Twain walked after the man. Casual, he kept his distance, but never let the man out of his sight for long. People bustled by, humans, beastfolk, demons, dwarves, even sun elves, but no moon elves aside from him. Twain bit his lip thoughtfully. As he approached the corner, he made a small gesture and whispered a few words under his breath.

A slender human teen wearing nothing on his upper half but a fur ruff around his shoulders turned the corner. The man paused in front of a door and glanced around. Twain paused and pretended to read something on the wall, watching from the corner of his eye. I’m a bit taller than the real Kyda, but he shouldn't notice that.

The man pushed open a door and stepped out into the day. Twain gave a few moments for him to clear the immediate area and followed him out.

Brilliant sun blinded him after the darkness of the Arena’s tunnels. He lifted a hand to shield his poor eyeballs and nearly missed as the man vanished down another alley. Huffing a short breath in annoyance, he gave chase.

Earlier, the city had stunk. By midday, with a few extra hours in the sun, it burned to breathe. His eyes, too, ached, even squinting his hardest with slitted pupils. He all-but closed his eyes, peeking out at the world through translucent white lashes. They helped block some of the sun, but also blocked some of his vision. Should have brought a hat, he thought regretfully. Sweat poured down his torso. Twain wiped his brow, ears wilting. Too damn hot out here. Too hot, to bright, and it stinks. The human capitol sucks.

Gratefully, he ducked into the dark alley. It stretched away, devoid of life. He tipped his head, confused, and noticed a branch to the left. Voices echoed around the corner. Carefully picking his steps, Twain wandered closer, perking his ears. Words filtered through the hubub of the city at last, and he leaned against the wall to listen, arms crossed.

“…gold.”

Rustling. “Don’t drink it all at once.”

A quiet grunt.

There was a pause. More rustling. Shifting feet. Whispers, too quiet for him to make out. Twain's ears twitched in annoyance. He started to gesture, forming the first words of a hearing-enhancing spell.

Before he could cast it, the man rushed out past Twain, a faint smirk on his lips. Twain shoved off the wall, meaning to follow.

A clawed hand caught his shoulder, beefy fingers gripping him tight. Twain jerked to a halt. Instinctively, he threw off the hand and spun, his hand dropping to his sword.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Two demons stood behind him, almost twins, except that one was bigger and more muscular than the other. Blunt horns thrust at the sky, darkening to black from deep violet skin.

“Hey, friend. Didn’t your mom teach you it’s not nice to eavesdrop?” the slender one asked with a friendly nod. He and his friend approached slowly.

Twain backed away and put his hands up. “Just… passing through.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The first man stood at the mouth of the alley, hands on his hips. He nodded at Twain, relaxed.

Shit. Twain shook his arm, and the knife fell from his sleeve into his palm. It was only a hunting knife, but it was better than nothing.

“Kyda, was it? Guess momma wolf didn't teach you about the city. Guess we have to teach you ourselves.” The slender demon grinned.

“You don’t have to. I understand,” Twain assured them with a friendly smile. He backed away, but slowly, wary of the man to his rear.

“Are you sure? I feel as though we ought to drive the point home. Forcefully,” the slender demon insisted.

The heavy demon grunted. “Too much talk.” He kicked off the ground.

Dust flew. The demon vanished.

A fist appeared, flying rapidly at Twain's face. Face twisted in rage, the demon appeared behind it.

Twain ducked backward and felt cold steel against his back. He twisted sideways mid-drop and hit cobblestone. The sword chased him down. He rolled to the side and felt it brush by his shoulder, close enough to send a chill down his spine.

Face down, he pressed his hands to the street and kicked upward. His heels smashed into the second demon’s face.

Much heavier than him, the heavy demon barely stumbled, but his head snapped back all the same. Twain spun again, dropping his feet back to the cobbles, and stood up inside the heavy demon’s guard. Before the demon could react, he stabbed him in the gut. Pink blood flowed out, gushing down the demon’s flank.

Big hands caught Twain's hands to the knife handle, trapping Twain in place. The demon hefted himself back upright and smashed his head into Twain’s.

Stars danced in Twain’s vision. He stumbled back, barely aware that his hands had been released. My knife… gone. His sword sat in its sheath. His bow waited on his back. Twain's hands twitched. No time. If I reach for them, they'll kill me.

Behind him, wind rushed past a blade.

Desperately, he arced his back. The sword cut a line through his shirt and scraped skin, knocking against his bow as it passed.

The slender demon drew his weapons, a pair of scimitars that glittered in the alley’s low light. All his joviality had fled the instant the heavy demon bled. His eyes narrowed, a deadly light shining in their depths. “You’ve made a grave mistake, friend.”

Twain flicked his wrist. A needle materialized in his hand. Dammit. I only have three of these. No time for regrets. Without looking, he threw it backward.

The first demon charged, blades whirling about him.

A heavy thump. Twain darted backward blindly, trampled the unconscious human, and jumped out onto the larger street. Instantly, the sun lanced down and pierced his eyes, so bright he had to shut them. He listened, ears twitching, desperate. The scimitars whooshed through the air, steadily approaching.

A gap in the pattern. A heavier whoosh. Twain threw himself backward.

His back struck something sturdy and muscular.

Twain’s heart plunged. They called for backup? I’m fucked, I’m so fucked. He threw his hands up and screamed, “Wait, wait, I—I’m the pr—”