Page 11 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
My head strikes something hard and unyielding—a jutting piece of granite worn smooth by countless storms. White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes, followed immediately bya darkness so complete it swallows sound, sensation, and consciousness itself.
The last thing I register before the void claims me is the echo of my zarryn's terrified scream, fading into silence as black closes over my mind.
Pain splitsthrough my skull like a white-hot blade, dragging me from the merciful darkness into a world that tilts and spins with every heartbeat. I press my palm against my temple and feel something wet and sticky—blood, matted into my hair and crusted along my scalp. The metallic taste coats my tongue, sharp and nauseating.
Where am I?
The question echoes in the hollow spaces of my mind, finding no answer. I'm lying on cold stone, mist swirling around me like ghostly fingers. Trees tower overhead, their branches lost in gray fog that seems to muffle all sound except the steady drip of moisture from pine needles.
I struggle to sit up, my body protesting with aches I don't understand. My clothes are torn, dirt ground into the fabric. One sleeve hangs in tatters, revealing scratches along my forearm that sting when the damp air touches them. But the wounds feel old somehow, partially healed. How long have I been here?
Think. Remember something.
But when I reach for memories, I find only fragments—the taste of fear, the sound of something snarling, the sensation of falling through empty space. Nothing concrete. Nothing that explains why I'm alone on a mountain trail with blood in my hair and terror lodged in my chest like a living thing.
Nothing that tells me…anything.
I'm tossed among the trees, far from any path, but I know I can't stay here. This is dangerous. So I force myself to my feetand use the sun to track north. I don't have a good reason behind it, but it at least gives me direction.
After some time of walking, I spot a small break in the dense forest. A narrow path winds downward through the trees, carved into the mountainside by countless feet. My legs shake when I try to stand, forcing me to lean against a moss-covered boulder until the world stops spinning.
One step. Then another. The trail slopes steeply downward, and I follow it because moving feels better than staying still with only the whispers of wind and my own ragged breathing for company.
Time becomes meaningless as I stumble through the mist. The sun, when I can glimpse it through the canopy, seems low in the sky, painting everything in shades of gray and amber. My stomach cramps with hunger, though the thought of food makes bile rise in my throat.
"Help." The word comes out as barely a whisper, lost immediately in the vastness of the forest. I try again, louder. "Someone help me."
Only echoes answer.
The trail eventually levels out, winding through dense stands of trees whose trunks disappear into the mist like ancient pillars holding up the sky. My head pounds with each step, but I keep moving because stopping means facing the emptiness where my memories should be.
Smoke. The scent reaches me before I see its source—woodsmoke tinged with something savory that makes my empty stomach clench with sudden, desperate hunger. I follow the smell like a lifeline, pushing through undergrowth that catches at my torn clothing.
The village emerges from the fog gradually, as if the mist is reluctant to reveal its secrets. Houses carved from dark stone and weathered timber nestle into the hillsides, their sod roofssprouting with wildflowers and moss. Warm light glows from windows fitted with what looks like colored glass, casting pools of blue and green radiance onto the muddy paths between buildings.
A river runs along the village's edge, so still and pale it mirrors the sky perfectly. The sight of it makes something twist in my chest—not quite a memory, but the ghost of one.
"Saints and spirits." The voice comes from behind me, rough with surprise. "Girl, what happened to you?"
I turn too quickly and nearly fall as dizziness washes over me. A woman stands in the doorway of what might be a shop or cottage, her iron-gray hair braided down her back and pale green eyes sharp with concern. She's thin but sturdy, built like someone who's weathered decades of hard work without complaint.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I can't remember."
She steps closer, her gaze taking in my torn clothes and bloodied scalp with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to crisis. "Fleeing something, are you?"
The assumption settles over me like an uncomfortable cloak. Am I fleeing? The word feels wrong, but I can't explain why.
"Come on then." She doesn't wait for an answer, just takes my arm with gentle firmness and guides me toward her door. "No use standing out here catching your death. I'm Marnai. Elder Marnai, if you want to be formal, but that can wait until you're not bleeding on my threshold."
The cottage interior smells like herbs and woodsmoke, with bundles of dried plants hanging from the rafters and shelves lined with jars containing things I can't identify. Marnai guides me to a chair beside a stone hearth where flames dance behind a metal grate, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"Tolle!" she calls toward what must be another room. "Get yourself out here. We've got someone who needs tending."
Heavy footsteps announce the arrival of a broad-shouldered man with ruddy skin and graying beard. He smells like cloves and pine sap, and his hands are stained green from whatever work he was doing. His eyes fix on my bloodied head with the intensity of someone evaluating damage.
"Scalp wound," he grunts, moving closer to examine the injury. "Not deep, but head wounds bleed like the devil himself. When did this happen?"
"I don't know." The admission tastes like failure. "I don't remember."
