5 - Highsun 19 / 1 - Ash Moon 11
I blinked through the haze, heart stuttering, half-expecting claws to rake through it at any moment. This last part never happened, thankfully.
The remaining smoke curled in the limited light with the movement of the wind, still leaving the room, carrying the sour tang of burnt honey, grave ash, and boiled cat carcass… I gagged as I thought of this last one, and lifted my collar to my nose to breath slightly filtered air.
My lungs still burned, and my eyes still stung and watered, and my heart hammered so loudly I could hear the movement of blood and its beats in my ears. I dragged myself backward, smudging the edge of the chalk circle I'd drawn, nearing the still-hot cauldron. My fingers fumbled for the little satchel of salt I'd prepared in case claws or fangs came lunging out in the darkness. I'd expected a demon—preferably one with the decency to look the part. Horns, fire, maybe some convenient glowing runes to make me feel like I'd done something right.
What I hadn't expected was… him.
His tall figure stood in the doorway, framed by the curls of smoke. He wasn't shadowed so much as outlined by light, every edge of him traced in silver as if the night itself had decided to sketch him. His hair caught the moonlight like ink covering a page. I could barely make out his features, yet I already knew… he was beautiful.
Even the smudged chalk lines around me on the ground seemed to quiver faintly, the magic-charged elements of the room pulled toward him as if recognizing something ancient I couldn't name.
His expression was one of mild confusion, as if he'd just woken up mid-nap in the wrong house. Moonlight pooled around his feet and seemed to bend toward him, softening the shadows, stilling the air. Even the chaotic hum of leftover magic from the ritual quieted, like a pond after a thrown stone.
He tilted his head slightly. "Where… is this?" His voice was calm, low, but it carried in the small room like a plucked string.
"I—my cottage," I said and waved at the cauldron like a very guilty hostess. "I called you. I mean, I called something. I summoned—I think I summoned a demon. But…What are you?" I blurted, confused.
Suddenly, panic scrambled my thoughts. Something felt wrong in the oddest way… I raised my hand, half-considering a protection charm I knew off the top of my head—one of those that were taught to me as a child… I was trying to remember the order of the sentences when something to the side caught my eye and I turned to look.
It was the half-melted, blue-flame candle—the only candle still on inside the cottage now after the fog extinguished every other. Only… its palm-sized flame wasn't blue as it should be… The light flickered between gold and silver, I frowned in confusion—it never does that… I turned to the man again and blinked. He was looking at the flame, intrigued also, and I realized something about him was causing the odd reaction from the magic fire…
"You don't—" My frown deepened, and after making sure the salt bag was in one hand behind my back, I stood slowly, "You don't look like any demon I've heard of. Where are your horns? Or claws, or, or your… fire? You do want a deal, right? That's how this goes?"
The way his mouth tightened made me feel twelve and caught stealing jam. "You summoned a demon…" he echoed, and there was a tilt there that could have been pity or incredulity
I swallowed hard. "Well, yes, obviously. I did the ritual. I followed the instructions… But you don't look like any demon I've read about," I blurted, because of course I would speak sensible facts in the middle of what might be my last evening on earth.
He took a step forward, coming in to the room, and the boards didn't creak as they should. "What instructions?" As he came a little closer, I got a slightly better look at him, my vision still a little blurry from the smoke and tears.
The candlelight trembled, which was another thing it shouldn't be doing, as it always just stays eerily still, though now it seemed… happy and wanting to follow him. I breathed in and turned my attention back to him and his question, "You know! The usual ones: circle, ash, coin, honey, sacrifice, blood—err, well, tears actual—"
"Tears?" he interrupted sharply. He made a sound that might have been a chuckle or a small, resigned wind. "You wept," he said. "Which explains much."
My cheeks burned. "It wasn't on purpose! I was frustrated! Maybe a little overwhelmed—but it was just a couple…"
For a long moment, he just stared at me. Not angrily. Not exactly. More like… someone watching a squirrel try to pick a lock. Then he lifted his hand slowly, pointing toward the remnants of my ritual scattered around.
"The coin," he said. "Where did you get it?"
"I… it was mine. I earned it," I said, straightening. "It was the prettiest silver piece I got for a potion I made."
He frowned slightly, "Silly girl, you used the wrong key; stolen coin opens a liar's door, "Not your own, hard earned one; innocent and honest offers do not tempt the infernal."
I wrinkled my nose as I got called out on my mistake. "But—"
He walked closer to the table with the leftovers and examined the honey jar with clinical precision. "The honey was too new and processed. The ash—" he smeared some on a finger and sniffed it lightly, and I stiffened, "extinguished by morning dew and from a blessed graveyard; pure, not profane. And this—" He signaled to the cloth I had the cat in before putting it in the cauldron. "Your sacrifice was already very dead before you used it. You offered silence to something that only desires screams."
I was starting to feel less like a witch and more like a child who'd tried to bake bread and accidentally invented mud pie somehow.
He turned his gaze back to me. "And the tears. That's not part of any infernal rite. That belongs to us."
I choked on air. "Wh—us? What do you mean 'us'? That's not—" His eyebrow rose, slow and almost mocking. I sputtered, heat flooding my face. "That's—That's not what I wanted! I'm not—It's just—It was only one—two tears!"
His eyebrow lifted at my fluster the way a teacher might at a failed experiment. "Not a moral judgment," he said. "A fact. Inexperienced sorrow bears naïve purity. Mistakes rooted in need will pull a different kind of being than mistakes rooted in malice." He sounded both tired and mildly fascinated. "You pulled me because you begged true, not because you bargained well."
He didn't press. He didn't need to. My embarrassment was doing a fine job digging my grave for me. I pouted sadly, feeling truly pathetic…
And then, something changed.
The moonlight coming in through the windows and door brightened—not explosively, not blinding, but as if someone had drawn aside clouds that were covering a giant full moon. He turned towards me completely now, and I felt the presence of a strange man should scare me, but… it didn't.
And then there was a soft noise, like fingers snapping. It made me jump slightly; the stubby candles on the ceiling joists that had been extinguished by the smoke flared back to life with a woosh sound. As mentioned, I had expected fire, but… not quite like this. His presence filled the space with a heavy and calm energy, like the air before a storm. And then I saw them.
Wings.
They were not the leathery wings of a devil from storybooks. They were feathered—sleek, black as night without moon, though I could see a few random grey ones stick out from random places like clouds. The air shifted when they appeared, a silent pressure blooming outward like the moment before a thunderclap; the light shifted again—every flame leaned toward him in reverence—as he seemed to shift them, which had me step back from how unsettling it was to see such large wings…
I began feeling dizzy and realized I was holding my breath—not because they were terrifying, but because it was an intense vision seeing wings sticking out of someone… The sight didn't belong to this realm, yet they simply were, and I was suddenly aware of how small I was in the face of something that didn't belong to the human world.
He arched a brow at my reaction to him, and even seemed almost embarrassed by my staring. He cleared his throat before swiftly snapping his fingers again. The wings vanished in a soft poof, and my frowned at me, as if scolding me now.
"You didn't summon a demon," he said flatly. "You summoned me. A celestial messenger."
My stomach dropped. My hands went cold. "O… um… 'Celestial messenger'…? As in… an angel?"
"Yes."
I frowned, cringed, blushed. "So, I—" My voice cracked. "I… called an angel from heaven and mistakenly committed holy blasphemy…?"
"Quite thoroughly." His tone was somewhere between stern teacher and annoyed guardian. "Little witchlet, you nearly tore a hole in the Veil for the sake of vanity."
I opened my mouth to argue that it wasn't vanity—that I had very practical reasons for wanting a demon's help—but the words tangled in my throat. After all, this had all started with a 'glamor potion', which was indeed a product to feed one's vanity…
And suddenly, I remembered again: The Duke's men. The patrols. The way they'd lingered near the forest's edge earlier that day.
"They're going to find me," I blurted.
His gaze sharpened. "Who?"
"The Duke's men," I whispered. "They're looking for me. If they find out I'm here, they'll—"
For the first time, his expression shifted from distant disdain to something more expected yet unsettling: curiosity and then… concern. He stepped closer, studying me, really seeing me—not just as a reckless witch who'd botched a ritual, but as someone cornered.
"You weren't summoning out of malice," he said slowly. "You were desperate."
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. My silence spoke well enough.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like someone already regretting a decision. "I can't fix everything for you," he said finally. "Celestial law binds my interference."
"I wasn't asking you to—" I started.
He glanced around the room, his eyes narrowing as he focused on me. I felt the brush of something soft but precise, like fingers parting tangled threads. "You look like a toad… I assume a cosmetic spell gone bad?"
I winced. "I skimmed on the fine-print."
He gave me a look that said of course you did. Then, with a soft gesture, he murmured something under his breath. The residual magic tangled in my skin loosened slightly—not erased, just shifted. "You can stabilize it. If you pay attention this time."
It wasn't a fix. But it was guidance.
Without warning, he turned to look back outside. My eyes widened and I just knew he had somehow sensed something.
"Noise? Men?" He nodded once and I felt my stomach burn with fear. He flicked a hand, closing the front door, as if that would keep the men away, which… if he had strong powers, might actually help with more than just closing a door. He breathed in deeply and then turned to me. "They aren't close enough but…You're a walking disaster."
I frowned deeply, wanting to defend myself, but I couldn't… not after all my mistakes and shame. "I am," I whispered.
For a long moment, we stood there in uneasy silence, the distance between us crackling with the strange energy of two people who should never have crossed paths, but somehow had.
Finally, he exhaled. "I can't return yet. There are… rules. And someone has to keep you from setting the world on fire next time."
I blinked. "…You're staying?"
"Temporarily."
I didn't know whether to feel relieved or terrified.
I hadn't called for a savior. I'd called for the devil.
But apparently, heaven had other plans.