The magical race referred in common tongue as demons, have formed the source of superstition and fear for as long as humans have existed. The term covers a range of magical peoples most commonly found in current Fireste. While studying the records of the Royal Library of Fireste, scholar Minerja Val’urzem found descriptions of over 256 species of demonae. The most well known of which are the devils, who make up the noble classes. Their characteristics like their pointed tail and long fangs specialized for their diet of blood, are the ones often found in depictions and myths of demons today.

It is speculated that this intrinsic human fear stems from the Golden Age of Fireste during which it conquered the eastern half of the continent and enslaved humans for free labor and as a food source.

Most of our current knowledge on the demonic peoples came from the before mentioned scholar Minerja Val’urzem, who lived among demons and even married one later in life. Based on her studies, she proposed devils to not be demons at all, but rather a different branch of elves. A claim that was refuted by demons and elves alike, and rejected by the scientific community.

However, recent evidence has been found at the Dragon Order of Lynoës that there might be truth in these claims.

~ The History and People of Magic by Sir Rainaldus Gale

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Sitting at the bar of the Traveler’s Rest, Lidea listened in as Warchief met with his informants at the table behind her. They were a colorful bunch, ranging from maids to merchants, some local residents while others were mere visitors. Each greeted Warchief with the familiarity of an old friend, engaging in lively conversations about their lives. Initially, Lidea had been impressed by their acting skills, only to realize that they were genuinely unaware of their role as informants for the resistance. They truly believed Warchief to be a longtime acquaintance. How had he managed to get close to so many people in such a brief span of time?

As another informant entered the establishment, she heard Warchief’s accent change completely as he greeted her with enthusiasm. It was unnerving how easily he slipped from one persona to another, his charm adeptly masking any discrepancies they might notice.

The woman bore a distinct accent whose origin eluded Lidea, leading her to assume that she was a visiting merchant, in town for the upcoming midsummer festival. The thought of the approaching celebration filled Lidea with a sense of nostalgia. Known as the Festival of Plenty, it spanned three weeks, turning the city into a bustling center of activities. The first week, aptly named the Week of Struggle, showcased skill competitions ranging from melee combat to archery, horseback riding, and culminated in a grand joust that determined the kingdom's greatest knight. The second week, the Week of Merriment, highlighted cultural events. The streets teemed with street performers, minstrels, and every market square transformed into a dancing fest. The festivities peaked on the summer solstice, with a magnificent banquet that opened at sunrise and continued until dawn. Both citizens and visitors were free to feast and drink with abandon, courtesy of the crown.

Finally, everything ended during the week of rest, as everyone joined forces to clean the city and the revelers prepared to return to their normal lives.

It had always been Lidea's favorite holiday, especially because her birthday coincided with the end of the Week of Struggle. Regardless of how busy he was, her father always made sure to take her to witness the Great Joust in celebration, and she would giggle while bestowing her blessings upon one of his numerous knights.

Gloom tainted the tender memory, as she recalled that they were all gone. Just then, the sound of a drink being placed on the bar startled her out of her reverie.

The innkeeper, a rather taciturn man for his profession, who greeted all his customers with an unsociable grunt, looked at her expectantly. Confused as to how he had mistaken someone’s order to be hers when the taproom was only half full, she pushed the drink back to him.

“My apologies, but I didn’t order anything.”

“It’s on the house.”

She eyed the glass with a heavy dose of skepticism. While Lidea didn’t want to come across as rude, she couldn’t help but wonder why he had given it to her. Her suspicion grew as he kept staring. Maybe he was looking at her scars, although most tended to avert their eyes if they noticed them.

“It has been a long time since I saw eyes like yours.”

His remark caught her off guard, putting her on edge, as she feared another instance of being recognized. However, she quickly relaxed, realizing that he was an ally of the resistance. Even if he did know who she was, there wouldn’t be a problem.

Seems like I need a disguise after all.

“My eyes?”

Melancholy marred his expression, and he offered a faint smile as if reminiscing about a bittersweet memory.

“It’s true that you take after your mother, but those eyes are undoubtedly his.”

There was no longer any doubt in her mind that she had been recognized. She looked down at the rough wooden texture of the bar, trying to suppress her welling tears before responding.

“You speak as if you knew him.”

“I did. This inn belonged to my late wife. I was part of the king’s personal legion when he was still a princeling. I was one of the men that accompanied him after the old King sent him to Umbrae. If it hadn't been for your father, I don't believe any of us would have returned alive.”

Umbrae

She had never known much about what had transpired during that mission, as it occurred before her parents had even become engaged. However, she was aware that it was an experience that had cemented her father as Morto's confidant and most trusted friend.

Funny how that event had surfaced twice within a short span of time.

“I fear that I don’t know much about that time. Father never spoke of it.”

“With good reason. The horrors we endured in that forest are of no importance to a young lady.”

He grumbled, his movements becoming rough as he began to clean the returned glasses. The mere memory of those days seemed to agitate him.

“My lady, I wished that I could kneel before you and beg for forgiveness. What happened to him and to you... It was unjust.”

For a moment, an image of her father hanging resurfaced, but she pushed it aside, knowing it would dissipate just as quickly. Hearing someone else acknowledge the injustice brought her a sense of relief. It affirmed that neither she nor her father had been delusional.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Many believed it was justified.”

His closed fist suddenly struck the bar with a loud bang, his words dripping with anger.

"Fools, the lot of them! Either turning a blind eye because the current state benefits them or ignorant enough to believe that nothing will ever change. Tell me, how can things improve when most are too cowardly to take action, and those brave enough are left to fend for themselves?"

She hadn't expected her words to incite such rage, and she glanced around the room anxiously. The sudden hush caused by his anger amplified his words, reverberating through the air. She feared someone would run off and report the older man to the city guard, but no one did. All just sat silently, staring at anything but the innkeeper’s face.

“Cowards, all of you.”

Swirling the glass of beer in her hand, a realization dawned upon her. She wasn't any different.

After losing everyone and being left to rot in that prison, she had been broken. Even after her rescue and physical recovery, she had failed to notice that she had lost hope.

The only reason she had picked up her sword again was that she felt responsible for ending the fight she had started and keeping as many people alive as possible. But why then fight in the first place?

As she surveyed the room, observing those whom the innkeeper had labeled as cowards, she was reminded why she had embarked on this journey. It wasn't solely for her father's memory, her pride, or even to protect those around her. It was because she believed in the necessity for change, and as a noble, it was her duty to fight for those without power or a voice.

Was it worth it?

For the first time, those words brought a genuine smile to her lips.

“They aren’t cowards, just normal people who know better than to risk all they have for a possibility. I don’t blame them and you shouldn’t either.”

It was still deadly silent as everyone listened intently to their conversation. The man before her, looked on in confusion, likely questioning if she had lost her mind, not understanding that she had just found it again.

“But my lady…?”

“Fighting for this country isn’t for the sensible sort. Better to leave that to fools like me. You just keep living your life, and once I succeed, I trust you all to stand beside me as I turn this country around.”

Lidea picked up the pint of beer, downing it in one gulp. A sigh escaped her lips as the weight of the drink grounded her. The man, recovering from his astonishment at witnessing a young woman drink like a soldier, began to chuckle. His laughter spread, and the tension in the inn dissipated as others joined in.

“You might look like your mother, but your spirit is like his.”

"My mother would agree with you. She often despaired at how hopeless both of us were."

"I am not surprised! Poor woman must have turned grey before her time!"

Two more glasses of beer were placed on the bar. Before she could protest, one was grabbed by Warchief who took a seat next to her.

"Those were bold words, princess."

"I simply spoke the truth."

She smiled as she took a slow sip from the second beer, all the while those strange orange eyes studied her. Perhaps he had sensed her change in spirit, but he didn’t question it, instead returning her bag to her. It felt light, now that he had emptied the contents.

Lidea had witnessed him handing the bundle of letters to the leader of a local thief gang. Not the most ideal messenger, but Warchief had assured her that they were trustworthy and, most importantly, discreet.

Her face must have given some of her worries away as Warchief added another assurance.

“I promise you that they will receive them. If anyone can find your men’s families then it is those boys.”

“Thank you.”

Sending those letters had further lightened her heart. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel as if she were descending into madness due to sorrow or guilt. It was as if Taylor's words had finally penetrated her thick skull. Yes, she had made decisions that led to their deaths, but she wasn't solely responsible. This wasn’t solely her story, it belonged to all of them.

Thank you, Taylor.

His was the only letter that remained, as she hadn't found the opportunity to give it to him yet. Well, his and the one intended for her sister.

Thinking of Alana stirred up complex emotions within her. On one side, they had never gotten along. Alana had always been the perfect daughter, a social butterfly of high society, and their mother's golden child. Meanwhile, Lidea had been rough, unsophisticated, and obsessed with fighting. Their worlds were simply too far apart.

When their father was sentenced, sixteen-year-old Alana was the first to turn away from him, as if the accusation of treason had suddenly changed the man who had raised them. Alana had always been prideful and the one who cared the most for how she was perceived.

In a flash, Lidea found herself kneeling in the throne room again. Disheveled and still covered in the blood and filth of battle, she endured the gossip and stares from the aristocrats lining both sides of the room. Their opulent attire forming a stark contrast to her own appearance.

“Do you know why you are here?”

She could still recall Morto's voice. He had the audacity to speak as if he were the benevolent king who had been betrayed. Lidea hadn't answered. Though she wished it had been out of rebellion or spite, the truth was that she had been too traumatized to speak. She had just witnessed Valerian's men line up her comrades and behead those who were still alive.

“I take your silence for a yes. For the crime of treason and heresy, the crown and almighty God condemns you to death. If any disapproves of this sentencing, then speak your truth.”

Even though she hadn't seen her mother or sister since the day they abandoned her and returned to the castle, she couldn't help but glance at them. Standing at the left side of Morto, they both looked down at her pitiful form but didn’t speak.

Her mother's eyes were lifeless, her emotions carefully concealed behind the mask she so often wore. Alana's eyes, however, were different. They radiated fierce hatred.

She knew that writing a letter to Alana would be futile. Most likely, her sister would glance at it before tossing it into the fire. After all, Lidea was considered a traitor, while Alana was a loyal aristocrat. Nevertheless, the message from their great-uncle haunted her. If their mother had been a dragon rider or a potential one, it was a miracle that neither of them had inherited the gift of magic. It also meant that there was a high probability that any of their children would be born with it. For Lidea, this wasn't a pressing concern, as she had never been close to any man and couldn't envision herself being so in the near future. However, her sister had always been the domestic type. She wouldn't be surprised if Alana had already married. What if any of her children came out blasting fire or creating ice? Would they look on as they would be condemned by Morto, just like they did with her father, with her?

Even if Alana wouldn't listen, Lidea had to make an attempt to warn her. Perhaps their mother had already cautioned her, and Lidea worried needlessly. But in that small chance that Alana remained unaware of their heritage, she deserved to know the risks her potential children would face.

“Did you give them the forgery as well?”

She whispered, just in case someone was eavesdropping, although she believed it might be safe considering the innkeeper had openly expressed support for the resistance.

Warchief shook his head in answer, taking another sip before answering her in words.

“I will give it to Wulf. It will be more believable if the rumor starts from the castle.”

Her curiosity reared its head at that claim. Did the resistance have someone inside the castle? Probably a servant, but Wulf seemed like a peculiar name.

“Is Wulf their real name? Or another nickname?”

His responding grin confirmed her suspicion. This informant was different from the ones he had met today. This was someone from the resistance that was undercover.

“He is a noble who likes to stay anonymous.”

A heavy dose of skepticism doused her interest. Which noble would be idiotic enough to do such a thing?

“Are you sure he can be trusted?”

He let out a deep sigh as if her mistrust had drained his energy, but a smug grin eventually broke through.

“It will be fine worrywart. Before you know it, the whole city will be buzzing about the alliance between Lynoës and the God of death.”

“As long as he doesn’t get caught. I spent too much time on it for someone else to mess it up.”

Her sourness caused him to chuckle, which in turn made her roll her eyes.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sudden swing of the door. A young man dashed toward the bar, his face flushed from exertion.

"They're taking Shanayra!"

"Slow down, boy. Who is taking her?"

The innkeeper asked, his face appearing calm despite the worry etched in the lines of his forehead.

"The guards! They claim she's a witch!"

Lidea exchanged a glance with Warchief, who had already risen from his seat.

"That girl... I warned her this might happen. Lead the way, boy. Let me attempt to reason with these men."

She had wondered why the young man had decided to come here. But it made more sense as she remembered that the innkeeper had been in the army

But he is far too old to be a threat to them. Especially if the guards hold the advantage in numbers.

As they exited the taproom, the other customers followed suit.

"Keep your hood on. Hopefully, Roland can handle this on his own, but if not, we may need to lend a hand."