The demon's question echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the clearing. Who are you?
It was the voice. Deeper than she'd imagined, rougher with pain, but unmistakably the same voice that had haunted her sleep for weeks. The voice that had whispered her name in the silver forest. Zephyra's breath hitched, her knuckles white on the smooth wood of her staff. Her mind, usually so quick, so sharp, was a frantic scramble of disbelief and a terrifying, bone-deep certainty.
The demon watched her, his expression shifting from bewildered gratitude to a sharp, assessing suspicion. He was a king, she would later learn, and a king in enemy territory does not have the luxury of trust. His gaze flickered from her face, to the simple staff in her hands, to the massive, steaming corpse of the Berserker, and back again. The pieces didn't add up. She was too young, her weapon too plain, her power too quiet and devastatingly precise.
He took a half-step back, subtly shifting his weight. The hand holding his curved sword tightened, the blade glinting under the moonlight. "You're a Protector," he stated, his voice losing its earlier softness, hardening into something wary and dangerous. "From the Academy. Is this a trap? Did you follow me here to finish the job?"
"Finish the job?" Zephyra finally found her voice, though it came out as a bewildered whisper. "I just… I just saved your life."
"You killed a Berserker," he countered, his golden-ringed eyes narrowing. "An impressive feat. But that doesn't answer my question. For all I know, this beast was your hunting dog, and it merely slipped its leash."
Zephyra stared at him, incredulous. "My… my hunting dog?" The sheer absurdity of the accusation broke through her shock. "It tried to tear your head off. It tried to tear my head off in a dream not ten minutes ago."
The demon froze. "A dream?"
"Yes, a dream," she said, her frustration making her bold. She took a step forward, gesturing with her free hand towards the dead monster. "I saw him, and I saw you. I heard your voice. I've been hearing it for weeks. When I woke up, the feeling… the danger… it was too real. So I came to see." She looked him directly in the eye, her own confusion and honesty her only defense. "I don't know why. But I did."
He searched her face, his expression a conflict of deep-seated suspicion and dawning wonder. Her story was insane. Elementals did not dream of demons. They were not supposed to. Their societies were built on a foundation of mutual hatred, a chasm of blood and betrayal from a war fought before either of them was born. And yet, she was here. The Berserker was dead. And he was alive.
He winced, his free hand pressing tightly against his side. A dark stain was spreading across the fabric of his tunic, far more extensive than Zephyra had first realized. He had been trying to hide the severity of the gash the Berserker's claws had torn in his arm and ribs.
"You're hurt," Zephyra said, the obviousness of the statement sounding foolish as soon as it left her lips.
"It's nothing," he gritted out, his pride a palpable force. He tried to straighten to his full height, to regain his intimidating presence, but a wave of dizziness made him sway.
Without a second thought, Zephyra closed the distance between them. Before he could protest, she reached for the hem of her own long-sleeved shirt. With a decisive rip, she tore a long, clean strip from the fabric.
He flinched back as she held it out to him. "What are you doing?"
"You're bleeding everywhere," she said, her tone practical, cutting through his royal suspicion. "And unless you want to leave a trail back to wherever you came from for the next Berserker to follow, you should put pressure on that. Or are you too proud to accept help twice in one night?"
He stared at the strip of black cloth in her hand, then back at her face, which was illuminated by the moon. He saw no pity there, no guile, only a frank and startling sincerity. After a long, tense moment, he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.
Her fingers brushed against his as she handed him the cloth. A strange, unexpected warmth, like a flicker of static electricity, passed between them. He turned slightly, pressing the makeshift bandage to his side with a sharp intake of breath. The act was a concession, a fragile truce declared in the blood-soaked clearing.
"We can't stay here," Zephyra said, her senses coming back to her. "The smell will draw other things."
"I will see you back to the Academy walls," he stated. It was not a question. It was a command, born of instinct and perhaps a strange, new sense of obligation. He couldn't let her go alone, not after this.
"Fine," Zephyra agreed, seeing no point in arguing. She wanted answers anyway.
They started walking, moving through the latticed moonlight and shadow of the forest. He walked with a slight limp, favoring his wounded side, but his pace was steady.
"What was that thing?" Zephyra asked into the quiet. "I've seen drawings, but the books all say they're extinct."
"So we thought," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "I was investigating a rumor. A whisper from a source that a living Berserker had been sighted in these woods. I didn't believe it. I had to see for myself."
"Why would you come alone? It's suicide."
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. "My people are… isolated," he finally said, choosing his words with care. "We have been for a long time. The Protectors have been very effective at seizing our ancestral lands, burning our hunting grounds. Food is scarce." He glanced at her, his profile sharp and proud even in the gloom. "Even kings grow weak from hunger. I wasn't at my full strength. And I couldn't risk any of my guard when I believed I was chasing a ghost."
His words hit Zephyra with an unexpected force. She had been taught history from the victor's perspective: demons were evil, treacherous allies of the monsters who had plunged the world into war. They were a threat to be contained, their exile a necessary evil. But the demon walking beside her spoke of his people with a weary sorrow, of starvation and persecution. It wasn't the voice of a monster.
"The books say your kind and the Berserkers were allies in the Great War," she stated, testing the history she'd been taught.
A harsh, bitter laugh escaped him. "The books were written by your ancestors. The Berserkers are chaos incarnate. They serve nothing and no one. They were our enemies long before they were yours. A lie, it seems, can last for generations if it is told loudly enough."
They walked on in a heavy silence, the lie he spoke of hanging between them. They were nearing the edge of the woods, the faint, manicured lights of the Academy visible through the trees. The reality of their situation began to dawn on Zephyra. He was a demon, the most wanted enemy of her people, and she was a student at a military academy designed to hunt his kind.
"I need your name," she said abruptly.
He stopped, turning to face her fully. "Why?"
"Because I just fought a monster out of a history book for a man whose voice has been in my head for a month," she said, her voice laced with exasperation. "I think I've earned a name."
A slow, wry smile touched his lips for the first time. It transformed his face, chasing away some of the shadows and revealing a startling, dangerous beauty. "Very well," he conceded. "I am Lucius Morningstar."
She gasped, Morningstar is the name of the King. She had saved a King.
"Lucius," she repeated slowly. It suited him. "I'm Zephyra Wicker."
"Zephyra," he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. He looked towards the lights of the school. "You cannot tell anyone what you saw tonight. Not about me, and especially not about the Berserker. It would start a panic. A witch hunt. My people would be the first to burn."
"I know," she said. But a new thought was taking root in her mind. This was bigger than both of them. If the Berserkers were back, they were all in danger. Communication was essential. "But what happens next time? What if I have another dream? What if you're in trouble again?"
He had no answer.
"You need a way to communicate," she said, an idea solidifying in her mind. "I have a spare phone back in my room. A burner. Untraceable."
Lucius stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. "A… phone?"
"Yes, a phone," she insisted. "Follow me back to my window. You have to be completely silent. I'll get it for you and show you how it works. It's the only way."
He looked from her earnest, determined face to the imposing, well-lit walls of the Academy—the heart of his enemy's power. Walking into this place, even its shadow, was a death sentence. But this strange, powerful girl had appeared from a dream to save his life. She looked at him not with disgust or reverence, but with an unnerving directness, as if he were just a person. Perhaps trusting her was just the next logical step in a night that had defied all logic.
"Alright," Lucius said, his voice barely a whisper. "Lead the way."