Cut To The Bone

Chapter Four

The Silve forest was familiar enough to Azima—it ran along the continent's coast, its paths and roads passing through it like a network of roots, and each one led from the surrounding villages to the Parish. Trade came and went during the daylight hours. By nightfall, the roads would be deserted out of fear of a demon attack, and she would be lucky if she was able to make it to the closest village without breaking her ankle in the dark.

As much as she would have loved to trudge along the off-beaten path to get to the Eanu as soon as possible, it was the only safe option if she wanted to get there alive. She could handle the occasional demon, but she was living in unprecedented times, where spawn infiltrated a Venandi's home despite the wards surrounding it. She wasn't going to take more risks than she needed to.

That the demon was able to not only get into their cottage but ignite it with its hellfire continued to baffle Azima as she traveled along the quiet road. The wards were cast by the Parish's own clerics on every Venandi family homestead. They were the same ones who warded their blades and conducted the Initiation ceremonies of the young Venandi and Imerai.

Not appointed like the Council of Five, the clerics' gifts were a rarity within the bloodlines, and those who displayed such gifts were sent directly to the Parish for their own training as soon as there were signs. No demon hunting would be expected from them, and those family lines who produced such a contribution were renowned for the remainder of their legacy.

She remembered her own Initiation, not long after her first bleeding. A rite of passage for all young Venandi and Imerai upon their maturity, she traveled with her mother and Chey to the Parish for a week of ceremony and celebration, staying at their family estate within the capital city until it was time to return home. Just as the Imerai were tattooed by the clerics so were the Venandi branded, the ink and the iron blessed and warded, the truest symbol of their promise and dedication to their cause.

You cannot cry, her mother warned her as they walked up the numerous stairs of the Tower to the Initiation ceremony. You cannot scream, you cannot waver. Not until the day is done.

So she didn't.

Not as the red-hot iron seared her skin. Not as the flesh burned and the blood flowed. Not as the wound festered and the brand oozed beneath her shirt. With every breath, the skin tightened and with every flinch, she wanted to whimper.

But she didn't.

The sounds of a scuffle off the road knocked her from her memories and she quickly moved behind a tree while smoothly pulling her sword from its sheath. The bark pressed against her back as she held her breath and listened. Determining if or how she should intervene when the need arose. A Venandi would take offense if another interrupted their kill, but if it was a civilian foolishly trying to hold their own, Azima was born to serve and protect and couldn't hesitate.

She listened, and the frustrated grunts of exertion were clearly male, not that that meant anything. Male or female or otherwise, unless they were Venandi, it was on Azima to ensure their safety, even at the potential expense of her own.

The mantra had been ingrained in her since she was old enough to hold a sword.

A yell and the reverberating sound of a metallic impact had Azima moving. With ears open, she slowly, soundlessly moved towards the sound of the conflict and her grip tightened on her blade until she had a better vantage point.

Crouching behind an overgrown forsythia bush, she peered through the greenery into a small clearing— the location of the disturbance. Three red-skinned surgat demons flanked a young man no older than Azima, dressed in brown leather and gripping a two-handed sword as he faced them. His stance was battle-ready, his sword held low and ready to strike. His gaze was dark green and calculating and he shook tousled brown hair from his eyes.

Not an ordinary civilian then. Good. She always believed everyone should have some semblance of training in their lives—the world was too volatile with the Rift so close, and Venandi could not be expected to be everywhere at once, even when they tried.

It looked as though the man had been busy, for his sword dripped with black blood and Azima spotted two mangled corpses on the ground, waiting for their ashes to be summoned back to the underworld. He was breathing heavy, so either he was caught unawares, or dispatching the two had him winded. Either way, he was too distracted by the three in front of him that he hadn't seen the fourth sneaking up behind him, just as the fourth was too focused on the man to notice the Venandi watching on the outskirts.

"Behind you!" Azima shouted just as the fourth demon lunged, and she exploded into the clearing.

She watched just long enough to see the man spin, sword already moving towards the surprised fourth demon while the other three were taken off-guard enough from her presence to falter in their attack.

But she did not falter in hers.

She swept through the clearing like it was a dance floor, each demon an unwanted partner, and their advances were rejected with the feeling of warded steel slicing through their flesh. She didn't need skirts when she had swords, ceasing her spin only once she cleaved the head from the red body of the final surgat before it could leap in her direction.

Silence settled on the clearing, and Azima stood as the thud of the demon's flesh hit the ground. She turned as she flicked black blood off her blade before sheathing it along her back, half-expecting at least some sort of gratitude. But the man seemed neither pleased to see her, nor thankful for her intervention.

In fact, he looked rather pissed off.

"I was handling that just fine," he snapped, glaring at her as he brushed demon blood off the shoulder of his brown jacket.

Azima's jaw dropped in disbelief. "You... you do realize I just saved your life, don't you?"

The man scoffed and he walked over to a pile of canvas on the side of the clearing. A pack, it looked like. Probably discarded when the demons attached. "I didn't ask for your help."

"That surgat would have pinned you down and made a meal of you if I didn't warn you."

"I knew it was there the whole time," he said flatly as he sheathed his blade at his hip beneath his jacket.

She doubted that but tried another tactic. "Where did you get that sword?" It was too fine a blade for just anyone to have.

"It was my father's," he said matter-of-factly as if that was answer enough. "Where did you get yours?"

Azima frowned as she considered the sentiment, ignoring his question. Once she, too, had her mother's sword. Had used it to kill the biju demon after it slayed Alara Rousseau. She would still have that blade had it not been lost in the chaos after her mother's death. Chey had told her it was confiscated by the Parish as evidence and for research, but Azima always wondered if the Imerman kept it for himself as a remembrance.

"How did you learn to wield it?" she asked instead.

"Practice, just like everyone else," he said, each syllable clipped. "Any other questions?"

"You shouldn't be out here," she informed him, pointing to the dead demons on the ground.

"And you should be?"

"There could be more. Return to your home, these woods are no place for—"

"For someone like me?" He scoffed. "What about someone like you?"

"I—" But she owed him nothing. And who knew if there were any more demons hiding in the woods, watching, waiting...

"That's what I thought. Find someone who actually needs your help next time." The man hefted his pack on his back with a grunt, turning on his heel without another word.

That's what she had tried to tell him, that she was there to help. That she only intended to help. But if he was going to be an ass about it, well then, let him walk alone to his own demise.

She was going to tell him just that, too, before he turned his back to her completely.

But Azima bit back the surprised gasp that escaped her throat, covering her mouth with her eyes wide as she watched him walk away.

On the back of his neck, still red from its relatively new placement, rested the tattooed wings of an Imerman.