After a full day of running, Aamon's lungs burning, legs trembling, Aamon collapsed just beyond the cave's mouth, his body giving out at last. His ribs heaved, each breath scraping raw against his throat. Sweat and grime painted his skin in streaks.
In the back of his mind Aamon could hear his mother. His tears fall as he can't handle the silence.
"The wind sings low through the cracks in our wall,
The rats hum along with their tongues so small.
The moon's a pale eye that watches you rest,
But mother is here~ you're safest in my nest."
The air here was thick with the scent of damp stone and sulfur, coiled deep in the rock like a sleeping serpent. Too familiar. Too much like home. The last dregs of sunlight clawed at his heels, golden and merciless, searing his flesh with tiny, persistent bites. It wasn't the agony of steel, but it was a reminder. The world outside the dark did not welcome him.
"Ouch. Mother, the sun bites at my face. But not like their sword did. I think... I should go where the castle is. The one with the broken towers. It feels right."
When dusk fell, Aamon rose. The mountain loomed ahead, its jagged spine cutting into the bruised purple sky. The castle waited there, a crown of shattered spires. He adjusted the suit his mother had made for him over eighty years ago, time blurred like ink in the Abyss and though the world had tried to rend it with time, the fabric remained flawless without thread out of place. Not a speck of dirt lingered. He could remember her hands as he remembered the weight of her voice: "You must never let them see you as you are." So he reshaped the suit daily, his fingers tracing seams that never frayed, his power humming beneath his skin... In habit… in compulsion. A promise...
Varnmoor Aamon's gaze climbed the impossible spires of Varnmoor, a kingdom carved from nightmares and vengeance. The castle stood like a jagged crown atop the cliffs, its blackened turrets piercing the low-hanging clouds. Every stone whispered of holy fury; every gargoyle leered with the promise of demon bloodshed. This was no mere kingdom…. It was a slaughterhouse dressed in gothic splendor. Aamon's gauze gets caught by some demon heads on spikes. Aamon doesn't comprehend death too much he just knows it's wrong so he just scratches his head and continues walking.
"wow! That's very.. Umm festive? They reek, i shou–"
Aamon was saying with a curious voice before rudely being interrupted by one of the gate's guards. Aamon didn't get upset, he just walked over to them.
"ha… a damn demon. Didn't you get the hint? We ain't like ya'."
The guard's gaze flicks to the severed demon head a few feet away, he was going to say more but the second guard meets his shoulder cutting him off. She bares black armor like the other guard.
"Just let him through he's talking like a child, meaning he has a brain. Prince Dysriel will be out Anyways You know he likes killing his demons~ i bet he'd love choppen this one."
Her eyes locked with aamon's and for a second there is something in her eyes almost like… pity?
"So you're letting me through? Thank you!!! I bet there's a friend in here."
Aamon's voice was hopeful as tail swung and his wings swayed a bit. Aamon learned his lesson about his tail from the village the day before so he's attempting to keep it still, He just can't help it when he comes down to it he's still nervous the wagging is more of a plea. When they don't show hostility he finally steps forward to continue through the gate.
He reaches the other side of the massive gate before aamon is suddenly pulled back a bit by the second guard who grabbed his shoulder, filling aamon with worry before retentive excitement. This is the first person to touch him without pain… only his mother has done that. You could say he looks like a puppy given a bone.
"Be a dear and go to the center plaza. You'll find Dysriel there, he will make good friends with you."
Before the guard's blackened-steel gauntlet could drop to her side Aamon grabs her hand and brings it to his chest. His wings flaps bring up gusts of dirt but that doesn't stop his excitement as Aamon speaks.
"Really!! Deal. I'll go find them right now. Thank you nice lady."
Before she can even say another word Aamon has already turned his back and stormed off determined to find the prince within this city wherever it may be.
Within the kingdom the first thing Aamon noticed was the sound of his boots as they struck the black basalt streets, but the stone swallowed the echo, as if the city itself refused to remember his steps. The air hung thick with the scent of charred incense and something older, darker as if dried blood soaked into the foundations.
To Aamon's left, a row of saintly effigies dressed in many outfits lined the street, their faces worn smooth by time and trembling fingers. Their hollow eyes followed Aamon, their rusted halos stained green with time. At their feet, offerings to the third prince burnt herbs, cracked bones, the occasional blackened coin left by those desperate enough to beg protection from demons. A gust of wind slithered through the narrow avenue, carrying with it the distant groan of the Iron Cathedral's gates. Somewhere beyond the spires Aamon passed under an archway carved with warding runes, their edges blurred by centuries of rain and neglect. The stones were slick, weeping a thin, iron-scented moisture that clung to his sleeves. Above, demon bones dangled from rusted chains, a warning, a trophy, or maybe just a plea for safety.
The lanterns flickered to life as dusk deepened, their glass panes filled not with flame, but witchfire a sickly blue glow that cast more shadows than it banished. The streets exhaled mist, the kind that clung to Aamon's sleeves. From the alleys, he felt the weight of unseen stares. The Night Inquisitors were beginning their rounds. He quickened his pace. The city breathed around him. And it was watching.
Then…
He heard a sharp crack of wood against bone. Aamon turned just in time to see the slaver's hooked pole strike an elf between the shoulder blades, sending her sprawling forward. Her knees hit the cobblestones with a wet smack, her skin split like overripe fruit. She bit down on a whimper, but the iron tang of blood seeped into the air anyway. Aamon's claws twitched. The salver's mask is a featureless slate of polished obsidian tilted toward her. "Useless thing," The slaver muttered, not even looking at her as he retracted the pole with a practiced flick. The wood was stained dark where it had hit her many times before, as if even the grain of it recoiled.
She stayed crumpled where she fell, her too-thin frame trembling. The iron collar around her neck weighed heavier than ever, its edges crusted with old blood where it had rubbed her raw. Her white hair, matted with filth, clung to her face like a shroud. The slaver didn't linger. He never did. Abyssal elves weren't worth the time it took to chain properly, not when they broke so easily. Not when touching one was like brushing death itself. Even the rats in the gutter skittered away from her shadow. She heard the clink of coins changing hands somewhere beyond the alley, the slaver's voice gruff with satisfaction.
"Got what I could out of her. Last one of the batch." He scoffed. "Should've drowned it at birth."
The slaver grunted. Then, footsteps fade until nothing… Silence. She didn't move. The half-empty bottle of ale tossed beside her rolled slightly in the wind, the liquid inside sloshing like a mockery of mercy. She stared at it, her throat burning. She could have reached for it. Could have let the sour drink numb the ache in her ribs, the sting of her torn palms. But she didn't… Instead, she curled her fingers against the stones, feeling the grit press into her wounds. The pain was real. The wetness on her face was real. The slow, smoldering something unfurling in her chest? That was real too.
"lady, are you hurt? You're bleeding a lot… and those scars are deep."
Aamon's breath hitched as the elf raised her head to his voice. The witchfire's glow caught her face…. no, not her face. Just the hollows where a face should be. Her eyes were like polished Pink Sapphires, unblinking, reflecting the blue flames but holding none of their light. The heads on the gates still wore their final screams, at least. This? This was something already dead walking.
"Ciel...don't hurt… she never hurts…"
The words slipped out like a death rattle, her chapped lips barely moving. Aamon's claws flexed instinctively. This wasn't fear. This wasn't even surrender. It was the sound of a soul already scraped empty, a voice echoing from some deep well where the light had died long ago.
"Well…. Umm ciel? Are you an elf? My mother told so many about elves and dragons, I really like dragons."
Aamon's voice was stiff; he has no clue what's wrong with her, he's never actually had anyone to teach him emotions. Images of his mothers face were deep in sorrow and guilt but she always sounded happy.
"Ciel… is elf. Not know dragons"
Ciel spoke because silence invited punishment. It was a lesson carved into her from a young age… a voice even a trembling one was a shield. It was a shield that did nothing against the simple joyful thump of Aamon's tail against the stone floor. He didn't understand the calculus of fear that governed her every word. He only understood that she was near and so his happiness had to be known. A relentless and rhythmic beat against the silence she was so carefully trying to manage.
"Oh, can I tell you a dragon story? It has a knight!! My mother told it to me quite often growing up."
Ciel flinches as his huge bat-like wings start giving small little faps as he speaks. Aamon brings his hands to his chest with excitement of telling his favorite story. Ciel never had anyone tell her a story so she nods simply. Her sapphire eyes sting as her massy unkept bangs brush against them, but she doesn't move… moving brings pain.
"I'm a bit rusty and forgot a bit but it's called The Knight's Oath, named by my mother."
A small rehearsed cough. Aamon had decided this was what storytellers did. He shifted to face Ciel fully, his tail giving a single soft thump against the ground. He didn't flinch from the emptiness in her eyes; he leaned into it. To him it wasn't a sign of absence but of profound attention. It was a canvas and his words were the colors. He took a breath and began to paint for her.
"Sir Aldric was brave, but never mean. said to protect Noctro-haris? a kingdom of beautiful fields and good people. When a dragon burned the villages, Aldric rode out. Not for glory… but because the weak burned brighter in the dark…."
Ciel, who had mastered the art of looking through people, finally relented. Her eyes are usually empty pools reflecting a forgotten sky focused on his. She looked into the deep ruby light of Aamon's eyes and for a single breathtaking second she did not see a demon.
She saw something warm.
It was a feeling before it was a thought, a sudden visceral heat that thawed a splinter of the perpetual ice within her. And in that thaw a memory surfaced sharp and painful as a shard of glass: her mother's smile. Not the face, not the name both long lost to the abyss of her past but the feeling of it. The same overwhelming, uncomplicated warmth that promised safety.
Then it was drowned again by the cold. The moment lasted less than a heartbeat leaving only a ghost of an ache in its wake. Oblivious to her internal struggle to the monumental fracture he had just caused in her armor Aamon brought a clawed hand to his own chin his brow furrowed in a moment of thoughtful imitation.
"Aldric found the dragon broken, its wings torn. A darker evil had driven it mad; a sorcerer, starved for thrones. But the knight saw the truth in the beast's pain. He knelt in the ashes and offered it water. Umm… oh yeah, Together, they exposed the sorcerer's lies. Not with pain. But with mercy!! And when the king offered Aldric a reward, he said no. 'Some things are worth more than a kingdom.' THE END!"
The story ended and silence rushed back in. Ciel stayed perfectly still a statue of confusion. The words hung in the air between them, fragile and unfamiliar. Why? The question echoed in the hollow of her chest. Why had he done that? He was a demon. A creature of the abyss like the ones her slavers warned would tear her soul out. Her slavers who were themselves so cruel their "lessons" were delivered with whips their only stories were threats.
Yet this one… Aamon… had simply… told her a story. He stood before her now not with a weapon but with a softly wagging tail watching her with an expression she couldn't name.
Her eyes, against her will, began to examine him, to search for the trick. He was unlike any demon she'd been taught to fear. He wore a pristine suit of blackest and most red velvet, its lines severe and sharp, tailored to a form that was both elegant and predatory. A half-skirt flowed from his waist like a folded bat's wing, swaying gently with his movement. His claws which could doubtless rend steel were instead idly toying with a delicate pendant on his shoulder a small, intricately carved dragon that seemed to watch her with tiny ruby eyes.
The pieces did not fit. The monster and the kindness. The sharp claws and the gentle touch... The abyssal power and the wagging tail. Her world built on simple rules of pain and survival cracked a little wider and the unknown fright that spilled out was more terrifying than any beating she had ever received.
"Ciel likes story….master…. She will remember your story…"
Aamon froze. He didn't just stop moving; he seemed to deflate like a last breath. Every bit of eager wagging energy drained from him. His proud bat-like wings, which had been held with a subtle unconscious energy. went utterly limp drooping down his back like a cloak. The tip of his tail, which had been thumping a happy rhythm against the stone fell still and heavy against the ground.
"MASTER! No, I don't want to be a master. Can't we just be friends? I don't even know how to be a good master. Well I don't know how to be a friend either, but still I'm not a master!"
Aamon's ruby eyes went wide as The word "Master" echoed in his skull, a key turning in a lock he didn't even know existed. Panic lanced through him.
"ciel no friend… not know how. Property is easier. Less pain for her."
She replied simply almost matter of fact for someone who's never made their own decision before.
"what no! I know I've never had a friend before but my mother said 'friends cure loneliness', can't we learn together? It's better like that. We can even eat meat together."
He hugged his own arms, his wings pulled tight around his shoulders like a protective shield. Ninety years in a cell had taught him silence. It had never ever taught him how to be called master by the only person who had ever listened to him.
"learn? You want Ciel to learn? But Ciel doesn't know… ciel doesn't know! Please ciel good, no hurt. Ciel does not want pain."
ciel spirals a bit before begging aamon. She doesn't know why but his eyes are so sweet, he doesn't have the eyes she sees from potential buyers… she sees innocence. One taken from her though she'd never been touched like that a whip or stick still hurts. Still takes a child's will to fight people who do them harm.
"Well then i'll take care of you. My mother said you should always protect your loved ones and I'm sure friends are loved ones."
Aamon declares, making Ciel flinch. She finally pushed herself up from the cobblestones, her legs trembling. The old blood flaking on her skin like dried paint, the newer streaks of blood glistened under the witchlight. Her potato sack made clothes slipped from one shoulder, revealing a collarbone jagged and broken, the skin around it a patchwork of scars so deep they seemed to have been carved with something hungrier than steel.
Her eyes found Aamon's. They weren't shining, but not as dull either. Something flickered there, the barest spark beneath a pile of ash. The kind of look that wasn't quite recognized, wasn't quite pleasant. Just the quiet, animal awareness of one wounded thing to another.
"Ciel will…go. She will be good… will be friend."
Ciel noticed he was just a lonely boy… hopelessly out of place. offering the only thing he had: clumsy, clueless, but utterly genuine companionship. The offer of ownership wasn't denied out of strategy but because the concept was as foreign to him. He simply didn't think that way.
"Really!! Then let's go friend… wait what should we do? Can we try meat? Ive never had some BUT… ive had moss that grew in my cell."
Aamon questioned as recognition flickered in Ciel's chest not of Aamon himself, but the hunger. she had swallowed fistfuls of flour in noble kitchens, her teeth grinding grit to paste while her hands kept kneading, and kneading, the dough meant for the feasts she'd never taste. Sometimes, if she stole enough, it would puff up wet and heavy in her gut, tricking her body into stillness for an hour or two.
"Ciel has seen where's meat…but she hasn't had much eather. Slaves don't get meat… only work."
Aamon puts a hand to his chest gripping his pendent and stands tall. One of his ruby eyes closes when he doesn't just speak… no he declares
"Then it's settled! We eat meat as soon as possible. Before that though I was told to go to the plaza. I can find a friend there…. but I have you now. Well… I suppose it wouldn't be too bad to have two friends."
Ciel didn't reply. She simply turned on her bare raw heel and walked toward the plaza, her bare feet moving with the quiet certainty smacking the floor of someone who had walked these same stones a thousand times before. Every alleyway, every shortcut, and every patrol route was etched into her bones. The terrible intimacy of a slave who had served this kingdom far too long than she deserved. Her shoulders stayed hunched, not in submission but in weary anticipation, her body tensed for the next blow that always came eventually.
She didn't react when Aamon grabbed her arm. Not at first, her muscles locked automatically, her breath catching in her throat as she braced for pain, her eyes squeezing shut as her body curled inward instinctively. The scars along her back seemed to throb in anticipation of fresh stripes. But instead of a fist or whip, she heard a single word uttered with chilling precision
"Reformare."
The shadows exploded from Aamon's grasp, swirling up her arm that felt simultaneously icy and fever-hot against her skin. Ciel's eyes flew open as the darkness engulfed her, crawling over her body in undulating waves. She expected pain. She always expected pain but instead there was only... relief. The ever-present grime that coated her skin dissolved beneath the touch of the shadows. The rough potato sack that had chafed her raw for months disintegrated into nothingness, leaving her shuddering as the unnatural darkness receded to reveal…
A masterpiece of maid elegance.
The gown clung to her like a second skin, its high black collar trimmed with jagged pink lace that resembled thorns creeping up her throat. The bodice cinched tight with an obsidian-dark corset, with silver bones. The skirt parted to reveal an underskirt of violent pink, embroidered with patterns at the edges of her vision… sigils she somehow knew belonged to realms no mortal should ever see. Elbow-length gloves sheathed her arms in black silk, tapering to razor-sharp pink nails that clicked together when she flexed her fingers.
A braided iron choker settled around her neck, its central pink gem glowing with the same dull light as her eyes. The heeled boots that materialized on her feet were the exact same as Aamon's but with a longer heel and pink, their pointed toes deadly sharp. When she reached up in shock, her fingers brushed against a dagger-shaped hairpin securing her white hair into an immaculate updo.
Ciel stood frozen, torn between the instinct to flee and the terrifying realization that for the first time in years... she didn't itch. She didn't ache. The fabric caressed her skin like a lover's touch rather than scraping it raw. The corset's embrace was firm but not crushing; it's a far cry from the iron shackles she was accustomed to. When she finally dared to meet Aamon's burning ruby gaze, she saw her own reflection in his eyes, no longer a broken slave, but something... dangerous. Something beautiful.
"you didn't seem comfy in your old clothing. I saw these dolls with an outfit like this and it looked cute, so I figured it would look cute on you with some adjustments. What do you think?"
Aamon's tail locks in place as he looks at her with admiring eyes, he's honestly desperate for approval. When Ceil replies her voice sounds better and painless
"Ciel… likes thank you mas- - she…. means friend. Think it looks pretty… will keep. Ciel takes you to the plaza now."
After her response Ciel and aamon set off once more toward the plaza, the rhythmic tap of their boots echoing against the cobblestones. The previously lifeless streets now hummed with activity, merchants called out their wares, the scent of spiced meats and fresh bread wafted through the air, and clusters of citizens bustled between stalls. And then, amidst the growing crowd, they saw him. Prince Dysriel, the Third Prince, standing like a beacon of regal charm. His presence alone drew the people in, their voices rising in eager murmurs as they gathered around him, hanging on his every word. The prince's easy smile and effortless grace made even the simplest exchange feel like an audience with royalty.
The second the second people saw aamon and the crowd silenced. People aren't used to seeing a demon and an abyssal elf together. Seeing just one is enough to catch gazes but with both everyone steps away. The once lively crowd is now as quiet as they yield out of the way to let the duo through.
"A demon dares enter my queen's kingdom? Then you shall meet my blade. I'm Dysriel Varnmoor the third prince and I will end you."
The prince announces to the crowd rather than Aamon, a man of blood pulls his sword out and charges putting more effort in the look in front of his people rather than skill. with a Squelch… A wet, meaty crunch ripped through the air of a sword piercing through Aamon's throat, splattering black blood onto Ciel's new dress.
"Cehl rughn!!!"
Aamon collapsed to his knees gargling on his blood. His claws scrabbling at his torn windpipe. His tail, once a whip of excitement, now lashed weakly against the cobblestones like a dying eel. His ruby eyes flickered with pain but he stood up. It might have been brief but he has a friend to protect.
"You're a strong demon to stand after a wound like that. You shouldn't fight back, just die like all your kind should."
Squelch… Squelch… Squelch…
"a demon of your strength has no place in varnmoor."
The prince continues his slashing as Ciel decides to be useless standing there behind aamon in fear as he desperately tries to figure out how to get them both out of this situation. He can't just fly off without taking the chance of hurting Ciel with his lack of skill. As aamon thinks flashes of when he fought back in the village the day before with the swordsman, a little push threw him into the farmhouse.
"Look people! These are demons, weak and pitiful. Little one… step away from this demon and accept your fate too. I am a merciful prince, that's why the queen herself chose me as her third son."
The prince speaks loudly to the crowd of scared citizens of the kingdom. "Fuck that demon!!"
"Kill him, our prince!!" "You got this!!" "Demon!!" "Demon!!" "Demon!!" "DIE!!"
The crowd screamed out as Prince Dysriel noticed just how acidic Aamon's blood is, the prince's sword may not melt as the swordsmen's but the cobblestone beneath them is nearly burnt away. Most demon's blood can leave a fair sting and not burn away stone so Prince Dysriel makes a choice: he decides this isn't a normal demon, especially when Aamon is looking scared.
"Ciel can't fight… but you should run Aamon. She makes time."
Aamon for once holds back his tears but hearing her words makes something in Aamon click. He won't kill for his sake but he would for his first friendship that hasn't even had time to blossom yet.
"My friend will not be killed by you. I swear on my mother's bones."
Aamon's voice is set, his white slightly messy hair falling over his eyes. Before Aamon can could charge Prince Dysriel puts a hand into the air silencing everyone. For a moment nothing happens till Prince Dysriel speaks
"You're not normal are you, demon? Something new. I'll present you to my Queen. She has a taste for… curiosities, STAND. NOW!"
The prince leaves no room for argument; aamon has no choice but to listen. He's too scared to fight back, so aamon stands keeping an arm around Ciel before reluctantly following. Aamon's wounds have already healed…. leaving no blood….