Elias had faced down corrupted beasts, ancient plagues, and once, a flesh-eating tree that some backwater cult had mistaken for a sacred artifact.
But none of that compared to the slow, agonizing walk through Ashvale's front gates with a demon child holding his hand.
"Smile," he whispered through clenched teeth, lips twitching into something that might—if squinted at from a distance—pass for friendly.
Beside him, Rhea beamed. Her smile was wide, enthusiastic… and sharp enough to send a flock of pigeons scattering from the nearby rooftop.
"…Less teeth," Elias muttered.
She tilted her head. Her scarf—a thick brown wool that mostly hid her horns—shifted slightly as she tried again. The result looked like someone struggling not to vomit.
"Better," Elias sighed. "You look almost human."
She looked pleased with herself. "Smiling means friendliness. I read it in your book."
"Yeah, but your version says 'I eat people.' Maybe dial it back to 'I merely bite.'"
They passed through the gate with only a faint nod from the guards. Technically, Elias still held his status as a certified Guild Healer, which carried enough weight to avoid immediate suspicion. But their eyes lingered on the cloaked child at his side.
Too small to be a threat. Too quiet to be normal.
No one stopped them, but he could feel it already. The whispering would start soon.
Ashvale had never been a place for secrets.
The town itself hadn't changed much. Ashvale rarely did. Cobbled streets curved around squat buildings with sloped red roofs, and window boxes still overflowed with herbs no one ever harvested. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked at a chicken. The chicken barked back. Probably not normal, but this was Ashvale.
The Guild of Restoration's headquarters squatted on the eastern edge of town, jammed between a perpetually closed bakery and a potion shop that always smelled like goat sweat and licorice. Elias approached the door with the weary certainty of a man walking into a lecture.
He pushed it open.
"Elias!" a voice boomed from the stairwell. "You better have brought results, or so help me I'll—!"
Tyrin, the Guildmaster, halted mid-rant at the sight of the cloaked figure beside Elias.
His gray beard twitched. "Who's the girl?"
Elias smiled with every ounce of forced sunshine he could fake. "My niece."
"You don't have a niece."
"I do now."
Tyrin squinted. "You adopted?"
"Yep."
"From where?"
Elias resisted the urge to sweat. "Outside the ruins. Found her huddled by a broken archway. Half-demon, I think. Poor thing was cold, scared, hungry. Couldn't just leave her there."
There was a long pause.
Rhea, still holding his hand, looked up at the Guildmaster with exaggerated innocence. "Uncle Elias feeds me soup."
Tyrin's weathered face remained unreadable. He stared at her, then back at Elias.
"…Didn't think you had the guts," he finally muttered.
"Me neither," Elias admitted.
Tyrin's eyes narrowed. "Is she safe?"
"Very," Elias lied. "Totally harmless."
At that exact moment, Rhea lifted a hand to wave. The motion dislodged her scarf just enough to reveal the smallest glint of dark, curved horn.
Tyrin's gaze zeroed in.
Elias coughed loudly. "Anyway! Mission complete. Ruins are clean. No curses. Nothing weird or illegal. I'll file the report later. Thanks for your time—okay BYE!"
He spun around, grabbing Rhea's hand and practically dragging her down the steps before any more questions could be asked.
Ashvale was many things. Quiet. Sleepy. Sometimes a bit too obsessed with beets.
But above all else, it was a small town.
And small towns loved three things:
1. Bread.
2. Gossip.
3. Judging everyone.
By the time they reached the central market street, the rumors had already begun.
"Elias brought back a demon girl."
"I heard she breathes fire!"
"She bit an alchemist!"
"No, no, she's his love child with a succubus. Explains the eyes."
Elias trudged forward, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched like a man trying to physically dodge attention. Beside him, Rhea skipped cheerfully, clutching a sweet bun in one hand and—Elias's heart sank—a dagger in the other.
"Where did you get that?" he hissed, snatching it away.
Rhea blinked. "The blacksmith said 'look around.' So I looked."
"And then ran."
"He yelled. It was funny."
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose. "You can't just take weapons. Or threaten shopkeepers. Or—gods help me—steal things with blades on them."
"But I didn't stab him," she offered helpfully.
"That is not the defense you think it is."
He slipped the dagger back into his cloak to return later. Probably with an apology basket.
Elias's cottage sat just beyond the edge of the herb fields, half-swallowed by ivy and the faint scent of rosemary. It was quiet. Peaceful. Mostly forgotten by the rest of the town.
He'd chosen it years ago for those exact reasons.
Now, as he opened the door and ushered Rhea inside, he realized just how fragile that peace had been.
She darted in ahead of him, cloak flaring, eyes wide with the kind of unrestrained glee that made his floorboards genuinely nervous. She skidded to a stop in the middle of the living room, then threw herself onto the couch.
The ancient pillow beneath her let out a squeal—magical, probably—and promptly deflated into a puddle of glitter.
Rhea blinked. "Oops."
Elias closed the door slowly. "I didn't even know that one was enchanted."
She rolled onto her back, legs dangling off the side. "Is this my new den?"
"It's a living room."
"I claim it in the name of Queen Bun-Bun."
"We are not using that name."
"You're just jealous of my sovereignty."
Dinner was a lopsided affair involving reheated soup that may have been soup-adjacent and some blackened bread Rhea pronounced "too crunchy." She devoured both anyway.
Afterward, Elias pulled out an old chalkboard from the corner—something he'd borrowed from the schoolhouse years ago and forgotten to return.
He set it down with a sigh. "Lesson one," he began, "how not to terrify the townsfolk."
Rhea raised her hand. "Don't talk?"
"No, talking's fine. Just maybe… avoid phrases like 'blood pact' or 'soul sacrifice.'"
"But those are our thing," she said, wounded.
"Exactly. So let's keep them our thing."
She sighed deeply and flopped onto the floor like a starfish.
"Lesson two," Elias continued, "if someone calls you a name—like 'devilspawn' or 'horned menace'—you do not hex them."
"Even a little?"
"No hexing."
"Not even like… tiny boils?"
"No!"
"Okay, okay," she grumbled. "You're no fun."
"Lesson three: if someone asks what kind of magic you use, you say…?"
Rhea considered. "Firecrackers?"
"…Close enough."
He chalked a star beside her name on the board.
Later, after sweeping up the glitter puddle and returning the chalkboard to the corner, Elias leaned against the doorframe and watched her.
She was chasing a moth around the room with alarming focus, hopping over furniture and swiping at it like it had insulted her lineage.
She tripped, rolled, and landed in a heap of blankets near the fireplace.
"Rhea?" he called.
A muffled voice answered from within the folds. "I live here now."
He chuckled. It wasn't the first time today. That alone scared him more than he cared to admit.
This was madness. Bringing her here. Keeping her. Lying to the Guild. Hiding what she was.
But the cottage—his little slice of quiet—didn't feel broken. It felt… full.
Maybe, just maybe, he could make this work.
Even if he knew deep down, it couldn't last.
The rune on his hand still pulsed faintly, hidden beneath his sleeve. The magic she carried radiated off her like heat, impossible to miss for anyone looking closely.
Eventually, someone would notice. Someone always did.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she was just Rhea.
A strange, stubborn child with demon blood, a stolen dagger, and a blanket fortress.
And he was just the idiot who brought her home.
To be continued…