A shock went through her. Cold, like a punch of ice that seared her system then dissipated.

The demon stared at her, unblinking, folded into the ceiling like a massive, grotesque bat. About the size of Lord Stanek’s elkhound, it had two—perhaps four?—leathery, segmented wings that wrapped around its body, and a scruffy blend of fur and strange, stick-like protrusions on its hips and shoulders. Its head followed a bat-like design, with large, sensitive ears and a nose that flared like the taper of a heart-arrow. Its muzzle was wrinkled in the semblance of a permanent snarl, though she didn’t detect any animosity coming from it. Instead, it was oddly silent on that front. Its eyes—large, staring, strangely luminous despite their inky blackness—stared at her with a hard precision. Like a predatory insect following instinctual commands rather than the more complex realm of emotions she’d seen on the hound demon’s face.

Except… it was intelligent. She could tell that much by the tilt of its head, the way its focus shifted from one portion of her body to another, sizing her up.

Footsteps fell in the courtyard next to her. In her peripheral vision, a dark figure ran into the space, then stopped, looking around. The prince, she recognized from a combination of footfall and silhouette. He was out of breath, a drawn sword in his hand, its tip low and steady.

Trained, then.

Useful.

She didn’t drop her gaze from the demon, and its gaze never dropped from her, but she did shift back and move her free arm in a slow, deliberate manner.

Prince Nales’ attention skipped her way. She and the demon watched each other as his footfalls made their way to the dark, roofed terrace and up the worn tile behind her.

“You should be in the great hall.” She held out an arm behind her—the same one she’d signaled him with—and he halted at her warning.

“Bellfort is dead.”

Cold swept her chest. Her jaw locked. For a brief moment, something wavered inside her. She forced herself to breathe through the emotion, never taking her eyes off the demon. The prince’s smell, smooth and subtle, like smoke over a river bed, came to her. It reminded her of the smell of rushlights in the temple behind the castle. A dark, woody scent.

“You should still be in the hall.”

The sword at his side twitched. She felt eyes on her. His head turned up, following her line of sight, and spotted the demon.

Like her, his breath left him in a soft whoosh.

Every line of his body froze. Then he recovered. Re-animated.

“Temi demon,” he identified. “Second Circle. Middling class. Watch for the venom barb on its tail.”

Her jaw slackened, but she quickly molded the surprise away from her expression. Her eyes slid along its torso until she found the tail in question, folded into the corner like the rest of it. Part of it did indeed turn into a barb, like a rose thorn.

“It hasn’t moved since I got here,” she said.

“They do that. Hunting reflex.”

Elrya. Demons have been cast out of the realms for two hundred and fifty years, and he’s talking about them like they’re common wildlife.

She decided not to send him back to the hall.

Arguably, he was safer with her.

Not very arguably. Treng was in the hall, likely with a sword by now, and the castle guards would also be armed by this point. Same with any fighters who’d been in attendance.

But she technically was the deadliest on the premises.

“My spells are down,” she said. “My main one, at least.”

“Mine aren’t,” he informed her.

She frowned. “Only mercari, then? Is that why Doneil couldn’t—”

“No,” the prince interrupted. “His spell worked. Bellfort was too far gone.”

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His words came quiet and breathless. Too quick. The air tightened around them, and she felt a tension pass through his shoulders. The demon watched them. Its dark eyes, like clouded obsidian, never lifted from her.

“What do you have?” she asked quietly.

“Kimbic fire. Second level.”

More than just a campfire start, then.

“Good.” Her teeth bared. “Then let’s kill this thing.”

She stepped forward—bold, deliberate—and the demon twitched.

Like a Kitani paper puzzle, it unraveled from the ceiling and slid down the pillar, its movements slick and soundless. A spindly paw touched down on the tile, the single, protruding claw bumpy with clots of recent blood, then it rose into a bipedal stance, towering tall and thin in front of them, ears nearly scraping the support truss. Its wings stayed close to its back, like a fly’s.

She eyed it, decided on weak points—joints, tendons, a potential low amount of blood on its thin frame—spared a brief mental grumble at her lack of spells, then slid fluidly into an attack.

Elves were fast. Fey-blooded. Few humans could attack a rnari royal guard and win. They were the best of the best and stood far above humans in terms of raw ability. Her knife flashed like a gleam on water, sliced upward.

The demon was faster.

It jerked like a spider. A talon slashed at her face.

Fire bloomed between them.

Half-expecting it, she ducked as the flames crackled against her forehead, a sudden heat on her face. Warmth smoothed over her back. Golden light darted, flickered, bright, making the scene jump. The demon’s wings flared—too late.

The keen edge of her rnari blade cut through the tendons behind its leg joint. She shredded through a wing membrane, too. Its upper limb jerked for her, but she was already rolling, blade slick with blood.

It growled at her and gave chase, quick as a whip snake. A surprising maw of needle-like teeth snarled from its jaws, the spines on its head standing up like a crest.

Nales stabbed it in the back.

It roared, but he was already sliding out of range. By the time it turned back, she had already moved in.

Her blades caught it in the chest and gut. Using her strength, she shoved it around and slammed it into the terrace’s stone walls. Blood gushed from its wounds, pouring over her arms, her bracers, her skin. The gurgle of its next snarl, and the blood that choked from its mouth, told her she’d found whatever it used as lungs.

Its upper limbs snaked around her. One smacked hard into the leather at her hip. She angled her body when she felt the other go lower, turning it away so that it couldn’t rip through the back of her leg. Its chest jerked under her hold as it tried to snap at her, hot breath and saliva hitting her face—then Nales came from the right for a second stabbing.

His sword pierced through what would have been a rib cage on a human, sliding nearly all the way through. A raw, trapped scream gurgled through the demon’s chest and throat, and it bucked weakly under her hold. Its wings flared and jerked, trying to get away. The prince stepped in, under her lifted arm, angling it in deeper. Fire bloomed a second time. The air filled with the strong, acrid scent of burning hair and flesh, and its shoulder bloomed into a bed of embers. Heat seared over her knuckles, but she held tight, digging her knife in further as an anchor point. Its head tilted back in a silent scream, jaws agape, needle teeth on full, pained display.

They held it against the wall as its struggles grew weaker and weaker.

After a minute, it stopped.

Its chest exhaled underneath her. Hot breath fell over her hair, rank and stinking, clotted with the scent of old gore and bile. Its head lolled forward, jaws slack, a long, slender tongue hanging out. Black wings slid down the wall, leaving bloody trails.

The prince stood by her, tense and rigid, his shoulder and upper arm solid where they bumped her body. The air hung still around them. Quiet.

Then, with one smooth, fluid movement, he retracted. The sword made a wet sound as it slid from the demon’s body, and the fresh scent of its foul blood hit the air. Once he was clear, she pulled her knives out, stood to the side, and let the demon’s body fall forward onto the floor.

It was a truly ugly thing. Stick-thin legs, large talons, teeth like fish spines—and real spines, black and hollow, bristling from its neck and back like a porcupine’s quills. Blood soaked its chest, the combination of her two rnari puncture wounds and Nales’ sword strike making it bear a partial semblance to the raw, wet-meat mess it had made of the stablehand’s torso.

Cold emotion poured through her body. She nudged it over with her toe, upper lip curling. The stench of burning redoubled, tiny pieces of char flecking off its shoulder onto the terrace’s Veronese tiles.

The prince stood beside her, rigid, dead-still, a mix of subtle emotions playing across his hard face. His jaw was tense, tight, the muscles working. His nostrils flared wide. He looked down at the demon with an intense expression in his eyes.

The sound of their breaths rose loud in the quiet. She caught his smell once more—somehow, over the stench. Temple smoke and river stone.

She shifted. The blood was cooling on her skin, along with a thin, prickling layer of sweat. Her muscles shook. The pain from her runes had ebbed, slipping into a constant nag, like the aftermath of a fly bite.

Bellfort was dead. Demons were back.

The cold in her poured thicker. She tightened her grip on her blades, the blood making them slippery around the hilt. The urge to hunt took her again. Dark and electric, a command that echoed all throughout her body.

Nales glanced up when she stepped away, his movement quick and snappy, a jerk. She met his eyes, found the same icy, quiet need for violence reflected in him.

She curled her lip again and turned, leading the way back up the terrace.

“Let’s go find more of these things to kill.”