The days that followed were slow, dull things. Like mud sliding through my veins. I did not eat. I did not sleep. I stopped tending the garden. Stopped mixing herbs. Stopped answering when people knocked at the door.They came at first—curious, hesitant. Perhaps with questions. Perhaps with guilt. I wouldn’t know. I did not open the door.I remember sitting on the floor for hours, my back against the wall, staring at a chipped cup Matilda once used for tea. There was still a smudge of raspberry jam on the rim. I didn’t clean it. I didn’t move it. I just watched.They killed her.And they called it justice.I tried to go back to the chapel. Just once. I stood in the back, listening to the same golden bell I used to love. It sounded like mockery now. When Father Gregor rose to speak, I left. If I had stayed, I might have killed him.But I did go back to healing. Not for them. For me.I wrapped wounds with shaking hands. I boiled herbs with hands that could no longer feel warmth. I stitc
The church bells rang like a promise. Clear, golden tones floated over the thatched rooftops of Hohlenfurt, our little village tucked between the pines and the mist. People always said it was the sound of Heaven reaching down to touch the earth. That morning, I believed it.The air smelled of pine resin and fresh bread. Children tugged at their mothers' sleeves, chasing the echoes of laughter and Sunday songs. Old men leaned on their canes and gossiped like crows. The world, for a moment, felt whole.I stood at the doorway of our cottage, wiping my hands on my apron—still stained green from mixing poultices. My sleeves were rolled, my hair a mess. I looked like a man too busy healing to worship.Matilda came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her chin settled on my shoulder, soft and familiar. She smelled like rosemary and warmth.“You’re not ready,” she said, voice low with laughter.“The sick won’t wait for Sunday,” I murmured.She kissed my cheek. “Neither will God.”
I hated the smell of this place. It reeked of iron, old books, and defeat—the kind of decay that didn’t rot, just lingered. A human’s scent, marinated in years of curses and blood. Worse, it belonged to a man too stubborn to die and too dangerous to ignore.I stayed near the cabin wall, arms crossed, my coat heavy with infernal power. My skin still burned faintly from the runes etched into the doorframe. Petty defenses. And yet, I had stepped inside anyway.Because of her.Alice perched awkwardly on the edge of a battered chair, eyes flicking between Faust and the fire. Her hoodie looked like it had fought a raccoon. Her hair was like it was lost. And yet, her soul still pulsed brightly—naive, stupid, untouched by true corruption.I wanted to carve my name into it. Slowly. Permanently.But Alice’s soul wasn’t just bright—it was loud. Too loud. It rang through the planes like a bell at midnight, calling attention. Calling vultures. I knew what would happen if it ended up in the wrong h
The torchlight threw long, twitching shadows across the clearing. The old man stood tall despite the years carved into his face—white hair wild like a storm cloud, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. One hand held the torch, the other a machete etched with runes that pulsed softly in the dark. His presence was like a tree that had weathered too many storms but refused to fall, rooted deep in something dangerous.Paimon’s claws lengthened. His horns curled wickedly above his brow, eyes blazing like twin coals. His coat fluttered in an unseen wind as infernal heat simmered around him. The space between them grew thick with tension, brittle as ice.“Why is a young lady camping with demons?” the man asked, voice calm and dangerous.Alice peeked from behind Aurora. “Um. It’s a long story?”Faust’s gaze didn’t shift. He stared down Paimon like he was measuring a threat.“I take it,” he said, slowly raising his machete, “that she’s not with you willingly.”Paimon didn’t answer.Alice tried ag
I was pretty sure I smelled like goat piss.Day three. Still no Faust.My legs ached, my thighs were chafed, and I was ninety percent sure something had crawled up my hoodie and died in there. I dragged my feet along the forest trail like a zombie with a vendetta, slipping every three steps on pine needles or moss. My once-white sneakers now looked like they’d survived a war crime. And my hair? Let’s not even go there. It had gone from "bedhead chic" to "feral cryptid.""Paimon," I groaned, dragging myself forward like a dying squirrel, "just carry me already. I think I’m developing blisters in places that don’t even make biological sense."The Demon King of Mood Swings didn’t even look back. He just kept walking, all brooding and dramatic, his long coat swishing behind him like he was strutting on some apocalyptic runway."I am not a beast of burden," he said coldly."No, you’re worse," I muttered. "You’re a dramatic leather-wearing tyrant with zero compassion."Aurora floated ahead
Alice packed her belongings into an overstuffed suitcase, throwing in shirts, jeans, toiletries, and—of all things—her favorite cushions. Paimon had told her nothing about their trip to Germany, so she packed like she was preparing for a year-long apocalypse. Extra clothes, comfort items, even a bikini "just in case."Unfortunately, her suitcase now weighed more than she did. She tugged at the handle, grunting, dragging it inch by inch across the floor. Her brow was damp with sweat. The wheels squeaked in protest.Paimon watched from the shadows, his eye twitching with every second she wasted."For Lucifer's sake," he muttered, stepping forward. "Why are you so frail?"Alice looked up at him with a sheepish smile. "It’s kinda heavy."He snapped. With a grunt, he seized the suitcase by the handle—and even he winced at the weight. Curious, he popped it open. The moment the lid lifted, the air was filled with the scent of lavender sachets and the absurd sight of fluffy pillows.His nostri