The Forsaken Hero-Chapter 734: Demonkin

The curse demon gate was set on the crest of a gently sloping hill. The air was thick with infernal curse mana, drifting out in black tendrils like swamp miasma. Just looking at it caused my chest to prickle where red lines had once burned, and shivers to run down my tail.

"It’s smaller than I thought," R’lissea said.

"It’s on the weaker end of seventh," Fyren said.

Some movement on the edge of my gate caught my eye.

"There’s the demonkin. Should we approach," I asked.

"Stay back, " Fyren said, striding ahead of us. "Frightened prey is prone to lashing out, and I won’t have you caught in a crossfire."

Before I could react, he shed his humanoid visage, assuming his towering, twenty-foot-tall demon form. His aura abruptly surged, filled with flickering flames that danced from the molten lines drawn throughout his scales.

The demonkin, though still a few hundred feet off, noticed his presence immediately. They scrambled to their feet, clutching their weapons tightly. There were almost a dozen of them, clustered together, tails twitching anxiously.

"There are a few beastkin, too," R’lissea murmured.

I nodded, finding the large silhouette of a bear kin towering in the back, and a thin, scrawny rat kin on the side, hiding in the shadow of the leader.

For his part, the leader was tall and broad-shouldered, with a broad sword held firmly in his grip. He wore a tarnished breastplate that resembled those of the northern kingdoms of the Northern Continent, like Brithlite and Heartland. His hair was long and greasy, held back by a helmet that looked a size too small. His cloak was stained with blood and dirt, tattered on the edge like an old flag.

Fable crept close enough so that we could overhear without drawing their attention.

"Identify yourself," the lead demonkin called as Fyren approached. To his credit, he managed to keep his voice steady.

Fyren stopped a dozen feet away, clawed hands folded across his scaly chest.

"I see no need to converse with mangy half-bloods. Who are you to challenge me?" he growled.

Chills raced down my spine. Fyren had never used that slur before. But to use it so easily...for a moment, I wondered whether that was his true lens, and his act with me was but an illusion. It was a fleeting thought, one I dismissed almost immediately, but it bothered me all the same.

The demonkin drew himself to his full height, still only a third of Fyren’s hulking mass. From the increased agitated flick of his tail, it was clear that gesture was the only defiance he could muster.

"We are here on the command of an apostle. State your allegiance, demon, or be gone."

Fyren took a menacing step forward, laughing with a sound that chilled my blood.

"Did you think that would protect you? You are but children hiding beneath the shadow of a cloud. I fear no apostle."

The demonkin shifted his weight, taking a small, unconscious step back. The rest of his crew, dressed in similarly shabby and makeshift armor, looked a single word away from fleeing on the spot.

"F-forgive me, my Lord," the demonkin said, abruptly dropping into a low bow. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?"

Fyren snorted. "So you do know your place. I suppose I’ll overlook your arrogance for now. Where is this apostle you claim to serve?"

The demonkin swallowed, still pale, but at least he seemed to be breathing again. "S-she entered the curse gate not an hour ago. We’ve been waiting for her return."

Her? But that meant... I shared a look with R’lissea. She nodded back. It wasn’t Luke.

"Which apostle?" Fyren asked, eyes narrow.

"Lady Evla," the demonkin stammered. "Apostle of Gravity."

"And what are her intentions here?"

The demonkin swallowed hard, retreating another small step. "It’s, er, official business of the Descent. I’m afraid I can’t disclose–"

Fyren’s eyes narrowed. Fire leaped from his scales, igniting embers in the long grass.

"Feeling brave, are we?"

"She’s securing allegiances!" the demonkin broke out, eyes rolling in his head.

"And why are you here instead of her marked demons?"

"She surrendered them all to the Apostle of Curses. We’re here as a formality, to protect the gate while she’s inside. Honestly, the Descent’s been a nightmare. Demons from all over have–"

"I care not for your struggle. If anything, such tales amuse me. So continue, if you wish me to laugh at your suffering."

The demonkin’s mouth clicked shut. The others in his party were shaking now, edging away from the towering demon. The ratkin has somehow made his way to the back of the group without me noticing him moving.

Without so much as another glance, Fyren turned and beckoned us forward. I gripped Fable tightly, not taking my eyes from the demonkin as Fable took us to his side. It wasn’t that I was particularly worried about them lashing out, but rather I was aware of how the demonkin in Luke’s army felt about me.

There were a few thousand of them following the Horde in our battles from Brithlite the Blacksand. Most of the time, they were just....there. They rarely participated in fights, showed up at war councils, or otherwise made themselves known. None of them were particularly skilled, and almost all of them had a history of enslavement. They, like me, we’re the rejects of the world, tossed aside and left to fend for themselves. The biggest difference between us was that they actually enjoyed the few times they fought, relishing the chance to pillage and get revenge against the people who had oppressed them all their lives. More often than not, the ravaged villages and homes we found were the work of them rather than the demons.

As bad as the demons were about my presence in the horde, the demonkin and beastkin were worse. The demons rejected me based on my past as a hero, and would rather have consumed my soul than travel alongside it. But for the mortals, I was seen very differently.

Their chains had been broken, but their minds were still trapped in the same shadow as mine was. And in those shadows, in a slave’s world, men only had a singular purpose: hard labor. Women, on the other hand, had two. Housework and pleasing the master. They settled into those roles unconsciously, doing what they’d been conditioned to do their entire lives.

None of them had ever seen me tend the camp, nor was there even a home to work in. Thus, in their minds, that left me with one place. Considering how close I’d seemed to be with Luke–how close I thought I was with him- it was natural they thought of me as his plaything. After all, given how weak and frail I was, what other purpose could I have but to warm his bed at night?

I’d been fortunate enough to avoid almost all interaction with them till now, but not even the distance could hide me from the rumors and vile looks they cast in my direction. So, when the entire group of demonkin stiffened upon catching sight of me behind Fyren, I was expecting it.

"The hell...?" the leader gasped, forgetting Fyren towering overhead.

"The Lord’s slut?" another muttered. "What’s she doing–"

That was as far as he got. Fyren’s arm blurred before returning to its pace, crimson droplets sizzling on his claw. The demonkin who’d uttered the insult screamed, staggering back and falling to his knees. A wound gaped across his chest, shorn through his armor, revealing scorched bone and organs.

I shivered, horrified, as the cut opened up, bleeding white ash instead of blood. His body, one inch at a time, disintegrated. The screams only stopped when his entire torso was gone, leaving his head and limbs to fall into ash one after the other.

"I believe it’s best you leave, before I decide his death alone isn’t enough to atone for speaking against the Oracle," Fyren growled.

They scurried away without so much as a glance at the gate, and their supposed duty to Elva. I loosened my grip on Borealis, staring at the ground.

"That’s what they thought of you?" R’lissea asked, a tremor in her voice.

"It’s not their fault," I whispered. And, um...they didn’t see you much differently. There’s only one reason they’d believe you and Elise to be spared, too. So even...never mind, it’s nothing."

I wanted to explain more about what it meant to be a slave, but decided there was no point. It was in the past, and to justify their actions like that would demean everything I’d been through to be free since then.

"What do you wish to do?" Fyren asked after a moment.

I sighed, swallowing the bitterness in my mouth. "I don’t know. But Evla...she was nice to me. And Luke cares for her."

"What does that matter? Didn’t he make it clear he didn’t care how you feel?" R’lissea asked.

Her voice was more curious than anything, but I shrank back. Borealis shifted in my arms, sensing my discomfort.

"I just do, " I whispered.

Fyren nodded, looking up at the gate. "I have no doubt her life is in danger, if not lost already. If you wish to save her, let us enter now and pray it is not too late."