The Satyri with Burn-Scarred Skin

Jianna leaned closer, her voice a low whisper that barely disturbed the air between them. “Malakor? Is something amiss?”

He leaned away from the remnants of their meal, the untouched portion of meat before him growing cold on the wooden plate. He shook his head, the gesture slow and deliberate. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

A shrug was all she offered outwardly, but a silent promise formed in her mind. Later, she thought, her gaze lingering on his troubled profile. When we’re alone. He was clearly unwilling to speak with an audience, and she could respect that boundary, at least for now. She would not press the matter in company.

A comfortable quiet, filled with the soft crackle of the central fire and the distant, muted sounds of the encampment, settled over them for a time. Presently, the two women who had shared their dinner rose in unison. “The hour grows late,” Kaelen announced, her face illuminated by a warm, radiant smile that seemed to light up the tent. “I am terribly sorry, but we must take our leave of you.”

“It is perfectly all right,” Malakor replied, and Jianna noted how his rustic accent had once again receded, replaced by the more formal, cultured cadence she had heard from him earlier. “We are grateful to have imposed upon your time as it is—”

“Nonsense,” Kaelen dismissed with an airy wave of her hand, the gesture one of effortless grace. “This is a slow season, and my days are far from full. I will have Blynn bring you a warm blanket and some provisions for your journey. May your dreams be fortunate.” With a final nod, she turned and slipped out of the tent, her companion following in her wake.

“Good dreaming to you!” Malakor called after her, his voice carrying into the encroaching darkness.

The tent flap swished shut, plunging them into a more intimate quiet. Jianna’s head snapped toward Malakor. “Hold on a moment,” she said, her voice rising with a note of flustered disbelief. “She doesn’t seriously expect us to… to sleep in here together, does she?”

“And why not?” Malakor inquired, one eyebrow arching in amusement.

“Because!” she sputtered, feeling a flush creep up her neck. “Because I can’t just sleep in close quarters with some man I’ve barely met!”

A slow smirk spread across Malakor’s face, and the rougher, earthier tones of his accent bled back into his voice like a returning tide. “Ah, but she dain’t know ye’ve only just met me, does she?” he countered, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“That’s hardly the point! And besides, you’re not even human!”

“Truly?” Malakor’s eyes flew wide in feigned astonishment. “This is a revelation! Why was I not told? I feel a swoon coming on.” He pressed the back of a hand to his forehead with theatrical flair and staggered back a step, feigning a dramatic collapse.

“Jackass.”

“I know.”

“Ahem.” A discreet cough from the entrance sliced through their banter. Both of them turned to see a figure silhouetted against the night sky in the doorway. As the individual stepped from the shadows into the faint, flickering glow of the lamp, Jianna was confronted with yet another stark reminder of the In-Realm’s fantastical populace.

His upper body was that of a man, with finely chiseled features and a neatly trimmed beard, but there the resemblance ended. His lower body was that of a beast, covered in coarse, dark fur that descended to powerful legs ending in the cloven hooves of a goat. A pair of elegantly curved horns sprouted from his temples, nestled within a mane of shaggy, unkempt hair that was pulled back into a low ponytail. His ears were long and pointed, tapering to delicate tips that extended a good three inches above his head.

But it was the scar that commanded Jianna’s morbid attention, a puckered, violent testament to some past agony that started on his left cheek, snaked down his neck, and traversed the breadth of his chest before disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. In stark contrast, his right cheek was marked with a precise black tattoo composed of tiny, interlocking triangles—three pointing upward, two pointing down. He held two heavily laden packs, and a thick, folded blanket was draped over one shoulder. His gaze was fixed firmly on his own hooves, his entire posture radiating a profound shyness.

“Hello there,” Jianna said softly, taking a cautious step forward. “Who are you?”

He started, his head snapping up, and he shuffled his hooves on the dirt floor, a gesture of deep-seated unease. “I am Blynn,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the silence.

Blynn? she thought, a pang of pity striking her. How horribly ironic, for a name that meant ‘blister,’ given the cruel map of burns across his skin.

She offered him a gentle smile. “Well, Blynn,” she said aloud, her tone kind. “My name is Jianna. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Blynn replied, managing a small, jerky bow. “These are for you.” He held out the packs and the blanket, his arms trembling slightly. Jianna took them from him.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Blynn offered another hesitant bow before melting back into the shadows from which he came, vanishing as quietly as he had arrived.

Jianna turned to find Malakor standing, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway, a look of deep curiosity etched on his features. “What is it?” she asked.

Malakor shook his head slowly, his voice low with astonishment. “That’s the first Satyri I’ve ever seen in bondage. I was under the impression they couldn’t be enslaved.”

“He’s a slave?” Jianna asked, the word leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Malakor’s expression turned grim as he nodded. “Aye. The tattoo. It’s a slave’s mark. He’s likely the only one in the clan.”

“That’s just… awful,” Jianna whispered, her fingers tracing the rough-spun texture of the blanket. She unfolded it, the simple act feeling heavy with a newfound sadness.

“It happens,” Malakor said, his tone somber. “Don’t let it weigh on you.”

Jianna spread the blanket on the floor and began to inspect their new supplies, her mind turning over the image of the shy, scarred Satyri. She busied herself for a moment, arranging the small parcels of food, but the question that had been simmering finally boiled over.

“Malakor? Why didn’t you eat any of the meat? I thought you were looking forward to it.”

A flicker of irritation crossed the demon’s face. He let out an exasperated sigh, raking a hand through his dark hair. “It’s my Binding.”

“Your… what? What’s a Binding?”

He turned to her, his frustration palpable. “You Outrealmers… so much you don’t know. Fine. Look. The first half-century of a demon’s life is ordinary enough. We age, we can fall ill, we’re subject to the frailties of our kind. Then, in our fiftieth year, we make a pact with our patron god or goddess. A vow for longevity, for freedom from sickness, for power. It’s called The Binding.” He paused, his gaze intense. “It’s a covenant. To receive the gift of extended life, the demon must sacrifice something, but we have no choice in what that sacrifice will be. My Binding forbids me from consuming any portion of meat larger than my own hands.” He held them out for her inspection, palms up, a gesture of stark limitation. “Every piece on that platter was too large.”

A wave of comprehension washed over Jianna. It wasn’t pickiness or a lack of appetite; it was a restriction, absolute and unbreakable. “Oh,” she breathed softly. “I see.”

She stretched, the strange events of the day finally settling into a deep weariness in her bones. Wrapping a portion of the heavy blanket around her shoulders, she prepared to lie down. After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed one end of the blanket in his direction. “Here. Do you want some of this?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his accent returning in a soft burr. “I think not, seein’ as ye were so opposed to the very notion of sharin’ my company so close.”

She gave a weary shrug. “Well, whatever. Suit yourself. This is all just a dream, after all. It doesn’t really matter.” A profound sense of dislocation washed over her. “Frankly, this dream has gone on long enough. I expect I’ll fall asleep here and wake up in my own bed. It was… an experience meeting you. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.”

Malakor merely snorted, turning away. “Whatever,” he muttered into the gloom.