The Heart Of Asariel

4 || Demon Blood

Warmth brushed over Micah's face. It settled a thin blanket over him, wrapping him in soft heat that melted away the cold still aching in his muscles. With a contented sigh, he huddled into it, his lips pulled upwards as he felt it thaw the last of the ice.

A strange, lingering panic seeped from the cracks, squirming in his veins. His smile faded into a slight frown. What was there to be scared of? He was warm and comfortable, waking from a delightfully soothing nap. Perhaps he'd lay here a little longer, pretending to doze, then jump out on whoever next entered the room. Or maybe he'd simply go back to sleep.

He shifted, tugging himself out of it. Trouble didn't allow for laziness. Besides, wasn't he supposed to do something important today?

The realisation hit him a moment before he opened his eyes.

The pistol. The noise. The blue light, the figure it illuminated.

Duine.

His gasp lodged in his jaw as he snapped upright, then regretted it instantly, squeezing his eyes shut again as a dizzy wave crashed over him. The more consciousness injected energy into his veins, the more the heat clashed oddly with his skin, less a gentle caress than a prickling burn that tore at him as it ripped through the chills. It was better than being cold, but it hurt. He collapsed, counted a couple of seconds, then let his eyes tease open again.

Less than a pace from where he lay, a fire flickered in a grate, flames burning low but embers throbbing with scarlet heat. The rest of the room slotted in around it: dents in the blue-grey walls highlighted by flaring shadows, matted beige carpet cutting a wide berth around the fireplace, a low-hung ceiling that looked more grey than white for the shaded dirt that marked it. And, of course, the bed he lay in, large enough to take up most of the space.

The figure. She must have brought him here. Lifting his head, he made a hurried attempt to search for the door, spotting it wedged closed just beyond the foot of the bed. Now the fear felt warranted, twisting uncomfortably in his stomach. Was she saving him? He couldn't help but feel confined in the small space, the walls closing in, eerily reminiscent of a cage.

Even in Elysia, they didn't lock him in rooms this tiny, but a small room still translated to a cell. This could easily be a trap. And this time, he had no idea how to escape.

The pistol. He felt for his neck, a shiver washing over him despite the warmth. He'd nearly been killed. He could die here.

"Besides, it's about time Micah learned the consequences of his actions."

He laughed, the sound fading a little too quickly, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "I think I learned my lesson, Ghidor," he whispered into the fire. "Can I go home now?" His voice hitched. He sucked in a breath, moving his hand to wipe over his face. Now certainly wasn't the time to cry.

Gathering his strength, he rose again, slowly, shifting until he sat upright. Thankfully, the pounding in his head had subsided. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, flinching as the soles of his feet brushed the blanket beneath him. Several stinging lines dug into his skin, and his heels were rubbed raw from scraping over so much gravel. He didn't like how restricting shoes felt, preferring the freedom and edge of rebellion that came with travelling barefoot, but he was beginning to wish he'd grabbed some that morning. And some warmer clothes. He felt horribly exposed in only his tunic and underwear.

A pang rippled through his chest, mirroring the ache in his throat. Elysia never got cold, not properly. Everything about Duine seemed designed to make him suffer.

The Heart. He felt for his wings, relief trickling through when they responded by twitching, creasing the blanket where they draped over the bed's opposite side. As soon as I find the Heart, I can go home.