The sun clawed its way up, smearing gold across the sky like a kid wiping jam on a dirty sleeve. Amelia woke slow, her face mashed into the pillow, a crust of drool gluing her cheek to the fabric. She blinked, the world a blur of soft edges and heavy air—stale sweat, and beneath it, a whiff of blood, sharp and coppery. Last night clung to the room like a bad dream, but she didn’t care. She rolled over, groggy, and there he was—Aaron, sprawled out like a corpse, silver hair a snarl, one arm flung across his face. Sleeping like a log. Like the world hadn’t just tried to gut them.


    She’d stumbled into his room half-dead herself, boots still on, drawn by some pull she couldn’t name. Found him like this, reeking of blood—elf blood, probably, from whatever mess he’d made last night. It didn’t matter. Not to her. She’d climbed in beside him, her body slotting into the space he left, her breath hitching until it matched his. Slow. Steady. Aaron was here, warm and alive. That was it. Nothing else. She smiled—a small, cracked thing—and let herself sink back into sleep, his heat bleeding into her bones like a promise.


    Outside, the demoness heaved a crate onto the carriage, her grunt slicing through the morning quiet. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her arms trembling just enough to sell the act—human, weak, ‘normal’. The tools were heavy, sure—metal and wood, edges biting into her palms—but not ‘that’ heavy. Not for her. Still, she played the part, cursing under her breath as she hauled another load. ‘Fucking kings,’ she thought, picturing them tangled in their sheets, sleeping off the night like they’d earned it. She was the one out here, doing the work, while they dreamed like nothing burned.


    A shadow slid over her, and she glanced up, eyes narrowing. A man—fair skin, light hair, features sharp like a blade caught in sunlight. He didn’t speak, just grabbed a crate and stacked it neat beside hers. Strong. Silent. She blinked, then muttered, “Thanks,” wiping her brow with the back of her hand. He nodded once, a quick dip of his chin, and kept going. She didn’t ask who he was—didn’t dare. Help was help, and she was too tired to care about the rest.


    The hourglass sat on the carriage seat, sand trickling down like a taunt. She eyed it, then the hotel door, her patience fraying like old rope. ‘Enough.’ She was halfway to storming in, ready to yank them out by their hair, when the door swung open. Aaron sauntered out, yawning, shirt half-untucked, that lazy grin plastered on his face. Amelia shuffled behind him, hair a wild nest, eyes still gummed with sleep. They didn’t even glance her way—just climbed into the carriage, Aaron slumping against the wall, Amelia curling up beside him like a cat claiming its spot.


    The demoness bit her tongue, hands flexing on her hips. She turned back to the gear, ready to finish alone, when she saw him—the fair-skinned man—climbing in too. “Huh. Wait—” Her voice snapped out, sharp as a whip. “You’re not allowed in there. I don’t care if you helped, but who the fuck—”


    Aaron’s drawl cut her off, slow and amused. “He’s with us now. New member. Oh, and he’s your new slave partner. Get along.”


    She froze, jaw slack, words choking in her throat. ‘Slave partner?’ Her eyes darted to the man, who sat stiff as a board, staring at nothing. Aaron was already slumping back, eyes drifting shut, Amelia’s head on his shoulder. Tired, he’d said—something about last night, the new slave, a mess she hadn’t been awake for. The demoness climbed into the driver’s seat, reins heavy in her hands, the man beside her now gripping them instead. She wanted to ask—’What the fuck happened? How’d we get a slave?’—but his mouth was a locked door, his face blank as a dead man’s. ‘Maybe Aaron ate his soul,’ she thought, half-serious, and let it drop.


    The horses snorted, the carriage lurched, and the road unrolled ahead—dusty, endless, a thin promise of escape. She was almost used to the quiet when a shout cracked the air—hard, barking. “Stop!” Guards stepped out, armor glinting like teeth in the sun, hands up, blocking the way.


    Her grip tightened on the reins, pulse kicking up. ‘What the fuck happened now?’


    The carriage jolted to a halt, snapping Aaron awake. His eyes cracked open, gritty with sleep, the world a blur of dust and sunlight. Amelia was nestled beside him, her head resting easy on his arm, awake and watching him with a smile that could melt steel. Innocent as hell, but her eyes danced with mischief—’not my fault you looked so damn cozy’. He smirked, reaching over to muss her hair into a wilder tangle, and she swatted at him, laughing soft and low.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He swung his legs out, boots crunching on gravel, the sun slamming down like a fist. The air smelled of horse sweat and dry earth, thick enough to chew. Two guards stood there, faces he knew from the dungeon—scarred and weathered, but with a flicker of something like respect. One, a broad man with a busted nose, shifted his weight, armor clanking. “Viscount’s on his way,” he said, voice rough as sandpaper. “Wants a word before you roll out.”


    Aaron stretched, joints popping like gunfire. “A word, huh? Better be fast. I ain’t doing anything illegal here.” He winked, and the guard chuckled, a dry rasp that didn’t reach his eyes.


    Amelia slid out behind him, yawning, her hair a halo of chaos. She leaned against the carriage, biting her lip—a question in her tilt of head: ‘What now?’ He shrugged, turning back to the guards. “So, what’s the holdup?”


    “Give him a minute,” the other guard said, a lanky guy with a lazy drawl. “He’s comin’ to see you off. Got questions, too.”


    A minute stretched into a small forever, then the viscount burst onto the scene—silk robes flapping like a panicked bird, sweat beading on his brow. “Aaron!” he cried, voice high and fraying, like a string about to snap. “Please, you have to stay. The city needs you!”


    Aaron’s brow furrowed, confusion rippling through the air. The guards swapped a glance—tense, knowing—but kept their mouths shut. Amelia straightened, her smile fading as Aaron crossed his arms. “What the fuck’s this about?”


    He grabbed the viscount’s elbow, pulling him aside, away from prying ears. His voice dropped, sharp and low. “Spill it. I’m busy, man. My ma’s waitin’, and I’ve got riches to haul back. Time’s tickin’, and you’re burnin’ it.”


    The viscount’s hands fluttered, smoothing his robes over and over, a tic that screamed nerves. “The elves—they’re gone. Escaped. Not a trace left. The clerk…she’s dead in her cell. Throat cut, blood everywhere.” His words tumbled out, fast and shaky. “I went to Elyra, begged her for help, but she’s locked herself in the slayer tower. Won’t see me, won’t see anyone. I can’t even get in. It’s chaos, Aaron—the wa..r, the elves are moving, and I’ve got nothing. You’re all I’ve got left. Stay. Please.”


    Aaron’s gut twisted, a slow burn of disappointment. He’d pegged the viscount higher—thought he had grit, not just silk. Maybe he’d measured him against the future viscount, the one who’d carved a legend. His mistake. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re losin’ it over nothin’. Look.”


    He whistled, sharp and quick. The new slave stepped forward—pale skin, light hair, ears sliced ragged and short, a brutal mark of Aaron’s handiwork. The viscount’s breath hitched, eyes wide, hand jerking to his chest like he’d been slapped.


    “See?” Aaron tapped the slave’s shoulder, casual as if showing off a new knife. “I dealt with the elves. This one’s mine. The rest? Handled. You’re frettin’ for no reason.”


    The viscount blinked, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing. “But Elyra—”


    “Trust her,” Aaron snapped, then softened, just a touch. “She’s a slayer, for God’s sake. That title ain’t handed out like candy—it means somethin’. She’s got her reasons for holin’ up. Keep her safe, keep her funded, and she’ll hold your city together.” He glanced at the slayer tower, a dark needle against the sky, its shadow slicing the horizon.


    The viscount’s shoulders slumped, relief flooding his face like rain after a drought. “You’re right. I—I panicked. Lost my head.”


    “ Happens,” Aaron said, clapping him on the back—too hard, making the man wince. “Now, I’m out. Got a ma to spoil.”


    The viscount nodded, stepping back, hands finally still. “Thank you, Aaron. I mean it. and I want to give you a reward worthy of your name and work.”


    Aaron turned to the guards, jerking his chin. “…….Keep this place upright, yeah? I’ll swing by to check.”


    The busted-nose guard grinned, tossing a sloppy salute. “Don’t be a stranger. We’ll miss your ugly mug.”


    The carriage creaked as Aaron climbed in, but the viscount’s voice cut through again, desperate and loud. “Wait! I’ll give you gold—a fortune! Name it, it’s yours if you stay!”


    Aaron leaned out the window, grinning wide, teeth flashing. “ELYRA!!! JUST KEEP HER SAFE!.” He shouted from afar—a bright, jagged sound—and the carriage rolled forward, dust swirling in its wake.


    Amelia settled beside him, her head finding his shoulder, warm and steady. “He gonna make it?” she mumbled, voice soft as sleep.


    Aaron’s grin faded, eyes locked on the city shrinking behind them—spires blurring into haze, gates a faint line. “He’ll figure it out. Or he won’t. Ain’t my mess now.”


    The gates shut with a dull thud, like a heartbeat fading, and the road unfurled ahead—dusty, endless, a promise stitched with uncertainty.