Chapter 7: The Thornwood Beckons!
The first breath of truly fresh air that Xolvion had tasted in hours filled his lungs as he finally crawled out of the tunnel's exit, emerging into the pre-dawn gloom of the Thornwood Forest that surrounded his father's huge castle grounds. His entire body ached from the confined crawling, and the wounds from his battle with Grakul throbbed with every movement, but the relief of being out of that claustrophobic stone passage was overwhelming.
Behind him, the tunnel entrance was cleverly concealed behind a curtain of twisted roots and thorny vines that would have been nearly impossible to spot unless one knew exactly where to look. The ancient architects who had designed these escape routes had been thorough in their planning, though Xolvion doubted they'd anticipated their work being used by a fleeing bastard prince centuries later.
The Thornwood stretched endlessly before him, its gnarled trees reaching towards a sky that glowed with the familiar crimson hue of the demon realm's eternal twilight. Unlike the manicured gardens of Castle Valous, this was wilderness in its most primal form, a dangerous, unpredictable, and utterly indifferent to the noble blood that flowed through his veins.
Xolvion pressed his back against the largest tree he could find and carefully examined his wounds in the dim light. The claw marks across his shoulder had mostly stopped bleeding, though they still sent spikes of pain through him whenever he moved his arm. The lash from the imp's barbed tail had left an angry red welt across his back that felt like it was on fire. His makeshift bandages, torn from his ruined shirt, were soaked through with blood and would need changing soon.
"Right then," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper in the forest's oppressive silence. "Three days to grandfather's territory, injured, on foot, through monster-infested wilderness. Either that, or I let those fuckers kill me." He said, knowing he only really had one choice.
The bitter sarcasm in his own voice surprised him. The pampered prince who had woken up in his comfortable chambers that morning would never have spoken with such dark humour. But then again, that prince hadn't killed his first enemy or fled for his life through ancient tunnels. Blood and violence had a way of changing a man, even a demon prince for that matter.
Standing proved to be more difficult than expected. His legs, cramped from hours of crawling, nearly buckled beneath him, and the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his injured shoulder. But he forced himself upright, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He couldn't afford weakness now, not when every moment of delay increased the chances of his siblings discovering his escape.
The forest floor was treacherous, covered in a thick carpet of thorny vines that seemed almost alive in their attempts to snag his feet and tear at his already-damaged clothing. Each step required careful placement, and more than once, he had to grab onto low-hanging branches for support, reopening the wounds on his shoulder in the process.
As he picked his way through the undergrowth, Xolvion found his mind wandering to his grandfather's stories, tales his mother had shared during their quiet moments together. Zarathos Nightwhisper had supposedly once walked these very paths as a young demon, fleeing enemies of his own. The parallel wasn't lost on Xolvion; perhaps running from family betrayal was a tradition in their bloodline.
The sound of snapping twigs somewhere to his left brought him crashing back to reality. Xolvion froze, his hand instinctively moving to the ceremonial dagger at his belt. The blade was still stained with Grakul's dark blood, a grim reminder that he was no longer an untested noble playing at adventure.
A low growling emanated from the shadows between the trees, followed by the distinctive sound of multiple sets of claws clicking against bark. Whatever was out there, it wasn't alone, and it had caught his scent. His wounded, bleeding form was apparently broadcasting his presence to every predator in the forest.
Three shapes emerged from the undergrowth, moving with the calculated precision of pack hunters. Thornwolves, creatures that looked like ordinary wolves at first glance, but whose fur was actually composed of razor-sharp thorns that could extend and retract at will. Their eyes glowed with malevolent intelligence, and saliva dripped from their fangs as they surrounded him in a perfect triangle formation.
"Fuck me in the—" Xolvion breathed, drawing his dagger. The silver blade caught what little light filtered through the canopy, and he noticed the wolves' eyes narrow at the sight of the blessed metal. They were clever enough to recognise a threat when they saw one.
The largest of the three, clearly the pack leader, began to circle him slowly, its thorn-fur bristling with anticipation. The other two flanked him, cutting off any possibility of escape. This wasn't going to be a fight, it was going to be an execution.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire... Xolvion thought as he tried to think of a way out of this situation.
But as the wolves closed in, something unexpected happened. The leader paused mid-stride, its glowing eyes fixed not on Xolvion, but on something behind him. A low whine escaped its throat, and suddenly all three creatures were backing away, their aggressive postures replaced by unmistakable fear.
Xolvion was confused at first until he caught on, spinning around to see what had spooked the predators, and his blood ran cold. Standing not twenty feet away was a creature from his worst nightmares, a Shadow Stalker, one of the apex predators of the demon realm's wilderness areas. Eight feet tall and vaguely humanoid in shape, it was composed entirely of writhing shadows that seemed to absorb light itself. Where its face should have been, two burning white eyes stared at him with alien intelligence.
The Thornwolves were already fleeing, crashing through the undergrowth in their desperation to escape. Xolvion understood their fear—Shadow Stalkers were known to hunt demons for sport, and even his father's guards gave them a wide berth when possible.
"Well, well," the creature spoke, its voice like whispers in a tomb. "What have we here? A young demon, bleeding and alone in my forest. How... delicious." The creature said, Sounds like it had just found its dinner.
Xolvion's grip tightened on his dagger, though he knew the blade would be useless against a creature made of pure shadow. Still, he'd rather die fighting than cowering.
"I have no quarrel with you, Shadow Stalker," he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "I'm merely passing through your territory, leave me be."
The creature's laughter was like the sound of souls screaming. "Passing through? Oh, young prince, you misunderstand. Nothing passes through my domain without my permission. And I so rarely give permission."
It knew who he was. Of course, it did. Shadow Stalkers were notorious for their information networks. This creature probably knew about his siblings' plans, his escape, everything.
"However," the Stalker continued, tilting its head in a grotesquely human gesture, "you interest me. The bastard prince, fleeing from his own family. Tell me, boy, what would you give for safe passage through my forest?"
The question caught Xolvion off guard. He'd expected violence, not negotiation. "What do you want?"
"Information. Secrets. The currency of power in our realm." The Stalker glided closer, and Xolvion had to fight every instinct not to flee. "Your siblings' plans, your father's weaknesses, the location of certain... treasures within Castle Valous. Knowledge for safe passage."
Xolvion's mind raced. Betraying his family's secrets felt wrong, even after everything they'd done to him. But death felt considerably worse.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I feast on your soul." The creature's eyes flared brighter. "Your choice, young prince. Honour or survival. Choose quickly, dawn approaches, and I prefer to conclude my business before the light grows stronger."
The irony wasn't lost on him. His siblings had tried to kill him for his potential claim to the throne, and now he was being asked to betray them to save his own life. Perhaps this was what survival truly meant, not noble sacrifice or heroic stands, but making the hard choices that others couldn't stomach.
"I'll tell you what you want to know," Xolvion said quietly. "But I want more than just safe passage. I want information as well."
The Shadow Stalker's form rippled with what might have been amusement. "Clever boy. Very well, an exchange. Your family's secrets for safe passage and... selected intelligence about the human kingdom you're planning to flee to."
How did it know about that? Xolvion wondered, but decided not to ask. Shadow Stalkers knew things; it was what made them so dangerous, as if the very shadows had ears.
"Alright then," he said.
For the next hour, as the crimson sky began to lighten towards what passed for day in the demon realm, Xolvion found himself in the surreal position of betraying his family's secrets to a creature of living darkness. He told the Stalker about the castle's defences, his father's private chambers, knowing that this creature would pose no threat to a being like his father. he also told it about his siblings' individual strengths and weaknesses. In return, he learned about the human kingdom's political structure, their attitude towards demons, and most importantly, which cities might offer him the best opportunities to use his unique abilities.
When the exchange was complete, the Shadow Stalker studied him with those burning white eyes. "You're not what I expected, young prince. Most demons your age would have attacked me on sight or tried to flee. You chose the pragmatic path."
"I chose survival," Xolvion replied.
"Indeed. That may serve you well in the human lands. They value cunning over raw power, much like your grandfather." The creature began to fade as the light grew stronger. "A word of advice, bastard prince—when you reach the human kingdom, remember that seduction is not your only gift. The blood that flows through your veins carries more potential than even you realise."
Before Xolvion could ask what that meant, the Shadow Stalker dissolved completely, leaving him alone in the growing light of dawn.
How strange... I wonder what the creature meant by that... Xolvion wondered.
Shaking off the lingering chill from the encounter, Xolvion oriented himself and began walking north towards his grandfather's territory. His wounds still pained him, but the strange conversation had given him something precious, hope.
Perhaps his mother had been right after all. Perhaps being different really didn't mean being lesser.
Behind him, Castle Valous was undoubtedly waking to discover his absence. His siblings would be furious, his father devastated when he returned from his convenient mission. But Xolvion Valous was no longer their problem.
He was about to become someone else's opportunity entirely.