It is confused.

The Second looks down at its dagger, the same dagger that it had dropped upon conversing with the Otherworlder. It never went back to retrieve it, but it simply possesses the dagger once more.

The Second doesn’t understand why. It inspects the dagger, running a finger along the flat. It is crafted from a dark steel alloy that is standard issue amongst all Mediators. It is an old dagger, a companion to the Second since its first job.

While the daggers are expected to be lost at some point, as they are well balanced for throwing, it is not uncommon for a Mediator’s dagger to have a long life. Despite the danger associated with the job, it is not one that often requires a dagger to be drawn, much less thrown.

For a large majority of Mediators, the only reason why a dagger would be discarded would be if a lack of use and care dulls and rusts the weapon. Any semi-competent Mediator takes care of their weapons. And the Second is a competent Mediator.

The Second sits up and reaches into its back pocket to draw out a cloth and two bottles filled with blade oil and polish. It does not know why it does this. Perhaps it is shaken from its recent experience, and wishes to turn to the familiar habit of maintaining its blade for comfort. A common habit among Mediators, and the Second is a competent Mediator. But a competent Mediator would let nothing shake its resolve. There is no reason for it to need to seek comfort. Is the Second not a competent Mediator?

No. The Second is a competent Mediator. This is the reason why it maintains its weapon.

The Second runs its hands along the dagger once more. Does it need to be cleaned? It is spotless. There is no reason for it to need cleaning. It was not the same dagger that it had dropped on the floor, while fleeing from the Otherworlder. The Second did not flee from the Otherworlder. And yet it was the same dagger, and it did flee.

But why would a competent Mediator like the Second have any reason to flee?

Would it flee if the Otherworlder casts a spell to identify the Second as a Demon?

But it would not identify the Second as a Demon, as the Second is not a Demon.

But it did.

The Second runs its fingers along the dagger, inspecting it once more, before a tremor in its hands causes it to graze its skin against the edge.

The Second recoils in surprise and shame. A competent Mediator should not be making such pointless mistakes. But then again, no human could possibly be perfect, and the Second is human. The mistake is fine.

The Second inspects the site of the mistake for damage. There is a slight gap there, but as it watches and waits for blood to ooze out, nothing comes.

The Second watches and waits.

Nothing.

The Second feels its heartbeat stop at the sight.

It is still denying the idea that it could possibly be a Demon, that the Otherworlder’s magic was merely a trick. The Second sees a spot of red in the wound, and it feels hope, but the red fades. It comes back. It fades.

The pulsing red light of the Otherworlder’s magic lingers still. Detect Demons. The name of the insidious spell. The Second tries to convince itself that the name could be a misdirection, designed specifically to fool him.

But the argument is difficult to sustain.

The Second realises that its heartbeat never started again.

Or has it never beaten at all?

The Second puts a hand on its chest, feeling a panic envelop it, its breath starts to quicken, the sensation is new, too new, not the panic, nor the quickness, but, the breath.

Breathing.

It does not know how to breathe. The Second is suddenly confident that it has never taken a single breath in its entire life. Not that the life had been long. How long?

It cannot remember when its first memory took place, but it can remember what the memory is.

Becoming a Second.

The Second is scared.

But it shouldn’t be.

A Second, while not a leadership position by definition, is the Second-most important position in a standard Mediator team. While a Second may never deliver instructions to the Grunts or Shadow on any given mission, a Second is always expected to lead by example. A Second must be a competent Mediator.

And competent Mediators do not feel fear.

The Second is scared.

But perhaps it could be. The Second is not only a competent Mediator, but a human. And a human is inherently imperfect. But a human is not a Demon.

The Second is a Demon.

The Second cannot be a human.

The Second cannot be a competent Mediator.

The Second cannot be a Second.

And so.

It isn’t.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

In its final act, the Demon stared at the cut in the Aether that made up its form, completely unaware that the knife that it had used to make the cut was slowly fading away from existence, as was the flesh around the cut itself.

And so.

It wasn’t.

—

As Stoney woke up, he immediately prodded the back of his head for any hints of damage. Though his fingers came away dry of blood, and his head was free of bumps, he could still feel the echoing pains of an intense headache.

A sudden wave of nausea overtook him, and he rolled over to his side as he threw up. He didn’t vomit much, but the nausea refused to go away, even when he knew he had no more to give.

So it was a concussion, then.

Stoney stopped himself from rubbing at the source of the wound and asked himself a few questions to test his memory to see how badly the concussion was affecting his mental capacities. Thankfully, aside from the pain, he seemed to be thinking relatively clearly, with no issues remembering basic information about his life.

His name was Stoney. He was thirty-seven years old. He was in a small town called Plainswood. He was a Mediator and a Leader in a mission involving an Otherworlder named Jamie. The circumstances in which he found himself replacing a previous leader had been quite strange, with the only reason given for the takeover being “incompetence” but he supposed the problem was much worse than he’d originally expected if two of the incompetents in question turned out to be mutinous traitors.

There was a sharp stab of pain in his head and Stoney couldn’t help but reflexively press his hand against it. In that moment, he realised that his head was uncovered and unbandaged.

He looked around him, and though it was close enough to pitch darkness that he couldn’t make out any details, there was enough light to make out the familiar sight of the basement that he originally arrived in.

“Shit,” he said out loud, partially because he wanted to see if he would slur his words, and partially because he was just pissed.

While a Mediator’s mission was more important than their lives, they weren’t an organisation that would throw away lives without a purpose. There were only two reasons why Stoney would’ve been left for dead like he was.

“Either the rest of my team was in a situation where they couldn’t risk relocating or treating me, or they were already incapacitated or dead.”

A surge of despair almost overtook him, but Stoney grunted as another surge of pain wracked at his head. He didn’t enjoy the sensation, but he was grateful to the pain for forcing him to focus on what was important.

It was possible his team was still alive and it was equally possible that they weren’t, but he couldn’t afford to focus on that. He had to focus on what he could do.

As Stoney staggered to his feet, the involuntary sway in his step made him nearly trip over his own feet, but he managed to catch himself against a wall. He felt the nausea of his concussion intensify at the movement, but nothing came out when he heaved. He waited a few moments for the feeling to subside before he gingerly made his way towards the exit of the basement.

He would mourn later. Though he had no idea what transpired during the time that he’d been knocked out, nor how long he’d been knocked out in the first place, he knew that he had to do something.

Stoney didn’t have much to work off of, but he knew that his team wasn’t in a position to help him, or they would’ve done so already. He couldn’t stay idle. He had to figure out what the situation was and work out a solution from there. It seemed like a daunting task, especially with how his head pulsed with pain at every step, but for now, all he needed to do was to get out of the basement.

Stoney grunted as he reached the stairs, sliding his hand from the wall to the handrail. Every step he took made him want to sit down and take a breath, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury.

The basement steps led up to a trap door, something that Stoney only remembered after he hit his head against it. He hissed in pain, but raised his arms up to push the door open.

He had to squint as the light bombarded his senses.

Stoney wanted nothing else but to crawl back into the basement and shut the door behind him, but he forced himself onwards, shutting his eyes and crawling forwards blindly.

Though his head was pounding, he was still confident enough in his memory that he could recall the layout of the house he’d been summoned to from the blueprints he’d studied beforehand. He crawled towards where he knew the kitchen should be, in hopes of getting some water for his parched throat.

When he felt a pair of arms scoop him up from under his armpits, his first instinct was to resist, but the gentle care that his handler seemed to be putting in to making sure they didn’t jostle him too much made Stoney assume that they meant him no harm. Stoney tried to open his eyes, but the glare of the light around him made him close them before he could see who his benefactor was.

He felt himself being lowered gently into a chair, and Stoney slumped down into his seat. Something was pressed into his hand, and once Stoney determined that it was a cup, he lifted it to his lips and drunk from it.

Water. It took the entirety of his willpower not to try and down it immediately, taking small sips instead to reduce the risk of choking or somehow aggravating his headache further.

“Stoney. What happened?”

While Stoney could make out the words being spoken, he couldn’t identify the voice. The voice was garbled, or perhaps his mind was, but in either case, it seemed like it was another Mediator. Had reinforcements already been sent?

“Traitors,” he grunted out. “Lena and Oren. Lena attempted to assassinate my Second, and Oren knocked me out when I retaliated. Concussion.”

There was no response from his benefactor, but the short talk was enough to try Stoney’s throat out again, and he was forced to take a few more sips of water.

“What happened while I was out?” he asked, once he was done. “Where is my team?”

There was a long stretch of silence, one that Stoney was quick to notice. Despite the fact that he wasn’t sure if he would be able to use it, Stoney reached for his belt, where his dagger rested.

“There’s no need for that, Stoney,” his benefactor said. “Your team’s alive.”

Stoney paused. He risked cracking open a single eye, and though the glare still hurt his head, he was able to focus for long enough to recognize the man sitting across from him.

“Marten?” he asked, just to make sure.

The insufferable man’s only answer was to give him a wry smirk, which confirmed his identity better than words could.

“The one and only,” Marten responded.

“You’re alive and safe?” Stoney asked, just to be sure. “What about the two Extras?”

“Never was in any danger in the first place,” Marten said, jerking a thumb to the side at a pair of Timuran Humans sitting idly at the table. “Same thing for the brats. Been right beside me this entire time.”

A wave of relief overtook Stoney before it was replaced by a surge of anger.

In one swift motion, he grabbed his dagger from his belt in one swift motion and slammed the tip into the table. The vibrations hurt his head, but it no longer mattered, with the pain being drowned out by anger.

“Are you fucking in on it too?” he shouted.

“In on what?” Marten asked, frowning as his eyes drifted towards the dagger.

Stoney had no delusions that he would be able to overpower or even escape from three trained Mediators when he was in such a bad state, but it didn’t stop him from growling angrily at Marten.

“Treason,” he said. “Was it more than just Lena and Oren? Was this all just a trap to lure me and my Second to our deaths?”

Marten’s frown deepened. “No,” he said. “It was not.”

“If that’s the case, why the hell was I left for dead in a fucking cellar?”

Marten opened his mouth, as if to answer, but shut it a moment later, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“Stoney,” he said. “What was your Second’s name?”

Stoney growled and pulled his dagger from the table and pointed in between Marten’s eyes.

“Don’t change the subject, Marten,” he said.

Marten stared into Stoney’s eyes, like there wasn’t a dagger pointed at his face.

“I’m not,” he said. “This is important, Stoney. What was your Second’s name?”

Stoney growled and was about to yell at Marten, until he realised he didn’t know.

He didn’t know anything about his Second.

“What?” he muttered, letting his knife fall back to the table.

Marten only responded with a grim frown.