Ouroboros II | The Wolf

16 | Ira And The Fifth Prince

The Fifth Prince of Hell is in Heneth. That much was at least true. A victory Mayvalt might have rubbed his nose violently into if their circumstances had been a touch brighter. Instead, for better or worse, she limped along quietly a few paces behind Ira. Her head was bowed as all he could see when he strained a glance over his shoulder was her pink hair. The demon escorting her did so with one meaty hand clasped firmly over her shoulder, like a disappointed father walking his own daughter into the teacher's office. And Ira had to accept that silence--it very well seemed to be the only win he was going to get that week. He shook his head until the bruises marking his throat twinged. He was a glass half full kind of demon killer, after all. So, Monday wasn't going as planned? They had been defeated, stripped of their weapons, and captured. There was still Tuesday--or, well, was it already Tuesday? The warm golden sunlight rising over the mountains seemed to indicate some degree of time passage. Anyways--that wasn't the point. The point was that the armed escort of mountain-sized demons might have been their problem, but it was also a solution. The brother pair half dragged half shoved Ira and Mayvalt deeper and deeper into the winding curved stone alleyways of Heneth, taking them a route it could have taken Ira days to figure out himself. So, not all bad? It was a convenient funnel right to the Fifth Prince. 

Ira's stomach twisted painfully. Was the Fifth Prince really going to put his eyes in a pickle jar? He wished he could ask Mayvalt. Or, not Mayvalt. Maybe someone better informed than Mayvalt. One of the locals? Yeah, right. Like that was happening. The only townies they had run into since popping from the portal were the soldiers they had lost horrifically to. 

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled from his chattering teeth, attempting very unsuccessfully to soothe his jittery nerves. 

I am Ira Rule, he thought. It'll be okay. 

His lungs expanded outwards, filling with light summery air. 

I am Ira Rule. 

And shrunk, shoving his breath up through his crumpled throat. 

I am-

As if in protest of his perfectly manufactured optimism, the hand crushing his forearm bones into dust gave a painfully tight squeeze. "Oi, Blue-Eyes." The guard called Zebulon gruffed over Ira's wince. "Is it true that Heimrians eat sheep? Crack their bones an' suck 'em dry? I heard they do." 

For one single moment, Ira almost agreed. Until he remembered that sheep meant He-Goats and that, according to the ram's horns shimmering in his blond hair, he was one of them. So he said nothing, his eyes trained on the scoffed tops of his once polished shoes. 

"'ucky 'en 'at the Prince gets to 'im first." The walrus-tusked second demon added, mumbling over the yellow bone protruding from his sickeningly human mouth. 

"Lucky you think, Sardis?" Zebulon chuckled. Ira hated the way he sounded, like a child laughing maniacally as he pulled the fluttering wings from the shiny back of a helpless beetle. "I suppose that depends on what the Prince has planned for them."

"'lanned?" Sardis repeated, cocking his head doggishly. His thick tusks pushed Mayvalt's sides, knocking her stumbling black boots off course. Sardis squeezed her shoulder harder, dragging her up to her full height again. 

"I think I'd rather take my chances on Heimr." Zebulon said. 

Ira finally managed to catch Mayvalt's eyes--and wished he hadn't. He quickly snapped his head back around, locking his blue eyes on his black shoes. Where, when he squinted, he could almost see his own reflection. He focused on that grainy mirror. Anything to wash out the sight of her pupils, pin-prick small and flushed with fear.