Page 79 of Hell's Secret Omega

He doesn’t much like Branok. Cruel in his utter lack of conscience, capricious, single-minded. Yet there’s something about him—some deep, un-healing wound—that makes it hard to turn away from him. There’s a reason the demons call him the Hollow King, and it’s not only because of his mastery over thehollows themselves. Heishollow. Lurking in his soul is a long-burning fire that hurts to look at.

“He’s a primus.” Cyrus’s tone is bitter. “But he isn’t a protector. He uses people. It’s every demon’s dream to be as brutal and cruel as him.”

“Noteverydemon,” Mezor points out.

“No. You’re right.” Cyrus grimaces. “Some are just living. Like Claudius.”

Not what I meant.“Claudius is the one who forced you into the challenge.” He fights to keep the growl from his voice, but from Cyrus’s look he doesn’t succeed.

“The Grey Company did that together.” Cyrus scowls. “They’re so thick-headed. They could have executed Magnus in a heartbeat, damn the Court’s law. He wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.”

Above them the rok screeches. He swoops low, his claws skimming the air above Mezor’s horns, and the wind of his passage stirs Mezor’s hair. He looks up. Ekko banks between the trees skilfully and takes to the air currents, then makes a winding circle back.

The rok could easily fly free. But as Mezor said, not all demons are brutal and cruel. The rok is attached to one in particular who has a soft heart.

Mezoris attached.

He can’t fool himself.

Ekko lets out a second cry and launches himself from the sky. He plummets.

“He’s hunting.” Mezor swings the bow down from his back. “Let’s see what he’s found.”

Ekko rises again, his broad wings flaring, then shoots downward.

“What’s he doing?” Cyrus wonders.

“His prey is putting up a fight.”

Cyrus is alarmed. “We have to go faster!”

Mezor shakes his head. “Slow and quiet. We can’t risk chasing it away.”

“Whatever it is might injure him,” Cyrus protests.

“He’s a rok.” Mezor smirks. “It’ll be no match for him. Or it’ll fight hard enough to annoy him into giving up. No need to fear for his safety—outside the Court, a rok is king of the skies.”

Cyrus’s brow furrows, but he follows suit as Mezor slows his pace. Branches snap ahead and shadows move through the trees. The fight is silent, neither creature interested in drawing the attention of others. The predator because he doesn’t want to share his meal. The prey because it has a better chance of staying alive.

Unfortunately for Ekko’s prey, there’s an arrow with its name on it in Mezor’s quiver. In spite of what he’s told Cyrus, he has some doubts about the rok’s hunting abilities after years in a cage. He has no intention of letting him lose the kill.

When they’re close, Mezor crouches behind a fallen tree and gestures for Cyrus to do the same. He stalks low, closing in on the two figures as they roll between the trees on the forest floor. Ekko detaches from his prey and launches himself into the air, the trees too close for him to spread his wings gracefully. He takes flight a short distance aways and lands with a baleful glare. Opposite, his prey staggers to its feet.

It’s an izil, pale as the dawn and wild-eyed. Ekko has already injured it—its back foot is at an awkward angle and there are wounds across its chest. But an izil’s defensive kick can be painful for an enemy. Ekko only looks ruffled—and frustrated—but his feathers might hide wounds.

Worse than any wound, a black stain crawls up the izil’s back leg. Corruption. A slow, painful death awaits it regardless.

“What is it?” Cyrus whispers.

“An izil. They used to run in herds through the forest. An ambitious hunt.”

The two beasts face down through the trees, frozen. Whoever moves first has the disadvantage.

Mezor half rises from his crouch and draws an arrow from his quiver.

“You’re going to kill it?” Cyrus murmurs with surprise.

“Look at its leg. It would be a mercy.”

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