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“‘Nother round over here, sweet cheeks!”
You stifle a groan as a drunken patron beckons you over. His grin is all teeth as you collect the empty pints, and when you pass, his hand dares to creep up the back of your knee.
Nights like these sorely test your patience. If not for that foolish promise to your dying mother vowing to run the tavern in her stead — a promise only meant to ease her passing, might you add — you would’ve sold this place more than a decade ago.
Back then, when you were just a little girl of twelve, you didn’t know what your mother was. She was just your mother, your gentle, unassuming mother who drilled an entire compendium of herbal remedies and toxins into your head. She taught you how to collect blister beetles, forage for feverfew, and grind nightshade leaves into an inconspicuous powder.
You didn’t know she was a sorceress with an affinity for binding contracts. How could you have predicted that your last words to her would create a near-unbreakable vow? Words were just words — or so you thought.
You know, now, that words have power.
The first time you felt your mother’s blood run through your veins, you were just a young girl of thirteen. You found work in a wealthy lady’s house as a scullery maid. The head chef took a liking to your slim frame and youthful skin, and when he tried to claim what wasn’t his, you looked him in the eye and willed him to swallow his knife.
That was the day you discovered your affinity for subjugation.
You’ve been careful with your words ever since, only letting your magic out in small bursts to test your limits and refine your technique. While you could force everyone who has ever wronged you to carve out their own heart, you find poison to be a much simpler affair. Much easier to dispose of the evidence, too.
And so, with potions coming to your rescue time and time again, your magic use has fallen to the wayside.
But that’s the problem with sorcery — it doesn’t just go away. Magic is a light drizzle, and your body is the well. Given enough time, it’ll overflow and wrench its way out of you by force, manifesting as all sorts of unpleasant symptoms. You can’t go too long without draining the well’s contents, lest you come down with a condition the physicians call ‘Astra’s affliction.’ Your mother, soft-hearted as she was, couldn’t draft enough contracts to save her own life. You will not be following in her footsteps.
For precisely that reason, you’ve resorted to inserting your influence in mundane and undetectable ways, like suggesting the customers clean up after themselves or encouraging them to find another tavern when you’ve dealt with one too many belligerent drunkards. But it's not enough. You can feel the well filling up again faster than it should, faster than you can drain it. Every full moon, an uncontrollable itch flares under your skin that festers and rots until a poor, unsuspecting soul incurs your wrath.
The blood is straightforward enough to clean. It’s the bodies that give you trouble.
Worse yet, the neighbors are starting to whisper. It’s only a matter of time before the disappearances lead back to your tavern, and the holy knights come storming in. And what should they find if not shelves upon shelves of poisons? You’d burn as a witch without a fair trial, unless your own magic kills you first.
So to that end, you’ve devised a plan. Hours spent poring over your mother’s old journals have revealed tales of creatures of the night, horned beasts with a peculiar palate for salt and sorcery. Demons, some call them. Fiends, your mother wrote. The natural predators of sorcerers, driven by endless hunger.
Any ordinary sorceress would tremble at the thought. Any ordinary sorceress would never dare summon such a monster. You are, decidedly, anything but ordinary.
After closing up for the night, you lock the doors and board up the windows. On the second floor, where your living quarters are, you prepare for the ritual. Five candles arranged in a wide circle made of salt, an offering of crushed garnet, a goblet of wine, holy water, and a silver knife.
Your mother’s journal made no mention of incantations, so your only option is to make it up as you go.
“O great sovereign of the abyss, heed my call,” you announce in a loud, clear voice. “Rise from the depths. Show yourself!”
For several beats, absolutely nothing happens. Your knees begin to ache from where you’re kneeling on the wooden floorboards. Just as you begin to think you’ve failed, that your incantation was a dud, and you need to think of something more compelling, black smoke surrounds you in thick wisps. An acrid scent of charcoal invades your nose, and it sticks somewhere in the back of your head like gum.
The air suddenly shifts with violence. Your survival instincts scream to flee, but you stay firmly in place with your palms flat against the floor to strengthen the summoning circle with a steady stream of magic.
“Who dares disturb my slumber?”
The fiend’s voice is low and resonant. It rattles the dim room and sends tremors through your bones. When he exhales, it’s all pine needles and lightning strikes that sting at the edges like salt in a wound.
The candles around you flicker. Your courage flickers with it.
“I… I’ve s-summoned you,” you stammer. As the smoke begins to clear, you witness him in all his malevolent glory.
Six odd feet of ruby and onyx. Jagged horns protrude from his head like antlers sharp enough to impale, while scales of obsidian litter his exposed neck and shoulders in a macabre facsimile of armour.
He’s beautiful.
The glittering crimson gemstone in the centre of his chest catches your eye. Something about its pulsing, liquid heat draws you in. You want to trace the matching veins snaking over his skin with your tongue. But then your gaze falls to his claws and talons, and you know without a doubt that he could rip your heart out as easily as you breathe.
His menacing aura alone terrifies you, but you remind yourself that you need this. You need him. This creature, this monster, he’s your way out. What better way to solve your magical problem than with a magical solution?
So, you steel your nerves and match his gaze with equal intensity.
But those eyes. Against the moonlight silver of his hair, those blood-red hues pierce into your very soul. There’s power in them. An ancient, shapeless power that draws you in like water to shore.
Is this what your mother meant when she described them as a sorcerer’s natural predator? Was it this compulsion, this desire to approach something dangerous and deadly, that ended the lives of so many sorcerers who came before you? Because you know what he is, you know that he feasts on the very thing that makes you special, that he won’t be satiated until your blood is dripping from his fangs. But—
Those eyes.
How you want to crawl into those bottomless depths.
“What reason does a sorceress have for summoning a fiend?” The man — creature? — bends to eye level and roughly takes your chin in one large clawed hand.
Up close, his eyes are even more mesmerizing. “I… need your help.”
“Help?” The sight of his stern gaze kills any rebuttal you may have had. “Do you understand what I am?”
“Yes! You eat magic, don’t you? We can make an arrangement!” A torrent of desperation floods your tone, making you wince, but you can’t help it. You have nowhere else to turn.
Either in disgust or fury, he releases you with a hard shove and unfurls his giant wings, momentarily blocking out the light. Though he tries to leave, blue sparks flash when he reaches the edge of the summoning circle. He can’t roam freely without a proper contract cementing his place in this realm.
“This isn’t a trick,” you plead. “My magic, I can’t control it… If you don’t help me, I’ll be in trouble!”
His long, armor-plated tail flicks in annoyance and nearly extinguishes a candle flame. “Don’t bore me with such trivial matters. We’re natural enemies.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way! We can make a contract. I’m not as skilled as my mother, but…”
You trail off when the fiend exhales a loud, displeased breath. He doesn’t look at you when he demands, “Explain.”
“My magic is becoming too strong. I want you to… keep me in check. It’s a win-win situation, isn’t it? You get easy meals, and I get to live normally.”
Silence ensues. The creature picks up your mortar of crushed gemstones, examining it under the dim candlelight before pinching it between his fingers, his brows furrowed in concentration. You’d think he was ignoring you completely if not for the steady swish swish of his tail.
Then, he picks up the goblet and sniffs its contents. His lip curls in disgust when he smells the alcohol. He eyes the knife last, sitting inconspicuously next to the holy water kept half hidden behind your back.
“I could end you now. Drain you of every last speck of magic you have,” he threatens.
Your palms slicken with sweat. You want to wipe them on your trousers, but you can’t release the ritual just yet. “B-but what about after? You’ll no longer be tethered to this realm. Will you wait another hundred years for your next meal?”
You’re scrambling now, and you know it. Will your effort be for nothing? Will you be condemned to a fate just like your mother’s, forced to waste away until you succumb to a power too great for your fragile body? You thought it would be so easy to summon a fiend and plead your case; never once did you think he would refuse your request.
The stranger stalks toward you with a predatory glint in his eyes. His tail waves back and forth in front of your face, nearly slicing you in two with the pointed end. When he kneels, his wings unfurl and cast you in shadow, yet the ruby in his chest catches light and gleams in a brilliant shade of carmine.
“You’re playing with fire, kitten.”
Despite the incessant thrumming of your heart, you double down on your efforts to weave magic into the summoning circle, creating a gentle blue glow that piques his interest. He stands again and studies his pointed claws with an air of indifference.
“I suppose,” he says, “I could be persuaded. It's not every day a kitten wants to tame a tiger. I’ll try not to kill you.”
You can’t help but flinch at his callous words. “So you’ll do it, then? Make a contract with me.”
He extends his hand for a handshake. “We have a deal.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded. “What is this?”
“Our deal,” he drawls with more than a little impatience.
“No.” You shake your head. “This isn’t how contracts are made. Bindings and unbindings must be done with a clear mind, an open constitution, and a blood sacrifice — or, as my mother taught me, water, wine, and salt.”
You repeat the mantra as you’ve done a hundred times before, pointedly ignoring the nagging reminder in the back of your mind that your mother shackled you with a magical contract completely on her own, without the use of such paraphernalia.
The fiend drops his hand and stares at the objects you’ve laid out within the summoning circle. “Is that why you’ve brought those little trinkets?”
“Precisely.” You pick up the shallow bowl of holy water and thrust the goblet of wine forward. “I drink the holy water, you drink the wine. Then we’ll mix our blood over the garnets, and it’ll be done.”
“What a tiresome process.”
Despite his complaining, he swirls the wine around for a beat and downs it in one gulp. You do the same with the holy water, then pick up the knife to make a tiny incision on the tip of your index finger. You allow two drops to fall into the waiting mortar before sucking on your wound.
“Afraid of pain?” he taunts, lip curved into a smirk. He takes the knife in skilled, practiced motions and slices a long gash along his left palm. A crimson river drips and mixes with your blood.
You’re about to protest, maybe make a snide remark at his unnecessary display of strength, until you see the cut begin to stitch itself back together before your very eyes. In less than a minute, his palm holds no trace of its prior injury.
“Oh,” you say lamely. “That’s… something.” Then you clear your throat and raise the mortar with both hands. “With this, two souls are bound.”
Red smoke rises from the ceramic bowl. The candles around the room burst into giant orange flames, nearly blinding you, but they return to their normal size a moment later, swathing the room in near darkness again. Crackles draw your attention to the mortar as the blood within sparks in rainbow colours and evaporates into dust.
After what feels like hours, you set the mortar down and finally, finally blow out one candle. The moment you do so, the soft blue glow from the summoning circle disappears. The air turns stagnant, no longer charged by a faint and distant humming. All is still.
You rise to your feet and dust off your clothes. “Well, now that that’s done, may I ask your name?”
“A fiend’s name is not freely given,” he scoffs.
“Why not?”
He studies his claws idly while you stew in curiosity. “Let’s say a kitten managed to learn his true name. She might accidentally cast a spell on him. Names have power.”
“Oh,” you frown. “Then, how about I give you one instead? What about ‘Sylus’?”
“Call me whatever you like. Just don’t expect me to respond.”
Freed from the confines of the summoning circle, Sylus approaches the window to peer at the world beyond. Moonlight washes over him in streams of molten silver, bathing him in an alabaster glow. With his onyx horns blending into the night, his bottomless ruby eyes shine in stark contrast. Like this, he looks like an angel.
A beautiful, deadly angel.
The first time is always the scariest.
Less than two weeks have passed since the summoning, but you can already feel that familiar itch in your veins. You’ve tried to ignore the urge and carry on as usual, but every impatient customer or bold drunk makes something hideous flare under your skin. There’s no more putting it off; Sylus needs to feed.
“Is it going to hurt?” You chew on your thumbnail and pace around your small bedroom above the tavern. Thankfully, you had the foresight to close the tavern today.
“It might,” Sylus shrugs. He lazes about on a chaise in the corner of your room, tapping on the velvet patiently. His wings are folded tight, and his tail is curled at an awkward angle. You can’t help but wonder how that position could ever be comfortable.
“Well… what are you going to do?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Seems like someone didn’t do her research.”
A little restless, you shift from your bed to the door and back to your bed again. “Answer the question.”
“Normally, I’d carve out your heart and devour it, but for now, your hand will do.”
“Y-you’re going to cut off my hand?!”
Sylus sighs a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he extends his hand. “Give me your hand and I’ll show you.”
You stare at his obsidian-lined skin, tracing its patterns with your eyes and noting how pointed his claws appear. He could plunge his arm through your ribcage without much fuss at all.
Yet somehow, with this man designed to do you to shreds, you feel utterly safe. Maybe it’s the magical contract, or maybe it’s just him. Either way, you take his hand.
The instant your fingers touch, dark red tendrils begin to snake around your wrists, tying the two of you together. It tightens, and you wince. On instinct, you try to pull away.
“Relax, kitten, you can handle it.”
Sylus’ words soothe you, albeit only a little. Anxiety still swirls around you in thick plumes as your vision grows hazy. Your focus, your stamina, your magic — it’s being drained. This was what you wanted, but you didn’t think it’d make you feel so exhausted.
Seeing you sway on your feet, Sylus pulls you into him by your other arm, drawing you into his lap with ease. He presses your head into the crook of his shoulder while his bound hand entwines with yours.
There’s warmth to his presence. He strokes your hair with a gentleness at odds with his intimidating appearance. Despite his constant presence in these recent weeks, he remains a mystery. An enigma, through and through.
A few minutes is all Sylus needs to satisfy his hunger — and a few minutes is all it takes for your head to swim, completely disoriented.
“Is it done?” you ask, your voice little more than a breathless whisper. You can’t even muster up the energy to lift your head.
“Yes,” he affirms. His thumb traces the back of your hand and then up your arm thoughtfully. “Rest if you’re tired. You weren’t made to survive this.”
“Mm… Will it always be like this?”
Sylus considers your question. “If I feed this way, yes.”
Against your better judgment, you nuzzle deeper into his neck, comforted by his warmth. “There’s another way?”
“There is, but I doubt you’ll find it very… appealing.”
You can’t even open your eyes as you mumble. “What is it?”
But Sylus merely strokes your hair again, pulling you into a gentle slumber. “Sleep now, kitten. We’ll discuss it another time.”
Through the tiny, grime-filled kitchen window, Sylus clenches his jaw as he watches a man get too comfortable with you. The stranger’s rough fingers ghost over your bottom when you pass by. And the worst part? It’s not even the first time this particular man hasn’t kept his hands to himself. Sylus has half a mind to march over there and rip the offending limb from its socket.
But, no. He trusts that you can handle it. And besides, the whole town would flip on its head if they saw him, horns and all. That’s why he’s been cooped up in the tavern for weeks, forced to wander the second floor or hide away in the kitchen whenever the tavern is entertaining guests — and that was very, very often.
It was fun, at first, to sit back and observe the pretty little sorceress who summoned a dragon to solve her magical problems, but the novelty is quickly wearing off. He’s starting to get restless.
When you nudge your way into the kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes balanced precariously between your hands and an infuriated expression on your face, Sylus is quick to launch into an interrogation.
“Is that man bothering you?”
“Of course he is,” you snap, nerve frayed by the near-constant harassment of your customers. “They’re always bothering me. I hate running this place!”
You toss the dishes into the basin of soapy water, where a sponge begins to move on its own to clean them. Newly washed and dried beer glasses sit on a nearby rack, and you grab three of them, filling them halfway with foam.
Sylus watches your tantrum unfold with a raised brow. “Do you want me to take care of it?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”
“Have you ever considered leaving if you hate it so much?
“I can’t. I made a contract.” You move to the far cupboard stacked high with ingredients and pluck out an unassuming jar of something that looks like dried berries. “Although I didn’t do it willingly. I only promised my mother that I’d take care of her tavern to make her feel better on her deathbed. Should’ve known better than to trust a sorceress.”
Sylus lifts a brow. “Bold words coming from a sorceress.”
“Well, yes, but I’m a different kind. My magic is straightforward — I tell people what to do, and they do it. Contracts are… complicated. There’s always a secondary clause, some if, and, or but.” Shaking two berries from the bottle, you grind them between your fingers until they disintegrate into sand, directly into the beer glass. “Contracts can last long after the caster has passed, while things like blessings and curses are usually short-lived. Compulsions are the worst of all. They last an hour, tops, and that’s only if I control one person at a time.”
You wipe your hands on a nearby towel and toss a raw fish into the skillet over the fire. The skillet shakes of its own volition, flipping the fish over when one side has cooked through. Then you pick up the three drinks, ready to resume your work.
“I’m curious,” Sylus says, “why you bother with the poisons when you could order them to be more… docile.”
You shrug as you push the kitchen door open with your shoulder. “Like I said — compulsions are temporary. Death is forever.”
Sylus waits by the little window long enough for the man to drain his drink. Nightshade works fast; within minutes, the man’s face flushes red as his heart rate spikes. His pupils dilate to unnatural proportions, and on a regular day, his acquaintances might’ve noticed his odd behaviour. Unfortunately for him — and fortunately for you — everyone in the tavern is equally wasted.
When your victim stumbles outside and collapses face-first into the street, no one spares a second glance for a man who drank himself to death.
Later that evening, after you’ve retired to your bedroom, Sylus comes knocking. His nights have become terribly boring on account of being awake when you’re asleep. Despite sleeping the afternoon away, he still finds himself with too many spare hours on his hands.
“Explain something to me, kitten.” Sylus takes a seat on your bed as if he owns it. “It’d be much simpler to compel a man to take his own life. Why the potions?”
Sighing, you plop down beside Sylus and spread your limbs out like a starfish. “It’s not really that simple. Some are naturally more resistant to suggestions, and making people do things they’re adamantly against is difficult. For things like that, I can’t just give them a command; I have to puppeteer their body. It takes a lot of concentration and energy.”
“Enough to drain your magic without having to make a deal with a devil?”
You shoot him a suspicious glare. “Are you trying to find a way out of our agreement? I’ll have you know that draining me is not so easily done. Magic is… fickle. Spells don’t always take, and of those that do, I can never guess how much magic it’ll require. I summoned you because I couldn’t control it.”
Sylus stares at you for a long while, taking in your tired eyes and downturned lips. There’s a red spot on your neck you keep touching. How long have you been burdened with a power beyond your years? How desperate did you have to be to turn to a creature like him to solve your problems?
His eyes soften as he props your pillow up against the headboard and rearranges your limbs until you’re resting upright. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great,” you sigh, scratching at your left arm. “It’s itchy.”
“You’ve already recovered from last time?”
“I guess so. I don’t know. It’s just itchy.” Your nails rake up and down your arm again, leaving small welts in their wake. You should stop, but you can’t help how it feels.
Sylus, though, eclipses your hand with his, easily halting your motions with the sheer size of him. “Shall I show you the other method of feeding?”
You sigh again and thump your head against the headboard. “I don’t know. I’m really tired today.”
“This way isn’t as strenuous,” he assures you, rubbing soothing circles into your palm with his thumb. “Interested?”
There’s so much honesty in Sylus’ face that your walls come crumbling down, one brick at a time. “You know, you’re different from what I thought you’d be.”
Sylus raises a brow in silent question.
“You’re not as, ah, monstrous as they say.”
“Stories can be deceiving,” he says. “Back home, the rumours about your kind are less than flattering.”
Pursing your lips, you drag him into bed and nudge him into the perfect position — against the headboard with your back to his chest. Like this, you can curl up into the crook of his neck.
“Where is home?” you wonder.
Though slightly taken aback by your sudden display of intimacy, he wraps a strong arm around your waist and angles his body until your foreheads are touching. “Tarus City, but you know it as the netherworld.”
“I hear it’s a dark and desolate place, full of blood and desire. Is that true?”
Sylus chuckles. “There are two sides to every coin, kitten. Just because you haven’t seen the other sides of it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
You go quiet, considering his words. “Will you show me one day, those other sides of Tarus City?” Of you?
“Haven’t had your fill yet?”
His hand comes to caress your cheek, those sharp claws trailing along your jaw in a way that would be threatening if it were anyone but him. He’s a conundrum you can’t seem to solve, from his warm smile to his gentle touch to his fierce protectiveness. Somehow, you find yourself leaning into him, your guard completely lost to the wind.
“Tell me the other way to feed,” you say, sliding a finger over the gem in his chest. Its smooth edges and pulsing heat feel just like a heartbeat.
Smiling, Sylus rolls to maneuver you on top of him, head resting on his collarbone. It can’t be comfortable with his horns digging into the headboard and his neck angled oddly to keep you in his sights, but he merely drapes the blanket over your shoulders as if he were lying on a bed of feathers.
“You know how they say that eyes are the windows to the soul?”
You tilt your head, not understanding where he’s going with this. “Yes?”
“That’s false. The soul sits in your throat, behind your teeth. You let some of it out with every breath.”
“Oh. But… how does that help you?”
“Would you like to find out?”
Sylus slowly tilts your chin up. Like this, he fills all your senses. His eyes are pools of lava, and his touch is cleansing rain. Man or monster, sin or salvation, you can’t tell the difference anymore; the line has become impossibly blurred.
And does it even matter? With his breath on your lips, you care little for lines drawn in sand. Sylus is kind and gentle and never takes more than you’re ready to give. He cares for you in a bone-deep way, and if this is what it means to love a monster, then you’ll take him as he is, horns and all.
When your lips meet, you melt. Something clicks into place like the world righting itself. After years of clawing through hell by the skin of your teeth, you feel your aching muscles unwind as you finally find yourself at home in his arms, right where you belong.
“Sylus.”
At the severity in your tone, Sylus drags a hand through his messy, sleep-ridden hair and cracks open an eyelid against the garish sunlight streaming in through the parted curtains. His other arm tugs your pillow deeper under his chin, where he catches whiffs of your lingering scent.
“Mm. Yes, sweetie?”
His voice, low and husky and thick with sleep, makes something warm coil in your gut. “Get up. We’re going hunting today.”
Yet he doesn’t move a muscle. “Hunting?”
“Yes, hunting. For plants I can use in spellwork.”
When he still doesn’t rise, you shake his bare arm. After all this time, he still refuses to don clothes under the claim that shirts hinder him, but you have half a mind to think he likes to flaunt his perfect build.
“That hardly counts as hunting,” he huffs. “What use are plants to a sorceress anyway?”
Perching down on the edge of the mattress, you clear your throat. “You know how important my potion-making is. How else do you expect me to deal with the unruly customers?”
Sylus makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. His hand comes to dance idly over your wrist in a motion that has become second nature to him. “You could sic your guard dog on them.”
“Dog?”
“Oh, my apologies. Your guard demon.”
Despite the obvious humour in his tone, you sense a note of truth as well. If you asked it of him, he would rip out the hearts of your enemies and present the bloody organs to you on a silver platter — and it wouldn’t even be a difficult request.
But that would lead to a lifetime of being reviled and hunted, and you will not condemn him to such a pitiful fate.
“No,” you say, “this is something I can handle on my own. Now, come. The day is wasting.”
With a heavy groan, Sylus sits up. The thin sheet pools around his waist, revealing his muscles in all their sculpted glory. “Is it sunny today?”
“Cloudy, but I can bring a parasol.”
As you make your way to the broom closet, Sylus stops you with a strong arm around your waist. His nose tickles the shell of your ear as he whispers, “No need, kitten. I can endure.”
Although you’re far from the religious type, you pray to every named and unnamed god that Sylus doesn't notice the awful thundering of your heart. But when he chuckles under his breath, you know your prayers have fallen on deaf ears.
“H-hurry up and make yourself decent,” you chastise, turning your face away so he doesn’t see the colour in your cheeks. “I can only hide your assets with a glamour. The rest, you must do yourself.”
“And here I thought you were enjoying the view.”
Once he turns his back, you swipe your travelling boot and chuck it at his head. Without even looking, red tendrils manifest to catch it before it can make contact. Sylus lets out an amused huff but otherwise makes no comment about your petulance.
He does, however, withhold the boot from you once he’s fully dressed and ready to embark on the day’s adventure wearing the disguise of a completely normal man.
You stand there lopsidedly with only one shoe on, practically climbing Sylus’ body as you make another futile attempt to retrieve your boot from where it’s being held hostage several feet above your head.
“Sylus, don’t tease!”
“It isn’t my fault you’re vertically challenged,” he says, trying in vain to hide his smile. But when he sees your pout, he mutters under his breath, “Hold onto me.”
Before you can protest, you’re being lifted into the air. With your feet dangling, it’s all you can do to lean into him and coil your arms around his neck for purchase. “Sylus!”
“What?” He slowly sets you down on the kitchen table and kneels to take your ankle in his hand. “I thought you wanted your shoe back.”
He holds eye contact as he slips the boot over your foot, his movements purposefully slow. Only when he begins to tighten the laces does he drop his eyes, but the subtle smirk stays plastered on his face like a permanent feature.
Heat spreads through your body at the unexpected intimacy. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he interrupts. When he finishes tying your laces, he gives you his hand to help you down from the table, despite the jump being only a foot at best. And just when you think it’s all over, that you’ll go back to your regularly scheduled routine, he whispers into your ear, “Master.”
By the time you’re traipsing through the woodlands with Sylus on your heels, your heart rate has settled into a more regular pattern. Here, amongst trees you’ve greeted a hundred times, you’re in your element. Just damp dirt, sun-dappled leaves, and budding mushrooms — there’s nothing better than the simple things. You’ve even decided to give yourself a break and drop Sylus’ glamour.
Sylus, though, isn’t nearly as enchanted by the tree branches that keep getting tangled up with his horns or snagged against his expansive wings. He heaves a sigh when he has to pluck yet another twig from his hair.
“What exactly are we looking for?” he asks.
“Anything,” you answer, swivelling your head left and right as you scan the forest floor. “Maybe devil’s fingers or star anise. Oh! And I’ve been meaning to gather some hemlock and nightshade.”
Curiosity piqued, Sylus flicks his tail only for the motion to send a log rolling several feet away. “Are you making potions or poisons?”
“Potions can be poisonous. That doesn’t make them any less… potion-y,” you shrug. Then you tap your chin in thought. “But I’d prefer nightshade over hemlock. I quite like the terrified look they get right before they die.”
Sylus lifts a brow. “You have an unexpected sadistic streak. But somehow, I don’t think you’ll find anything of use here.” He gestures to the detritus-filled forest floor with nothing but browning leaves and dead flowers amongst dried-out mushroom caps.
“Don’t be so quick to judge. I always come here for ingredients.” To prove your point, you pluck several polypores off a birch tree and shove them into your pouch. “See? I found some already.”
“That isn’t nightshade, kitten.”
“No, but it still makes a good antiseptic.”
He shakes his head, fighting off several stray branches in the process. “Let’s leave this forest. I know of a better place.”
“Better? Where?”
“Hold onto me and I’ll show you,” he urges, extending a hand.
You hesitate for only a split second before folding yourself into his arms, the action coming to you as naturally as breathing. Even without knowing what the future holds, you trust that you’ll always be safe by his side.
Sylus grips you tight and leaps into the air — at least six feet, higher than any normal man can jump. Wind rushes past your ears so fast and loud that you don’t even register the complete lack of gravity until the clouds enlarge before your very eyes. Sylus jumped, but you’re not descending.
Through the cacophony of wind, you shout, “We’re flying!”
“We are,” Sylus replies coolly, smirking at your wide-eyed excitement. “You didn’t think these wings were just for show, did you?”
“But the glamour— What if someone sees us?!”
“They won’t.” With a few great flaps of his wings, the two of you ascend above the clouds. “No one will be able to see us here.”
It reassures you, if only a little. You’re leagues off the ground with only Sylus standing between you and certain death. If he wanted to, he could send you plummeting to earth like an overripe tomato. But you feel no fear, because you know in your bones that he would never allow any harm to come to you.
Sylus soars through the vast blue sky uninhibited for the first time in a long time. The warm glow of sunlight dances over his skin like liquid gold, softening all his rough edges. His eyes, as deep as a sunset, hold entire galaxies within.
“Mine.” You’re muttering under your breath before you know it, laying claim to things you have no business possessing.
Sylus’ gaze shifts to your face, a bemused yet satisfied smile on his lips as if he were surrendering. As if he meant to say I’m yours.
A short while later, Sylus lands in an open field with sprawling flowers and low hills on the horizon. He’s careful as he sets you on your feet, making sure you're steady before letting you stand on your own.
“What is this place?” you ask in awe. Soft petals tickle your calves as you traipse through the flowers.
He follows in your footsteps, never once straying too far. “Nice, right? The veil between our worlds is thinnest here.”
“This is Tarus City?”
“Close, but not quite. It’s a transition zone rife with magic — yours and mine.” He taps on a flower growing by his feet and watches it sway. “Can you sense it?”
You press your palm flat against the dirt. “Sort of. There’s something ancient here.”
“Many fiends have been buried in these fields. Sorceresses, too. Their magic lingers.”
“This… is a graveyard?”
Sylus smiles and kneels next to you, curling a protective arm around your waist. “From death comes rebirth. In a dragon’s final moments, flowers will bloom from its body. It wasn’t uncommon to see one here with his human lover, flowers blooming as far as the eye can see.”
Something he said gives you pause. “Human lover?”
“Surely, you didn’t think you were the first,” he chuckles.
In one swift motion, he pulls you closer until you’re both tumbling to the ground, skin to skin. Your vision swims as you roll in the soft grass until you come to a halt atop Sylus’ sturdy chest, ear against his heartbeat. His hands smooth over your back in a gentle caress.
Like this, you find no trace of the monster spoken of in legends. Creatures of darkness, harbingers of destruction — what were they looking at when they penned those words in the history books? Sylus’ eyes hold nothing but pure, unfettered adoration. The night, you find, is easy to love.
A dark red flower tickles the side of Sylus’ face. He blinks against its petals, and you pluck it from the stem to slip behind his hair.
“It suits you,” you say with a smile.
Sylus traces your jaw, then your bottom lip. He wants something but won’t voice it. “This suits you,” he echoes.
“What, the flowers?”
“No. Smiling. You look good when you’re happy.”
A blush rises on your cheeks. In just a few short months, Sylus has wormed his way into your heart, and now you can’t imagine life without him.
“D-do you think these flowers will make for good potions?” you ask to hide your embarrassment.
In response, Sylus weaves a flower through your hair the same way you did with him. “Naturally. The magic in them is strong.”
You move to pack some into your pouch, but pause halfway. “They won’t mind, will they? If I take some?”
“‘They?’”
“The ones buried here.”
A gentle smile crosses Sylus’ face as if he were recalling a fond memory. “Those souls have long since passed on. You have nothing to worry about, sweetie.”
“Hm. I’ll trust you.” With that, you begin gingerly picking flowers, taking care to avoid any young buds.
Sylus observes you with keen interest as he rakes his fingers up and down your thigh. A part of him stirs with an unease that only quiets when he can feel your body, whole and concrete. How curious that, in just a few short months, your presence has become a soothing balm on his sunburnt skin. Where humans once cursed his existence, you dare to gaze into his eyes and lull him to sleep with soft lullabies.
But watching you run around like a hamster in a maze and contort yourself into abstract shapes to fit a mold not suited to you makes his stomach turn. He’s a dragon. A powerful, fire-wielding dragon that could raze entire cities to the ground — if only you’d let him.
“That inn of yours,” he starts, “how long until the contract expires?”
“It’s a tavern. And it lasts until death. My death.”
Sylus raises a brow. “That seems unreasonable.”
“That’s how it is with blood magic,” you shrug. “The more valuable the sacrifice, the longer the binding holds. My mother made the contract with her dying breath, and a life is the greatest sacrifice one can make.”
“By that logic, our deal won’t last very long at all.”
You shake your head. “No, it won’t. After the contract dissolves, you’re free to go home.”
“Who says I want to?”
“You want to stay with me?” You tilt your head, eyes wide and imploring.
Sylus sits up and drags you onto his lap, lifting your chin and tracing your bottom lip with his thumb. “Let’s just say that living and dying by your side doesn’t sound like a bad deal.”
Your lips part, inviting. “Is that a confession?”
“No,” he whispers, his eyes soft and full of reverence as he commits the shape of you to memory. “It’s a proclamation.”
Sylus tightens his grip around your waist, forcing you to stumble two steps into his side. He shoots a tight-lipped smile at the man who utterly refuses to leave the two of you alone despite Sylus’ numerous scathing glares. He would toss the vermin down a well if you weren’t pinching his spine to keep him from acting out.
We need to keep a low profile, you always say. They’re cautious of outsiders, you warn.
The townsfolk have grown suspicious despite the near-constant glamour you keep over Sylus. His human looks are undermined by his inhuman actions. He’s too arrogant, too threatening, and too intolerant for their plebeian tastes.
It’s irksome, to put it lightly. He doesn’t understand why you won’t allow him to rip their hearts right out of their chests. How different is that, really, from your sly poisons? He has never claimed to be the patient type.
And this man in particular is wearing Sylus’ limited patience down to the bone.
“We find it quite concerning, you understand,” the man says. “Too many have suffered casualties after a night in your tavern.”
Internally, Sylus scoffs. We as if he weren’t standing by his lonesome. As if hiding behind numbers makes his argument any stronger.
“And? What of it?” You puff out your chest and straighten your spine. “I serve drinks. Should I be condemned if a paying customer doesn’t know his limits?”
“The deaths appear to be unrelated to their alcohol consumption.”
That makes you stiffen. “Are you suggesting there’s foul play afoot?”
“I wouldn’t say that’s impossible,” the stranger shrugs. “It seems, also, that you’re due for an inspection. Now, if you cooperate, we’ll all be the happier for it.”
You scowl, almost baring your teeth. This problem could’ve been easily dealt with if this man were the lone detective, but he had said we. That means he has collaborators. That means if he goes missing or turns up dead in the river, the spotlight will only shine brighter on you.
But you can’t let them inspect your kitchen. You have shelves and shelves of ingredients, over half of which can be used as deadly poisons. Even if you could clear it away, where could you hide them so that they wouldn’t be found? You’re running out of options.
Sensing your frustration, Sylus comes to your rescue. “Perhaps a few days to arrange the logistics would be fair. I’m sure an important man like yourself has better things to do than personally inspect a tavern.” He presses his fingers into your side. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
Although you nod politely, you throw your magic into the edges of the minister’s mind. Just a subtle suggestion, nothing more. You can’t risk more than that.
The man startles for a brief moment as conflicting thoughts fly through his brain. But he’s susceptible; you can feel it. His expression turns lax and pliant, and he makes to leave without much fuss.
Sylus closes the door with more force than necessary. His face is pinched when he asks, “So, what’s the plan?”
You heave a sigh. “I don’t know. Should I kill him? But that won’t make anything better. Ugh!”
“Calm down, kitten. Just think it through.”
“Okay, okay.” You slump against the wooden doorframe, head in your hands. “The priest controls the town. If I can convince him of my innocence, then no one would dare defy him.”
“And how impossible is this task?” Sylus questions.
“Not impossible, just improbable. The clergy is… uniquely resistant to magic. I won’t be able to make him obedient.”
Sylus sighs. “So we’re depending on your communication skills? I don’t need to be a seer to know how this will turn out.”
“Sylus!” Offended, you slap his forearm. “This might be our only option. If we have the support of the church, we’ll be untouchable.”
“Then I’ll go with you. We’ll be more convincing as a pair.”
This time, it’s your turn to sigh. “You can’t go. It’s holy ground.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“All magic is nullified on holy ground,” you explain. “Glamours included.”
Sylus’ brows knit. “You can’t really be thinking of going alone.”
“I have to. We don’t have time to argue, Sylus. You stay here to hold down the fort, and I’ll speak with the priest.”
Before Sylus can protest further, you slip out the door and into the evening chill.
The church is, unsurprisingly, the biggest and grandest building in town. It sits tall as if reaching toward the heavens, made of pristine marble and stained glass. To most, it inspires awe, but to you, it just spurs resignation.
You push open the church’s heavy doors with a perfectly schooled expression. Inside, you find the elderly priest poring over holy texts. Typical.
“Welcome, child.” The priest greets you without looking up.
“Hello, Father.” Though it pains you to suffer through the niceties, you do it anyway; you need his favour. “I have a… request.”
Finally, the priest turns. He gives you a warm, welcoming smile. “You may ask it.”
“I run a humble tavern. There are a few, ah, people who have accused me of something unsavoury, and it puts my business at risk. Will you speak to them on my behalf?”
That damned smile never leaves his face as he hobbles to the nearest pew. He gestures for you to sit, but instead, you stalk over and stand in front of him. “That depends,” he muses. “What accusations have they thrown your way?”
“They think I’ve been killing people, murdering them after they’ve spent an evening in my tavern.” You huff and cross your arms, going so far as to pout.
“And have you?”
“Of course not! Why would I kill a paying customer? I’ve never once— mm… mmm?!”
Your mouth suddenly won’t open. Your lips feel glued shut, no matter how you claw at your face. On instinct, you reach for your magic only to feel the threads slip through your fingers like water.
“That won’t do,” the priest says, shaking his head. His white hair bobs playfully, completely at odds with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “We must not lie.”
That’s when the fear snakes around your throat. Something about this priest unnerves you, and it’s not the carefree smile that never seems to leave his face. There’s magic here — ancient, powerful magic that has escaped your notice for years.
But how? All magic is rendered useless on holy ground. Unless…
You swallow a lump in your throat. Your lips still won’t budge, and you’re in way over your head. You stumble several steps back until your shoe hits the dais, and you fall flat on your ass. The loud thumping of boots alerts you to a new presence, but you hardly have time to think before gloved hands are roughly yanking your arms behind your back.
“Mm, mmm!!”
Your shouts fall on deaf ears. Within seconds, knights of the Holy Order have you pinned to the ground, your cheek smushed against the cold floor tiles.
The priest watches from his seat. A soldier fists your hair and forces your head up when the priest begins talking. “Now, are you ready to speak the truth, child?”
With a wave of his hand, whatever hex had been placed upon you shatters. You gasp for breath, panting and open-mouthed.
“W-wha… How did you do that?!” Then to the soldiers, you shout, “Get off me!”
“We must not lie in the presence of our Lord,” the priest warns by way of explanation.
“But that was magic… How can you use magic here?! And tell your knights to unhand me at once!”
“Hm?” The priest tilts his chin in thought, pointedly ignoring your pleas for freedom. “Ah, you must have been told that magic cannot be used on holy ground. That is incorrect. It is simply that holy magic is the most powerful type of magic. Yours simply becomes suppressed, you see.”
He stands slowly on creaky knees and walks the short distance to where you’re still being held down. “I will ask you again: did you kill those men?”
“N-n—” Your tongue turns stiff in your mouth. Though you want to deny it with every fibre of your being, you find yourself blurting out a loud, “Yes! I poisoned them because they crossed me!”
“A shame,” the priest sighs. He grabs your chin in a surprisingly rough hand. “I would have liked to live peacefully with a sorceress.”
“You know…?”
“That a sorceress resides in this town? Of course, child. Did you think you could hide yourself? Or that beast?”
At the mention of Sylus, your eyes grow wide. “Don’t…! Don’t hurt him! He had no part in this, it was all me!”
The priest nods to signal the guards to release you. “I am unconcerned by that creature. He will return to where he belongs once you repent.”
With another wave of his hand, shackles of light sprout from thin air and clasp onto your wrists. Golden chains grow from the nearby altar and drag your body unceremoniously up the dais until your back is flat against the cool marble. Your arms, pinned by your head, flail uselessly.
“What is this?! Let me go!”
“Your mother was much more cooperative.” The priest shakes his head sadly as the chains tighten, forcing a whimper from your throat. “I turned a blind eye to your escapades because I had faith you would see the light, just as she did. It appears I was foolish; you have been tainted by darkness. For your sins of murder and consorting with the devil, you shall repent.”
You should be angrier than you are. You should be fighting tooth and nail, using knees and elbows and spit and claws to secure your freedom, but in this instant, all you can say is, “Sylus is no devil.”
“Then why the horns, the wings, the tail? You have been blinded, child. He is a creature of evil who feasts on flesh and blood; your mother understood that.”
“No!” You thrash against your binds to no avail. “Sylus is… kind and considerate. He listens and cares, nothing like you lot who judge and shun me for what I am! He’s more human than you’ll ever be!”
The priest, unmoved by your speech, takes the long, heavy sword presented to him by one of the knights. A claymore, used in olden days to slay dragons. “I see. In the end, monsters beget monsters.”
And then he slides the sword straight through your middle. The cold shock hits you before the pain, but when your nerves catch up, they burn. Wildfire marches through your veins in a thunderous roar. Your vision turns white, then black, then white again, and your lungs feel shrivelled and broken.
The steel hurts worse on the way out. The chill of it lingers, freezing your flesh and spreading frost through your bones. With nothing to staunch it, blood erupts from your wound, spilling down your abdomen to stain the marble floor below.
“When your blood runs dry, your penance shall be complete,” the priest informs you. He hands the claymore off and wipes his hands on a white silk handkerchief. “May your soul find the light in your next life.”
You want to curse him. You want to kill him, to rend flesh from bone and muscle from tendon. To make him hurt, to make him suffer, to make him afraid. Because all you’ve ever wanted was to belong. You would’ve been content with a simple, modest life — a life with Sylus, hidden from daylight though it may be. Just you and your dragon, forevermore.
The energy leaves you in spades. You try to take hold of your magic, but the well inside of you is empty. All the magic has leaked out, drawn away by something more powerful than yourself. Your wrists, rubbed raw by the glowing shackles, remain bound. Your legs are slowly losing feeling.
Blearily, you glance around the church. The others have gone; when did they leave? You’re all alone in this vast, empty place, skin growing colder by the minute. What you wouldn’t give for a shred of Sylus’ warmth now.
Such horror. Such injustice. Is this how you die? Bleeding out in a place you hate, chained like a prisoner on display?
As the breath in your lungs turns to dust, your last thought is of Sylus’ red, red eyes.
Sylus knows something has gone terribly wrong when the glamour on him abruptly vanishes. One minute, he looks like a man, and the next, his claws are leaving scratch marks in the glass.
This is unlike you. You wouldn’t drop the glamour from a distance and risk having his true identity be discovered. It hasn’t been long since you left for the church either, so putting two and two together makes Sylus’ skin crawl.
He doesn’t think. He just acts. The reptilian part of his brain jolts to life when he kicks open the tavern’s door and leaps into the air, wings spreading to guide him to the skies. He hears shouts of alarm and disbelief behind him, but by the time those words reach his ears, he’s already flown far away.
It takes him a mere handful of minutes to reach the church with his speed. He lands with loud, reverberating footsteps. He wants them to hear him; he wants them to be afraid. Because even he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds you hurt.
The massive church doors seem unassuming. They stand tall like an unmovable mountain wrapped in filaments of white gold. The holy essence in this place chokes him and makes the darkest parts of him curl into themselves. But magic or not, he still has his teeth and claws.
When he pushes the doors open, the first thing to reach him is the smell. It’s thick. Pervasive. It fills his senses, and his lungs grow overwhelmed by the acrid scent of blood.
Then he sees you in the far distance, propped up against the marble altar like a lifeless ragdoll with rivers of red painting your limbs. He’s by your side before he can blink — before he can question whether this is a trap.
“Can you hear me?” His voice, though strong and resounding in his head, comes out as little more than a hoarse croak. When he touches your skin, his palm comes away sticky and red.
Your lids feel so heavy, but the familiar voice rouses you from your deathly slumber. “Sy…lus?”
Sylus presses his hand to your wound, knowing it hardly makes a difference. You’ve lost too much blood already, and no amount of pressure can turn back time. “Don’t speak,” he urges. “Save your energy.”
“The… priest…” Slowly and with great effort, you cover his hand with yours. With that single action, you mean to tell him everything you lack the energy to say. The priest did this. He stabbed me. I’m dying.
Seeing you like this, straddling the edge of oblivion, something inside of Sylus begins to fracture. He flips his palm to hold your hand — gently, always gently — and that’s when he sees it: burned skin in a neat loop around your wrist, an indication that someone shackled you. Someone chained you up like an animal and left you here to die all by your lonesome.
The blood in his veins thrums with hot, molten anger. He gathers you into his arms, your blood on his bare skin adding fuel to the wildfire blazing in his bones.
When he exits the church, a hundred eyes fall on him, but he cares little for keeping up appearances now. He flicks his tail to command a gale so strong that it knocks the roof straight off the church. Another lashing later, the church walls crack and start to crumble. In the end, magic still yields to brute force.
As the church collapses brick by brick, Sylus glares at the onlookers, baring his teeth at those who dare to stare for longer than a second. Whether due to fear or disgust or self-preservation, not a single soul makes a peep.
“Can you still hold onto me?” he asks you.
With rapidly fading consciousness, you manage to loop one arm around his neck while the other barely clings to his shoulder.
Sylus wastes no time. He takes flight, at once shooting across the sky like a comet. He flies over houses, above treetops, through clouds. He flies and flies and flies until his wings ache and he’s soaked in dried, flaky blood.
After what feels like an eternity, he touches down in a vast field of blooming flowers. There, in a place where you’re both safe, he lets you rest on a clean patch of grass and cradles your head to his chest.
He can feel your life force slipping away. Your body is colder than it was in the church, and your lips are as pale as snow. Your magic is practically nonexistent now, and when the last of it fades, he’ll lose his only tether to this realm. He’ll be sent back to the netherworld, to the land of darkness and eternal night, and your soul will forever be lost to him.
“My love,” he whispers, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
Though your vision has grown blurry, you still manage to catch a glimpse of the unspeakable pain and desperation in Sylus’ ruby eyes. You reach a shaking hand to his face, smiling.
“Sylus, I can’t… go on…”
“If your soul must depart, then take mine,” he pleads.
“But…” A voice rings out in your mind. It’s Sylus’ voice, speaking an ancient language, uttering syllables that are familiar yet foreign at the same time.
“My true name, can you hear it?”
Confused, you tell him, “Y-yes.”
“Good.” He plants a kiss on your temple, all soft and tender as if you’re snow that’ll melt with the slightest touch. “Curse my soul, my love. Make me yours.”
“How…?”
“You said it yourself. Water, wine—” He brings a blood-crusted thumb to his lips and licks a stripe through the crimson. “—and salt.”
“Sylus…?” You cup his cheek, and he raises his hand to cradle yours, leaning into your cold palm.
“Stay by my side,” he whispers. His voice cracks just a smidge. “Say my true name and bind me.”
Your mouth opens and closes as you try to shape the vowels that make up his true name. It’s intimate in an unexpected way, the sound that leaves your lips. His eyes flutter when you say it as if you’re reaching somewhere deep in his chest.
“I curse you… Your soul will be… bound to me, forever. Only I can… grant you a true death.”
Shivers erupt across his entire body. Garnet and obsidian veins spread like spiderwebs from the gemstone in his chest, travelling over his shoulders and down his arms until they reach you and turn your skin into a mottled painting of abstract patterns.
Golden light flares around your body. It’s warm and bright, and it’s all you can do to close your eyes as the light envelops you. Your pain slowly ebbs until your body feels whole again. A newfound strength reinforces your bones. Your heart beats stronger, faster as Sylus’ magic fills all the empty holes left behind by your departed sorcery.
Through the liminal space, you hear Sylus’ voice, as steady as a beating drum. He whispers your name over and over again. Like a hymn. Like a prayer. Like a spell.
Then something soft presses against your lips, tasting of iron and salt. He holds you close, your heart beating in his chest and his in yours, two fates forever bound.
All around you, daturas bloom.