Page 109 of Demon Monster's Little Human

The wind howls through the ruins, and in the distance, I feel something shifting.

Something awakening.

Deep inside, I know whatever happens next, there is no turning back.

46

DAIN

The wind cuts against my face as I fly through the darkened sky, wings stretched wide, slicing through the storm-heavy clouds. The weight in my chest, the unbearable pull of the bond, gnaws at me like an open wound, but I refuse to give in to it.

Liora is behind me. Far away. And that is where she should stay.

I tell myself that I don’t care. That I left her for a reason. That I will never see her again.

It’s a lie.

The bond between us should be severed by now, but it isn’t. It’s weak, strained, but still there. A tether not yet broken. I want to destroy it, but I can’t fully destroy it.

And worse, I still feel her. Flickers of pain, the pulse of her indecision, the dark presence slithering closer to her.

I try to shut it out, focus on the flight, but the phantom echoes of her suffering keep slipping through the cracks in my mind.

I curse under my breath and push myself harder.

I tell myself I’m flying toward my people. Toward the dark elves. Toward the noble stronghold where all of this began.

The landscape changes beneath me.Stone gives way to tangled forests, to jagged cliffs, to sprawling ruins buried in darkness. And finally to the stronghold.

The noble mansion sits atop a crumbling plateau, its obsidian spires cutting into the sky like jagged teeth. The banners of the dark elves still hang, tattered and swaying in the wind. But something is wrong.

The torches that should light the perimeter are dark. The walls that should be teeming with guards are empty. The gates, once towering and fortified, are slightly ajar.

My muscles coil tight as I land in the courtyard, wings folding behind me.

No sound.

No movement.

Only the thick stench of decay and something else, magic. Old. Ancient. Hungry.

I push the gates open, stepping inside.

What I find makes my blood run cold.

Bodies.

Scattered like discarded dolls across the marble floors. Noble dark elves, their robes soaked in blood, their throats torn open. The walls are blackened, scorched by magic—not fire, but something worse.

The artifact is waking up. The presence.

I step forward, careful to avoid the blood pooling beneath my boots. The deeper I go, the worse it gets.

Servants, soldiers, councilmen, all dead. Their eyes wide, frozen in terror, their bodies twisted in unnatural shapes.

Some were trying to claw their own throats out.

A cold realization slithers through me.

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