Michael was having a complicated day.

He'd thought the child was lost, when he first saw her crouched by the hedge. Either an unwanted burden somebody had abandoned far outside the city to die of exposure, or a recent runaway regretting their choices.

It was a sad thing to witness, but not uncommon. A lot of families couldn't afford another mouth to feed, or couldn't afford the Stone fees for yet another child. From what he'd heard, it was fairly easy to hire somebody to take your burden far enough away from town that they would never make it back.

Runaways. Sometimes the aforementioned burden didn't like the work they were being forced to do, and thought they could do better on their own. After all, if you were already paying your parents for food and board, what difference did it make if you left and did the same thing on your own?

Still, he had been in a contemplative mood and he'd had nothing much to do for the next couple of hours, so he'd stopped to ask if she needed help.

Big mistake.

His first impression, once he finally got the stupid horse to stop, was that she was filthy. Her skin was the colour of mud and her hair in such tight braids that he suspected they could no longer be unravelled. Her shirt, which may have once been unbleached cotton, was grey with age and wear, and her skirt looked like it'd been crafted by somebody challenging themselves to make a garment without access to any sort of cutting implement. You could probably earn an achievement for that, but you didn't have to wear the result.

Poor thing, she didn't even have shoes. How long had she been struggling out here? Days? A week? She would starve soon if he did nothing, he was sure of it.

Pity. Wasn't that always his downfall. A poor lone mite, lost in the wilderness, in need of rescue.

He would take her home and get her a bath and some good meals, and then when he was sure she was no longer in imminent danger of death, he could release her out into the city and feel like he'd done a good deed.

It had never gone wrong before, rescue a peasant child from certain death, get home in time for the party, no problem. He might even get an achievement out of it, [Rescue 10 Orphans] or something.

It was a flawless plan, Michael had thought.

Then the rest of the day had happened.

The girl wasn't lost, or abandoned. She didn't need a wash, and he certainly shouldn't release her into the town alone, because reality was: she was simply insane. Not only was she not a runaway or a burden, she was both headed towards the same place he was, and she was out here by choice.

On top of that, some sort of probably-magical affliction had rendered her senseless, and his best bet would be to get her to a temple, dump her on the priests, and hope they could exorcise whatever demon had taken up residence in her husk. Poor thing.

The demon-child kept barking at his horse, for one thing. Roots- that was his name now- didn't seem to mind it- surprising considering his hatred of dogs- but she did it all the time. He had spent his whole morning and afternoon listening to a demon bark and growl at the horse, as if making conversation.

She never barked or growled at him though, no, all he got was hoots and whistles. Madness. Insanity. His mother was going to kill him.

Michael sighed.

He'd offered several times to let her ride the horse; finally giving up on speech altogether- she didn't understand him anyway- and instead resorting to hand gestures and prayer. Mostly prayer. But she didn't seem inclined, baring her teeth at him and rattling off something in her hoot-and-whistle language.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Barks for the horse, bird-noises for him. Neither of them were riding anywhere today, and when he'd tried to lift her onto the horse, she'd tried to bite him. Insanity. Why hadn't he left her on the side of the road?

But, the reality was he hadn't, and it was too late now. The sky was starting to darken into night and here he was, sitting on the grass an hour's ride away from home, two hours late for his own party. She was going to murder him, he would have to go live in the barracks again to escape her. He was going to have to- Michael shuddered- apologise to his section master.

Yes. That seemed much safer than letting his mother get her hands on him. He could go straight to the Chapter House, apologise to his senior officer, pick up the nail scissors and start trimming the lawn out front, or whatever they needed him to do in apology. That seemed like a sensible option.

Face it, he sighed, staring at his scattered belongings. You're screwed.

"This was meant to be a nice, half-day trip." he grumbled. "Give the new horse a good run, deliver a couple of letters to Denny, be home in time to help with the party. Easy."

He certainly wasn't running away after an argument, and he hadn't even considered that he might not make it back in time. A simple trip to talk to his cousin and exercise his new horse, no ulterior motives at all.

Only the party- his party- would have started an hour ago, and here he was sitting in a clearing watching a demon-possessed runaway create fire out of nothing but a few twigs and leaves. She wasn't even using a skill for it. Did demons gain the skills of those they possessed, or did they overwrite them with their own?

He'd have to ask the priest when they got back. Straight there, no hesitation at the gates. He could go to the Chapter House on the way back and pay his respects to the Stone, before his section master strapped a sign to him and made him walk around the city, or something equally humiliating.

And Angelina, his mother, was going to think he'd been taken by bandits, at best. "A fitting death for a useless son," she would say. "I always expected him to go out in a stupid way, but I didn't imagine this."

He paused with one hand half inside a leather bag. Could that be where the kid was from? Rumours said there were a group camped out in the woods around here, but they wouldn't have bothered him if he was alone. Roots- Stone help him he'd given the horse a name- was too fast for them to chase him, and he had no valuables on him anyway.

Michael stopped messing with his bags for a moment and watched his new pet demon pile up leaves and twigs. Was she really going to make a fire like that? She was pulling a box of something out of the bundle of cloth he was only now realising she was using as a backpack, now, struggling to get it open with her blunt fingernails. He'd never seen the like. You could take a [Fire Starter] skill from any Stone for only a silver and it would embed in your sheet permanently. Even the poorest of families would have saved up to give their children it. It was one of the gifts The Hero had won from the gods, back in some time ages past.

Which Hero? It didn't matter, they were all the same in the end. Dead.

"Should I help?" he asked, but she waved him away, the box coming open with a sudden jolt.

"Not like I could do much anyway," he sighed.

He didn't have the skill, because what use did he have with a skill to start fires, but somebody living on their own in the forest? She should have picked it up before she left.

Just how young is she? He wondered. He had thought she was six or seven at first, but she'd carried herself as somebody much older, over the course of the day.

Maybe her family were so poor they couldn't afford it. But she could still have…

He let the thought go as the girl flicked her fingers together and the detritus she'd arranged in the pit caught fire. Well, look at that. Who needed a skill when you could do that? That was magic right there.

He wondered if she had food, somewhere in that mess of hers. Stolen caravan goods, perhaps

One had been taken only a week before. It had made the news around his circle, but he'd been distracted with other things at the time. Like the upcoming party, and his imminent release from the Politeía, into the arms of his overbearing mother.

Michel sighed and started to rummage through his bags again, losing interest in the fire. He had some food in there somewhere, but not enough of it. Travel snacks were all they were meant to be. A small, round fruitcake and a couple of bottles of good wine. There was also a tin box somewhere with some sandwiches in, but they were meat-paste and they'd been in there since the morning. He wasn't going to trust those, even if Sugar had made them especially for him.

He had pilfered a couple of tough pastries off of Denny though, and although they were bound to be more crumb than pastry by now, maybe she'd like them? She did look half-starved.

What was the worst she could do, bite him again? It wasn't like this day could get any worse.