The Demon Who Became a Toddler

They advanced once more, for Malakor was unyielding, refusing to permit his… inconvenience to halt their progress. For his companions, the experience of following a leader so drastically diminished in stature was profoundly strange, yet Malakor himself carried on as though nothing had fundamentally changed. His pretense of normalcy, however, was no match for the forces of nature. When ominous storm clouds gathered like a bruise in the sky above, and a torrential downpour was unleashed upon them, the situation altered dramatically.

In an instant, the woodland floor transformed into a slick, grasping slurry of mud, and Malakor’s small legs were swallowed by the cold ooze. He instinctively tried to stabilize his weight by walking on all six of his limbs, but the action only served to coat his entire body in a thick layer of grime. The denim trousers, wrapped loosely about his frame, quickly became waterlogged and heavy, dragging behind him like a sodden anchor.

Jianna, observing his increasingly desperate struggle, finally spoke up. "Malakor?" she called out, her voice gentle. "Do you think it might be easier if one of us carried you?"

He shot her an irate glare over his shoulder, his pride wounded. "Why would I need that?"

"There's no cruelty in it, Malakor," Jianna said, attempting to sound as reasonable as possible, though she wasn't sure if her tone was having any effect against his stubbornness. "You're simply too little to be wading through all this mire. If this rain keeps up, the ground will only become worse." He remained silent, his expression a mask of skepticism.

After a long moment of internal debate, a battle between his dignity and his exhaustion, he shuffled back toward her. With a deep, weary sigh that seemed to drain the last of his resistance, he lifted his arms in that universal, unspoken gesture of a child wanting to be held.

Accepting his surrender, Jianna scooped him up, unable to resist a lighthearted jest. "You do realize you're getting mud all over my clothes," she remarked. "It was your idea," Malakor retorted sharply, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

"So, where to now, oh mighty and minuscule guide of ours?" Flitterwing murmured, wiping a stream of rainwater from his face.

Malakor merely gestured vaguely in the direction they had been heading. "Forward," he commanded. "That is all you require to know."

They obeyed his instruction, pressing onward. The storm, meanwhile, seemed to gather its fury, the steady downpour escalating into driving, diagonal sheets of frigid water. The light of day was rapidly fading into a deep, oppressive gloom, and the roaring wind did nothing to soothe their frayed nerves.

"We have to find shelter from this tempest!" Flitterwing shouted to be heard over the gale. "Malakor, is there anywhere nearby you know of?"

The demon offered no reply. Jianna glanced down at the small figure nestled in her arms. Malakor seemed on the verge of sleep, but as she looked closer, she realized that a tremor was running through his tiny body. He was shaking.

"Hey, Malakor?" Jianna inquired, nudging him gently. His large, crimson eyes blinked open, turning slowly to meet her gaze. Rainwater dripped from his lashes, and in the dim light, he looked terribly unwell. "Malakor, do you know of a place we can get out of this rain? Somewhere we could spend the night, perhaps?"

For a moment, Malakor’s gaze swept across their surroundings, as if hoping the familiar patterns of the forest would jog a memory. At last, a flicker of recognition crossed his features, and he gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Yes," he said, his voice a thready, sluggish whisper. "There is a road. If we turn left and continue on, we will find an inn. I have coin in my pack."

"You mean to tell me there’s been a road this entire time we’ve been stumbling through the wilderness?" Flitterwing demanded, his voice thick with exasperation. "Why didn't you—"

"Flitterwing, be quiet for a moment, would you?" Jianna interrupted, her tone sharp with sudden urgency. Malakor's shivering had intensified, and a disquieting heat was radiating from his small form against her skin. "Let's just follow his directions and get out of this storm."

Following his guidance, they soon emerged from the trees and found a solitary wooden building standing by the edge of a muddy track. A hand-painted sign, depicting a rearing stallion, swung creakily in the wind.

Flitterwing held up a hand, halting their approach. "Let me just do something quickly, all right?" Byrns and Jianna, desperate for warmth and dryness, urged him to be swift. Flitterwing set his pack on the ground and closed his eyes in concentration. A moment later, his magnificent wings simply seemed to dissolve into the rain-swept air.

"What happened to your wings?" Jianna gasped, startled.

A faint smile touched Flitterwing's lips. "It's a Fey trait. We can dismiss them when they are not in use." He then reached for the towel tied around his waist, untying the knot. Jianna now saw that it was not a towel at all, but a long-sleeved vest, artfully designed with tassels that fringed the bottom hem and armholes. He had simply used the tassels to secure it around his waist. Dressed in the vest, with his vibrant green hair and pointed ears being the only giveaways, Flitterwing appeared almost human.

With renewed purpose, they pushed their cold, weary muscles through the final stretch to the inn. Upon reaching the entrance, Flitterwing hammered his fist against the thick, oaken door.

A small slit in the wood slid open, revealing a pair of dark, suspicious eyes set in a wrinkled face. "What do you lot want?" a gruff voice demanded.

"We're just seeking refuge from the storm and a warm place to sleep, mister!" Flitterwing yelled over the deluge. "Can we please come inside?"

When the man did not immediately respond, Jianna stepped forward, shifting Malakor into a more visible position. "Please, sir," she implored. "We have a child with us, and we think he's falling ill."

That seemed to be the key. The door was thrown open with such haste that the man nearly pulled them inside.

"Are you people mad, wandering about with a bairn in this kind of weather?" the innkeeper scolded, his gruffness now laced with concern. "Get yourselves over by the fire and dry off. I'll fetch you all something hot to drink. I pray the little one doesn't take a chill from this wretchedness. It’s those foul Shadow Races, I tell you. The gods are wroth with them, and this is our punishment." He continued to grumble to himself as he shuffled away toward a back room.

The companions gratefully collapsed into the sturdy wooden chairs arranged around the roaring hearth, extending their numb limbs toward the blessed heat.

Now that they were out of the wind, Jianna could clearly hear the chattering of Malakor’s teeth, a sound he seemed to be actively trying to suppress. She edged her chair closer to the flames, more for his benefit than her own.

"I think Malakor's getting sick," she whispered to Flitterwing, who studied Malakor’s pale face and nodded in solemn agreement.

"He does not look well at all," Flitterwing affirmed.

"Dinnae get sick," Malakor murmured, his speech drowsy and slurred. "'Aven't been sick since m' Binding…"

"Well, it looks like you are now, buddy," Jianna said softly. "Don't fall asleep just yet, Malakor. The innkeeper is bringing us something hot to drink. It'll help warm you through."

Malakor let out a small snort of protest, but he shifted, pushing himself to sit more upright in her lap. It was a tiny act of defiance, one Jianna suspected he wasn't even fully conscious of making. She watched him, a wave of protectiveness washing over her. At least he had straightened up; a tingling numbness was spreading through her arms, but she ignored it.