A Demon's Debt, A Feyan's Border

Once they had put a safe distance between themselves and the river, where the bodies of the stranded Troggs still thrashed in their death throes, Malakor called a halt. He eased himself into a squat, every movement stiff and deliberate, a clear concession to the injury that plagued his arm. A pang of guilt struck Jianna; she should have perceived his suffering much earlier. She knelt beside him, her eyes drawn to the steady welling of blood that escaped from beneath his palm. It traced a slow, crimson path down the corded muscles of his forearm, staining his skin with a dark, wet trail.

“Are you hurt?” Jianna asked, her voice a hushed whisper laced with concern.

“I am fine,” Malakor groaned, the sound a low, dismissive growl. For a fleeting moment, he risked lifting his hand from the wound, letting out a sharp hiss as the air met the raw flesh, before clamping it back down with renewed pressure. In that brief instant, Jianna saw the injury clearly: a vicious gash that had carved through the fleshy part of his upper arm, just below the shoulder. Though it didn't seem wide enough to necessitate stitches, its depth and angry redness made her question how he could possibly maintain his composure.

It was apparent Blynn had witnessed it as well. “You need to get that bound,” the satyr stated, his expression uncharacteristically grave. “That looks foul.”

“I’ll be fine,” Malakor repeated, the words a stubborn rumble. He tried to push himself to his feet again, but Jianna shot up and grabbed his uninjured arm, her grip surprisingly firm.

“No,” she countered, her voice ringing with an authority that allowed for no argument. “We are not moving another step until you let us dress that wound. Blynn is right. We can’t risk it becoming infected and have you die on us. How would we reach Kaur-Koram then? I have no idea how to get there, and Blynn…” She glanced at the satyr, who confirmed her words with a shake of his head. “…Blynn doesn’t know either. We’ll just wander in circles until those Troggs track us down again. What then?”

Malakor’s large, dark eyes narrowed into smoldering slits, and his stare felt like a physical weight. For several tense heartbeats, the only sound was the faint rustle of leaves in the canopy above. Jianna held her ground, meeting his glare with a defiant courage she hadn't known she possessed. Finally, with a deep groan that seemed to emanate from the very core of his being, he relented. He collapsed back to a sitting position with a heavy thud and, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, began to rummage through his pack with one of his free middle arms. Jianna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and settled on the ground beside him.

After a moment of searching, Malakor produced what he was looking for: several strips of clean, slightly elasticated fabric of varying lengths, which he handed to Jianna.

She stared at the bundle of cloth in her palm. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

With an irritated grunt, Malakor shifted to present his wounded shoulder to her. “I cannot properly bind my own injury,” he said, his tone clipped. “Someone else must do it.”

“But… but I’ve never…” Jianna stammered, her gaze flickering morbidly between the pristine bandages and the seeping wound.

Blynn moved forward then, kneeling beside her. “I know how,” he said calmly, reaching for the dressings. “Allow me.”

Nodding in profound relief, Jianna passed him the strips of fabric. With a confident and business-like air, Blynn set to his task. His touch was surprisingly deft as he gently took hold of Malakor’s arm. He began by placing a soft, absorbent pad directly over the gash, securing it with a shorter strip, applying firm pressure while being mindful not to cut off circulation. He then took one of the longest pieces and began to wrap the demon’s powerful bicep, starting above the wound and working his way down in a precise, overlapping spiral. When he finished, the bandage was a neat and snug dressing that held the wound closed while still affording Malakor a full range of movement.

Both Malakor and Jianna had watched the entire procedure in silence. The moment Blynn sat back on his haunches, his work complete, Malakor rose to his feet. Without a word, he hoisted his pack onto his good shoulder and set off at a brisk pace. Blynn muttered something under his breath about the nature of gratitude as he and Jianna hurried to follow the demon toward their unknown destination.

After some time had passed, their clothes still clinging damply from their earlier swim, Malakor signaled for another rest.

“I doubt the villagers will give us much trouble with the Troggs about,” he said, setting his pack on the ground. “And they won’t venture this close to the territorial border. We are about to enter a region where I have no desire to stop and make camp. It’s far too dangerous.”

“What’s so dangerous about it?” Jianna asked, placing her own pack down beside Malakor’s.

Before the demon could answer, Blynn interjected. “The danger won’t be for you or me, actually. It will be for Malakor. The Demon Clans and the Fey have been at war for ages.” Jianna missed the faint smirk that played on the satyr’s lips, but Malakor saw it and shot him a withering look.

“Why are they at war?” Jianna inquired. Malakor merely shrugged his great shoulders and turned away, while Blynn sat down and began to meticulously clean mud from his hooves.

“No one truly remembers for certain anymore,” Blynn said after a moment. “Some say the Fey offered the demons a great insult long ago, but all I know is that a demon in Fey lands, or one of the Fey in demon territory, is taking their life in their hands.”

“Fey?” Jianna’s voice lifted with a spark of excitement. “As in… faeries? Are faeries real in this world?” Of all the myths and legends from her own world, they had always held the most fascination for her. She could only imagine what they might truly be like.

“Can we just make camp for the night, please?” Malakor asked, his tone almost pleading. “I’ll stand watch, on account of those Troggs hunting you, Jianna. I’ll wake you both if I hear anything.”

Jianna and Blynn both nodded their agreement. Malakor produced a small, folded blanket from his pack and tossed it to the satyr, while Jianna retrieved her own from her bag and spread it on the forest floor. As Blynn made himself comfortable and Malakor found a suitable perch in the high branches of a nearby tree, a question surfaced in Jianna’s mind.

“Hey, Malakor? Why are the Troggs hunting me?”

She heard the demon sigh from his post above, and he shifted to look down at her. He seemed to ponder the question for a moment before he spoke. “I’m not entirely certain. I only know that the Troggs would not venture this far from their homelands without a powerful reason. And they mentioned the Lady Zovira, which is… not good.” He anticipated her next question and quickly elaborated. “Lady Zovira is a very, very bad person. She is the matron of the Shadow Races. The most powerful sorceress in this world. If she is the one hunting you, then the Council must have had a very good reason to bring you here.”

Jianna pulled the roughspun blanket tighter around her shoulders and chewed on her lip. Someone that powerful was hunting her? The idea was staggering. Her? Why? What could possibly be the reason? Ever since she’d arrived, she had tried to frame this experience as a grand, fantastical adventure, a way to cope with the reality that this was no elaborate dream. Now, faced with real, mortal peril and the knowledge that a formidable sorceress wanted her for some unknown purpose, the fantasy had curdled. This was no storybook. This was her life on the line. The question echoed in the sudden silence of the woods: Why me?

To say the border between the regions was distinct was like saying day was different from night. The transition was so jarring it felt as though they had stepped through an invisible doorway into another world. One moment, they were navigating a forest straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, all dappled light and deep shadows; the next, the claustrophobic canopy was gone, replaced by an achingly vast, open sky, under which a sun of merciless intensity pulsed. The Fey lands held few trees; instead, a sea of tall, rippling grasses swayed and rustled against Jianna’s waist. The air, once damp and cool, was now scorching and thick, heavy with the scent of sun-baked earth and dust. Jianna could feel beads of sweat trickle down her temples.

Crouched low in the grass, Malakor was a study in taut nerves, his eyes darting about with an almost frantic energy, jumping at the slightest unfamiliar sound. He urged them onward with a low, incessant hiss, his voice a constant pressure to move faster. If she hadn't been feeling faint from the oppressive heat and unnerved by his uncharacteristic behavior, Jianna might have found Malakor's anxiety amusing. Blynn was already struggling to suppress a chuckle each time the demon flinched at the sound of a rabbit skittering through the undergrowth.

“Malakor,” Jianna gasped after a long stretch of fast-paced walking. “Please, can we rest? I’m hot, tired, and desperately thirsty.”

Malakor cast a frantic glance around them before hissing, “Fine, but be quick about it! I want to be out of this territory as soon as possible.”

With a theatrical sigh, Blynn dropped to the ground, the sudden movement making Malakor jump. “Don’t be so skittish,” the satyr chided gently. “We would hear one of the Fey long before we saw one. We’ll have plenty of time to get away.”

“Hear them?” Jianna asked, gratefully taking a long drink from the waterskin attached to her pack. “What do the Fey sound like?”

“Well,” Blynn began, but then he cut himself off, his goat-like ears twitching. “Actually, they sound a lot like that.”

Malakor instantly dove low, pressing himself flat against the earth as Jianna and Blynn scrambled to their feet.

Now Jianna could see them—or rather, their effect on the landscape. The sea of grass was parting in distinct channels, like a reenactment of Moses and the Red Sea, the tall stalks bending aside to allow unseen forms to pass before springing back up in their wake. One channel led the way, while three others seemed to be in pursuit, weaving a frantic, winding chase across the plain. A low, resonant thrumming sound rolled across the grassland, a vibration she felt as much in her chest as she heard with her ears.

“Is that them? The Fey?” Jianna asked, mesmerized as the lead parting line twisted and danced through the meadow.

“Aye,” Malakor’s voice rasped from their feet. “That’s them. Now get down!” He spoke in a strained whisper, raw with a desperation that sent a fresh spike of fear through her. A powerful arm shot out, grabbing them by their ankles and yanking them down into the concealing cover of the grass.

The low thrumming grew louder, accompanied by the sibilant rustle of disturbed grass drawing ever closer.

“By the gods…” Blynn breathed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “They’re coming right for us.”