, try asking before swinging a scythe at someone.”
“Could be good to have a local on our side.” Kelvin said, stepping forward, extending a hand. “Truce?”
Damian hesitated for a moment, his thoughts still tangled with the sight of their hair—so familiar, and yet so foreign. Finally, he clasped Kelvin’s hand firmly. “Truce. For now.”