After hours of running Aamon, collapsed just beyond a cave’s mouth. his body gave out from his flee of the villagers. He looked down to his mother, still ringed on his fingers. The air here was filled with the scent of wet stone and sulfur, It was way too much like home. He looked at his searing flesh, the sun had repulsed his demonhood. He watched his skin start aching when the sun peaked over the mountains.

  In the dark aamon let his mind drift, feeling the pain of the day before once more. “Mother, could you sing me a lullaby again? I miss them.”

  Aamon put his head on a rock, and he closed his eyes, just till he could hear his mother’s voice. “Of course i can my little shadow, but you have to be stronger after.” Aamon squeezed his eyes shut, liaising deeper.

  “O, my marrow~ my captive, my keep~

  Where the soil breathes slow and the stone learns to sleep.

  No need for struggle, no use for the fight,

  The ceiling descends an inch every night.

  So close your eyes, love… and feel the descent,

  Where ambition is heavy and purpose is spent.

  The chains are gone, no longer a comforting weight…

  Just welcome the dust, darling… learn how to wait.

  The rust in the lock is a soft, spreading bloom,

  The silence is empty to absorb every tomb.

  Let your bones settle, like silt in a stream,

  Forget the dry torment of ‘could be’ and ‘seem.’

  Dream of the ivy that cements every crack,

  Of the deep, patient void that will never give back.

  The world is a wheel that turns till it breaks…

  But here, in our stillness, no decision it makes.

  So hush now, my shadow, my ended event…

  Your inheritance, darling, is permanent Lent.

  The outside is frantic, and bright, and a lie…

  But here, in our sloth, love, we've already died.”

  Aamon finally opened his eyes as his mother stopped singing. Looking down at her once more. “Ouch, this hurts mother. Why does the sun hurt so much? I thought it was supposed to ward off evil?”

  Aamon tipped his head to the side, a confusion he couldn't understand filled his head. “Huh, I should go to that castle on the mountains.” Aamon rose, the mountain loomed ahead filling the distant ground. “I mean don't knights need a kingdom to defend?”

  A tree peaked behind from the mountains, going high enough to breach the heavens. The real thing that caught his eye was the castle, its dark stone embedded into the side of the mountains.

  “I just hope they don't hurt me… I mean what's the chances they know each other?” Aamon lets out a reassuring laugh, trying to wash his worry away. “It's a big forest between them.”

  “As much as I’d love to explore this cave mother’s, I need to be going.” Aamon ducks down to look past the cave’s peaking light. “Night isn’t too far.”

  When night came, Aamon didn't wait a second before launching into the air. He still wasn't a steady flyer, but he certainly tried. “Heh, that's a tall tower. I wonder if I could climb one.” He over flapped with one wing, throwing off his balance. “Ugh, dumb wing. Flying is hard, mother.” He glanced down at her rings, clasped around his fingers. “But it's worth it. I'd look so cool! Like a valiant knight.”

  Below, distant animals scattered along the ground. A bird shot past him, vanishing into the trees. “Oh, I wanna fly like that!” Aamon tipped forward, turning his body horizontal. The movement cost him. He spun wildly, wings flapping against empty air before slamming into a tall pine. Branches cracked against his horns.

  “Ouch.”

  He fell, leaving an Aamonshaped imprint in the dirt.

  He rose slowly, his back and shoulders popping as they healed. The forest surrounded him, trees, shadows, and absolutely no one. “At this point, I'll never find a friend. I can't even fly right.”

  He paused, looking toward the distant castle. “Wait. I'll just try again. There's distance between me and them. I can practice.” His hands pressed against his chest, excitement building. His tail wagged, bone spikes clanging together. “Yes. I'll do that.”

  His wings stretched, and carried him back between the trees. This time he stayed steady, and focused. “Just like this. I probably shouldn't fly like a bird. We have different shapes.” He touched his chin thoughtfully. “Hehe, I'll put a bird on my armor. Yeah, it'll show my uniqueness.”

  His smile didn't last… It died completely as he reached the castle wall, his features switched into something else entirely.

  A line of demon heads stood against the walls, mounted on pikes of iron. The lowest heads were recent.. still ashy with their blood. The ones higher up made aamon stomach twist. Their flesh had already peeled from the bone, creating a sight that was far more terrifying than scary stories his mother would tell.

  The chilling finality of death was a concept too abstract for Aamon’s innocence to fully grasp. He understood it only as the ultimate wrong, a permanent end to happiness… a lock with no key.

  “Wow! That’s very… Umm, festive? They reek, I shouldn’t be here.” He turns his back to the castle wall, but something calls him to it. “But what if a friend is in there? What if they need me to?” Aamon turns to face the castle once more. “Yes, I’ll go in, and save a new friend.” Aamon lifts a fist into the air, clenching it in the air before him.

  “But what if they hurt me too? Mother, what should I do? I don’t want to… to feel that again.” Aamon slams his fist against his chest, his rings clanking on impact. “Ok, let’s plan this… like a rogue! I’ll sneak through the castle, hiding from every guard, and finding a friend.”

  Aamon gives one big breath, stretching his wings. He gives one large flap, throwing him in the air. It’s still wobbly, but he manages to stabilize himself. He tilts forward letting his weight glide him past the castle wall.

  His flaps get him just over the castle wall. He lands on the wall walk, looking into the city. He can see a large amount a light in the middle, but no guards.

  Within the kingdom the first thing Aamon noticed was the sound of his boots as they struck the streets. The air was filled with the scent of charred incense and something darker, as if dried blood soaked into the foundations. To Aamon’s left, a row of saintly effigies dressed in many outfits lined the street. Their hollowed out eyes followed Aamon, some of their rusted halos were stained green by time. At their feet, offerings of burnt herbs, cracked bones, and the occasional blackened coin. They were left by the ones who are desperate enough to beg for protection.

  A gust of wind slithered through the narrow avenue, carrying with it the distant groan of the Iron Cathedral’s gates. Aamon passed under an archway carved with warding runes, their edges blurred by rain and neglect. Above, bones dangled from rusted chains, a warning, a trophy, or maybe just a plea for safety.

  The lanterns flickered to life as dusk deepened, their glass panes filled with a flame, a witchfire that turned its surroundings blue.

  Aamon heard a sharp crack of wood hitting something soft. He turned just in time to see a slaver’s hooked pole strike a girl between the shoulder blades, sending her sprawling forward.

  Her knees hit the cobblestones with a wet smack, her skin split on impact. Aamon’s claws twitched. The slaver’s mask is a featureless slate of a polished white. “Useless thing.” The slaver muttered, not even looking at her as he retracted the pole with a slick flick. The wood was stained dark where it had hit many before.

  She stayed crumpled where she fell, her too thin frame trembling. The iron collar around her neck weighed heavier than ever, its edges crusted with old blood where it had rubbed her skin raw. She had white hair, matted with filth, that clung to her face. The slaver didn’t linger. “Disgusting Abyssal elves, you all weren't worth the time it took to chain properly. Nothing like the worth of your mother.” The rats skittered away from her shadow. She heard the clink of coins changing hands somewhere beyond the alley, the slaver’s voice gruff with satisfaction.

  “Got what I could out of her. Last one of the batch.” He scoffed. “Should’ve drowned it at birth.” The slaver grunted as his footsteps faded until nothing.

  She didn’t move. She stared at a half empty bottle of ale tossed beside her, it rolled slightly in the wind, the liquid inside sloshing like a mockery. She stared at it, she could have reached for it, let the sour drink numb the ache… But she didn’t. Instead, she curled her fingers against the stones, letting the pain be real.

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  “lady, are you hurt? You're bleeding a lot.” Aamon's breath hitched as the elf raised her head to his voice. The witchfire's glow caught her face, her eyes were deep and hollow, reflecting the blue flames against her Pink eyes.

  “Ciel… don't hurt… she never hurts…” The words slipped out from her, chapped lips barely moving. Aamon's claws flexed instinctively. This wasn't fear. This wasn't even surrender. It was the sound of a soul already gone.

  “Well…. Umm ciel? Are you an elf?” Aamon's voice was stiff. “My mother told me so many stories about elves and dragons, I really like dragons.” He has no clue what's wrong with her, he's never actually had anyone to teach him emotions. Images of his mothers face were deep in sorrow and guilt but she always sounded happy.

  “Ciel… is elf.” Ciel spoke to the ground. “Not know dragons.” Her attention caught Aamon's joyful tail against the stone floor. He didn’t understand the calculus of fear that governed her every word. He only understood that she was near and so his happiness had to be known.

  “Oh, can I tell you a dragon story? It has a knight!! My mother told it to me quite often growing up.” Ciel flinches as his wings when they start giving small little faps. Aamon brings his hands to his chest with excitement of telling his favorite story. Ciel’s sapphire pink eyes sting as her messy unkept bangs brush against them.

  “I’m a bit rusty and forgot a bit but it’s called The Knight’s Oath.” A small cough. “named by my mother.” Aamon had decided this was what storytellers did.

  He shifted to face Ciel fully, his tail giving a thump against the ground. “Sir Aldric was brave, but never mean. said to protect Noctharis, a kingdom of beautiful fields and good people. When a dragon burned the villages, Aldric rode out. Not for glory… but because the weak burned brighter in the dark!”

  Ciel looked into the ruby light of Aamon’s eyes and for a single second she did not see a demon. She saw something warm. It was a feeling before it was a thought, And in that thaw a memory surfaced: her mother’s smile. Not the face nor the name long lost to her past, but the feeling of it. The same warmth that promised safety. It was quickly drowned again by the cold.

  Oblivious to her internal struggle, he had just caused in her head Aamon brought a ringed hand to his own chin, his brow furrowed in a moment of thoughtful imitation.

  “Aldric found the dragon broken, its wings torn. A darker evil had driven it mad; a sorcerer!! starved for thrones. But the knight saw the truth in the beast’s pain. He knelt in the ashes and offered it water.” Aamon pauses for a second, squinting his eyes. “Umm… oh yeah, Together, they exposed the sorcerer’s lies. Not with pain. But with mercy!! And when the king offered Aldric a reward, he said no. ‘Some things are worth more than a kingdom.’ THE END!”

  The story ended and silence rushed back in. Ciel stayed perfectly still, in a statue of confusion. The words hung in the air between them, it was completely unfamiliar to her. Why? The question echoed in the hollow of her mind. Why had he done that? He was a demon. A creature of the abyss, like the ones her slavers warned would tear her soul out.

  Yet this one, he had simply told her a story. He stood before her now not with a weapon, but with a wagging tail, as he stood watching her with an expression she couldn't name.

  Her eyes, against her will, began to examine him, searching for the trick. He was unlike any demon she’d been taught to fear. He wore a pristine suit of velvet and the darkest shade of black with deep red, tailored to a form that was more elegant than most nobles. A half skirt flowed from his waist, appearing to be a folded bat’s wing, swaying gently with his excited movement. His claws, which could doubtlessly flay flesh, were instead idly toying with a delicate pendant on his shoulder. His fingers played with the tail of a small silver dragon that seemed to watch her with its own tiny ruby eyes.

  The pieces did not fit in her world. They clashed against the brutal logic that had governed her entire existence.

  “Ciel likes story... master... She will remember your story…”

  Aamon froze. Every bit of him seemed to deflate. His wings fell limp, drooping down his back like a dark cloak. The tip of his tail, which had been swaying happily against the stone, fell still and heavy against the ground.

  “MASTER!” Aamon gives her a look of astonishment. “No, I don't want to be a master. Can’t we just be friends? I don’t even know how to be a good master. Well I don’t know how to be a friend either, but still I’m not a master!”

  “Ciel no friend… not know how. Property is easier. Less pain for her.” She replied simply, this is the reality of someone who’s never made their own decision before.

  “What no! I know I've never had a friend before but my mother said ‘friends cure loneliness’, can't we learn together? It’s better like that.” He hugged his own arms, his wings pulled tight around his shoulders. “We can even eat meat together.”

  “learn? You want Ciel to learn?” Ciel’s mind spiraled. “Ciel doesn't know… ciel doesn't know! Please ciel good, don’t hurt.” Every instinct screamed to be good. to make herself small against the violence of this world. “Ciel does not want pain.” It was a rhythm she knew by heart, beaten into her soul.

  Ciel’s gaze locked with Aamon’s. His eyes held none of the hunger she was accustomed to. She didn’t see the greedy appraisal of slavers and buyers. There was no cruelty there, no hidden agenda. Instead, they held sweetness, a genuine and gentle concern.

  It was innocence.

  Innocence that had been beaten out of her with whips and sticks, before her body had ever been considered for any other use. They had not taken that specific part of her. They had shattered a child’s will to fight, leaving behind only the hollow instinct to endure. They had stolen her light, leaving a different kind of darkness.

  “Well then I'll take care of you.” Aamon declares, making Ciel flinch. “My mother said you should always protect your loved ones, I'm sure friends are loved ones.”

  She finally pushed herself up from the floor, her legs trembling at the knees. Her potato sack made clothes slip from one shoulder, revealing her broken, and never fixed bone. The skin around it was filled by scars so deep they seemed to have been carved straight into her.

  Her eyes found Aamon's. Something flickered there, the dimmest spark beneath her dark eyes. The kind of look that wasn't quite recognized, wasn't quite pleasant. Just the quiet, animal awareness of one wounded thing to another.

  “Ciel will…go. She will be good… will be friend.” Ciel noticed he was just a lonely boy. The offer of ownership wasn't denied out of strategy, but because the concept was foreign to him. He just didn't think that way.

  “Really!! Then let's go friend… wait what should we do?” Aamon pauses, scratching his chin. “Can we try meat? Ive never had some BUT… ive had moss that grew in my cell.”

  Aamon question, made a recognition flicker in Ciel’s chest. Not of Aamon himself, but the hunger. she had swallowed handfuls of flour dough in noble kitchens, her teeth chewing the paste while her hands kept kneading the dough meant for the feasts she’d never taste.

  “Ciel has seen where's meat.” Ciel looks the alley, as if expecting to find something worth noting. “She hasn't had much either. Slaves don’t get meat”

  Aamon puts a hand to his chest gripping his pendent and stands tall. One of his ruby eyes closes when he speaks. “Then it's settled!” He waves a hand forward, declaring it. “We eat meat as soon as possible. Before that though, I saw a lot of light from the middle of this castle.”

  Ciel didn’t reply. She simply turned on her foot and walked toward the central plaza. Her shoulders stayed hunched, not in submission but in weary anticipation, her body tensed for the next blow that always came eventually.

  She didn’t react when Aamon grabbed her arm. Her muscles locked automatically, her breath catching in her throat as she braced for pain, her eyes squeezing shut as her body curled inward instinctively. The scars along her back seemed to throb in anticipation of fresh stripes.

  Instead of a fist or whip, she heard a single word uttered with chilling precision “Reformare.” The shadows erupted from Aamon’s grasp, swirling up her arm that felt both icy and hot against her skin.

  Ciel’s eyes flew open as the darkness engulfed her, crawling into each crevice. She expected pain. She always expected pain but instead there was only... relief. The grime that coated her skin dissolved beneath the touch of the shadows. The clothing that had chafed a rash across her chest disintegrated into nothingness. In its wake a gown clung to her, with a high black collar trimmed, pink lace that resembled thorns creeping up her throat.

  An iron choker settled around her neck, the central clasp held a pink gem with the same dull light as her eyes. The heeled boots that materialized on her feet were the exact same as Aamon’s but with a longer heel. When she reached up in shock, her fingers brushed against her headpiece spanning across her head, it was the two small horns that caught her attention.

  Ciel stood frozen in her shock, torn between the instinct to flee and the realization that for the first time in years, she didn’t itch, she didn’t ache. The corset’s embrace was firm against her, it's a far cry from the iron shackles she was accustomed to.

  She finally dared to meet Aamon’s burning ruby gaze, she saw her own reflection in his eyes, no longer a broken slave, but something… beautiful.

  “you didn't seem comfy in your old clothing. I saw these dolls with an outfit like this and it looked cute, so I figured it would look cute on you with some adjustments. What do you think?”

  Aamon’s tail locks in place as he looks at her with admiring eyes, he's honestly desperate for approval. When Ceil replies her voice sounds better and painless

  “Ciel likes, thank you mas– she means friend. She thinks it looks pretty… will keep. Ciel takes you to the plaza now.”

  Aamon extended his hand toward her, trying to look as valiant as a demon could. His tail wagged despite his efforts to keep his emotions in check. “Shall we? It'll help us stay together, you know?” He closed his eyes, preparing for rejection.

  To his surprise, Ciel filled his palm with hers. “Yes, friend. We can walk together. To keep close.” Ciel turned, leading him out of the alley. The road was mostly empty, drunks slumped against building walls, mothers hushing crying infants heard through windows. In the distance, faint but unmistakable: cheers for a prince.

  “Oh, my…” Aamon's tail wagged faster as he pressed Ciel's hand to his chest. “A prince! My mother said they save princesses and slay evil dragons.” He glanced at his rings. “Do you think he actually slayed one?”

  “Ciel doesn't think he's met a dragon, friend. They are rare.” She guided their joined hands back down to their sides. “Whispers say there are only three dragons left. The Lord of Mayhem killed the fourth, seventy years ago.”

  Aamon's tail drooped. “Wait, really? Why didn't he take mercy?”

  “Ciel doesn't know. She wasn't born yet.” She tugged him into another alley. “This is shortcut.”

  When they stepped out, a hush fell over the square.

  An abyssal elf was rare enough to draw stares. A demon was a creature everyone feared. Seeing two of them together stole the breath from the crowd.

  “A demon dares enter my queen's kingdom?” A voice cut through the stunned silence, loud enough to carry from the very back of the square. “Then you shall meet my blade.” A man stepped forward, dressed sharply, presenting himself as their righteous protector. “I am Dysriel Varnmoor, the third prince, and I will end you.”

  He didn't wait, his charge wasn't the lunge of a trained warrior, but a theatrical sweep full of flourishes. Designed for the crowd's gasp, not for landing a blow.

  “Ceh… rughn…!” Aamon collapsed to his knees, gargling on his own blood. His claws scraped against his sliced throat, but he forced himself back up. he had a friend to protect, so he used His tail to push against the cobblestones.

  “You're a strong demon, to stand after a wound like that.” The prince cleaned his rapier with a cloth. “But you shouldn't fight back. Just perish, as all your kind should.” He said, lunging again.

  The prince continued his slashing. Ciel stood frozen behind Aamon, paralyzed with fear. She wanted to jump in, but was too overwhelmed with the prince's unyielding arcs. Aamon's mind raced, desperate for a way out. He couldn't fly, his lack of skill would hurt her. He couldn't push the prince like the swordsman in the village. That had ended badly enough.

  “Look, people! These are demons. Weak and pitiful.” The third prince glanced at Ciel with disgust. “Little one, step away from this demon or accept his fate too. I am a merciful prince… even to your kind, elf.”

  He raised his sword for another strike but paused, turning to acknowledge the crowd.

  “Kill him, our prince!” a woman shrieked.

  “You've got this!” a child clutching a doll squealed.

  “Demon! Demon! Demon!”

  They chanted together, united in their hate, all for one task:

  “DIE!”

  For once, Aamon held back his tears. Their words made something inside him click. He wouldn't kill for his own sake. But he would for this, for his first friendship, one that hadn't even had time to blossom.

  “My friend will not be killed by you.” His voice was steady now, white hair falling over his eyes.

  Before Aamon could charge, Prince Dysriel raised a hand, silencing everyone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the prince spoke.

  “You're not normal, are you, demon? Something new.” A smile spread across his face. “I'll present you to my Queen. She has a taste for… curiosities. Stand. Now.”

  The prince left no room for argument, and Aamon was too scared to fight back. So he stood, keeping one arm around Ciel, and reluctantly followed.

  His wounds had already healed, leaving no trace of blood.