The alley swallowed them whole—a narrow slit between buildings, all shadow and damp, like the city had exhaled and forgotten to breathe again. Cobblestones gleamed wet under a flickering streetlamp, its buzz a dying wasp trapped in the thick air. Aaron’s boots scraped soft, deliberate, as he led her deeper, the market’s chatter fading to a murmur behind them. She followed, her delicate hand still clutching that bag of vegetables—carrots, greens, a splash of color against her pale fingers, knuckles tight like she was holding more than just produce.


    He’d whispered about a shortcut, his voice easy, teasing, like they were old friends. But his ember eyes—those twin sparks of heat and knowing—had caught the shimmer beneath her skin, the twitch of her ears under that wide-brimmed hat. She wasn’t just some clerk with a soft smile. She was old—older than the stones underfoot, maybe six hundred years—and sharp as the knife he knew she hid. An elf. A goddamn herbivore, if the rumors held, and that bag in her grip said they did. No meat. Just roots and leaves. Funny, how that made her seem fragile—until you saw the ember pulsing in her veins, hotter than his own.


    Aaron stopped, turning slow, his grin curling like a secret unraveling. “You know,” he said, low, like he was spilling it just for her, “I’ve heard elves don’t eat meat. That true?”


    Her breath snagged. For a split second, she was stone—then her eyes locked on his, and it wasn’t respect shining there, wasn’t the playful banter from the market. It was bloodlust. Pure, unfiltered, a wildfire behind those delicate features. Her lips peeled back, a snarl ripping free, and she moved—fast, silent, a feather caught in a storm. No sound, no weight, just a blur of silver as her hand flicked out, an elven knife glinting toward his heart.


    He grinned wider, devilish, and twisted—just enough. The blade sank into his side, hot and sharp, a scream of pain he swallowed whole. Not his heart. Not today. Blood bloomed, soaking his shirt, but his hand snapped shut around her wrist, trapping her there like a bird in a cage. She gasped, eyes flaring wide—surprise, then fear—as she realized it.


    “Gotcha,” he rasped, voice cracking through the blood in his throat.


    She yanked back, her strength a quiet fury, but he held tight, ember flaring in his chest. She’d pegged him for a mage—some kid with spells and swagger—because that’s what he let her see. Her mistake. She hadn’t asked how he’d bound that demoness, hadn’t cared about the raw power in his bones, the kind that didn’t need incantations to break things. Her free hand clawed at his arm, nails biting skin, but he was already moving—all his ember, all his strength, flooding into his right chop.


    It crashed into her neck—hard, brutal, a thunderclap in the silence. Her eyes rolled back, body folding like paper, and she hit the cobblestones limp, the knife skittering into the dark. Aaron staggered, breath heaving, his side a pulsing ache. Blood dripped down his ribs, warm and sticky, pooling in his waistband. He pressed a hand to it, wincing, but his gaze stayed on her—sprawled out, hat knocked loose, silver hair spilling free, those long ears sharp against the gloom. Six centuries, maybe more, etched in the ember still flickering under her skin. Stronger than the demoness. Stronger than he’d guessed.


    “Shit,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. “Didn’t think that through.”


    The alley held its breath, the distant hum of the market a world away. He sank to a crouch, slow, like she might still lunge up and finish him. Her chest rose and fell—shallow, steady. Out cold, not dead. Good. He’d need her alive for this to work. His side throbbed, a dull drumbeat, and he tore a strip from his shirt, grunting as the fabric tugged at the gash. Not deep—lucky dodge—but messy. He wrapped it tight, knotting it with a hiss. It’d hold. For now.


    Then, her. He eyed her limp form, sprawled like a broken doll, and let out a tired laugh. “Now how the fuck do I drag you out of here?”


    The air pressed down, heavy with damp and rot, like it was waiting for him to screw up. Aaron’s wound burned, each heartbeat shoving more blood against the makeshift bandage, but he couldn’t stop. Not with her lying there, a secret too big to leave in the dirt. Elyra’s shadow loomed in his mind—transcendent, brilliant, a genius who’d outsmarted him a hundred times before the regression. She’d seen this elf coming, hadn’t she? Miscalculated something, sure, but not the monsters, not the demons, not him. This. This delicate thing with her bag of greens, this herbivore who’d snuffed her out early in that other life. And now here she was, crumpled at his feet, because he’d baited her into it.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    He’d known she’d snap. That’s why he’d picked the alley, why he’d tossed out that line about meat. She’d acted—right on cue, weightless and lethal—and he’d been ready. Almost. The knife in his side said he wasn’t perfect, but close enough. He’d wanted her down, not dead. Not yet.


    Aaron straightened, grimacing, and scanned the alley. Empty crates leaned against the wall, splintered and forgotten. Good enough. He bent—pain lancing through him—and hoisted her up, her body slack, head lolling against his shoulder. She weighed nothing, like she was made of air and spite, but her ember still hummed, a quiet threat even now. He shuffled to the crates, easing her into the biggest one. Tight fit, but she curled in, silver hair tangling, hat slipping off again. He jammed it back on, tucking strands over her ears. “Stay put,” he muttered, half a prayer.


    He stepped back, hands bloody and shaking, and wiped them on his pants. Couldn’t carry her—not like this, not bleeding through the streets. But a crate… a crate could be cargo. A delivery. He’d seen porters hauling worse through the city’s veins. His lips twitched, a ghost of that grin. Yeah. That’d work.


    He limped to the alley’s mouth, peering out. A cart rattled by a bakery, its driver—a bear of a man with flour in his beard—haggling over a sack. Aaron sauntered over, casual as his wound let him, though his pulse hammered loud enough to drown the street. “Hey,” he called, voice steady. “Need a hand?”


    The man squinted, taking in the blood, the sweat. “You look like hell, kid. What happened?”


    “Rough morning.” Aaron shrugged, wincing. “Got a crate needs moving. Pay you.”


    The driver’s eyes narrowed, but he palmed the coins Aaron dug out—last of his stash, pitiful little clinks. “How much?”


    “Enough,” Aaron said, and it wasn’t, but the man grunted, pocketed them anyway.


    .


    .


    The clerk’s mind was a swamp, thick and sluggish, drowning her thoughts as she clawed her way back to the surface. Her blue eyes cracked open, wincing at the stone’s glare above—a cold, sharp light that stabbed through her skull like a shard of winter. Shapes swam into focus, slow and reluctant: Aaron, his outline jagged against the glow, Amelia hovering close with those green eyes that never strayed far, and the demoness—her smirk a crooked slash, watching like a cat with a bird pinned under its paw.


    Aaron stepped closer, boots scraping the floor, a sound that gnawed at her nerves. His fingers brushed the spell-bound rope—magic humming through it, cold as ice, biting her wrists raw. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, his voice a thunderclap now, nothing like the soft, cocky hum she’d known. It was a threat, heavy and real, slamming into the quiet. “Try to run, and I’ll bind you with the enslaving spell before you can blink.”


    Her throat tightened, dry as ash. The gag bit into her mouth, cloth sour against her tongue, choking the curses she wanted to hurl. She was an elf—six centuries of life woven into her bones, spells at her fingertips—and yet here she was, tethered like some beast, helpless under his gaze. Fear twisted in her gut, but beneath it, anger flared, a ember refusing to die.


    He leaned in, ember eyes boring into hers, fierce and unreadable. “Relax,” he said, softer now, like he was coaxing a stray dog. “I’m not digging for answers. I already know what you’re after.” His jaw tightened, and the softness vanished. “I just need you gone. Elyra’s future’s on the line, and you—you’re a snag I can’t afford.”


    ELYRA The name hit her like a slap, sharp and stinging. She’d misjudged him—seen a kid with a spellbook and a swagger, not this. He KNEW Her muffled grunt died against the gag, panic sparking in her chest. How long had he seen through her?


    Aaron straightened, tossing a glance at the demoness. “Talk to her,” he said, casual as if he were passing a chore. “When you’re done, maybe I’ll hear her out.” He flicked his eyes back to the clerk, a thin smile curling his lips. “If she’s still breathing.”


    The demoness moved, her smirk stretching wide—too wide—her human mask cracking as something darker bled through. Aaron had pushed her to the edge, and now the leash was off. Amelia flinched, her hand jerking toward her blade, but Aaron caught her wrist, tugging her back.


    “Let’s go,” he muttered, voice low, almost tender. “They need their moment.”


    Amelia’s brow creased, green eyes darting between the demoness and the clerk. “Aaron, she—”


    “She’ll manage,” he cut in, though his tone wavered, uncertain. He pulled her toward the door, firm but not rough, and the wood groaned shut behind them, a dull thud that echoed in the clerk’s skull.


    The room shrank. Walls loomed, the air sour with damp stone and the demoness’s hunger. Her form rippled, shedding the human shell—scales glinting like oil, claws curling, eyes blazing red as forge-fires. The clerk’s heart slammed against her ribs, breath hitching. She’d never faced a demon gremlin, never seen that nightmare grin up close. Now it towered over her, breath hot and rancid, a storm she couldn’t outrun.


    She yanked at the ropes, elven spells flickering in her veins, but the magic fizzled, snuffed out by the bindings. Six hundred years, and she was nothing—just meat under a predator’s gaze. Dread clawed up her spine, cold and relentless.


    The demoness crouched, claws hovering above the clerk’s cheek, tracing without touching, savoring the terror that poured off her. “Oh,” she purred, voice a low, jagged rasp, “I’m gonna enjoy this.”


    The clerk’s eyes widened, a plea trapped behind the gag, her body rigid. The demoness leaned closer, her grin a blade, and the world outside faded—leaving only the dark, the stone, and the promise of pain creeping nearer.