"I decided today to start writing. I don't know if anyone will ever read this, or if it will matter, but maybe it will, someday. Maybe someone will know I existed when I'm gone. I'm fourteen now. I've never known my mother — she left the moment I stopped nursing. I don't even know her face. Father… I've never had a private word with him. He doesn't notice me.
The first time I saw him was when I was six, at a parade with the commoners. I had to sneak behind the crowds just to see him, and he didn't. My life has been quiet, mostly chores, mostly being ignored, mostly learning to disappear. Today hurt more than usual. I thought of Conner, the human I met the second time today. Maybe he would care. Maybe someone, anyone, will."
******
The Rusty Pike tavern was loud even for a borderland night. Mugs clinked, dice rattled, and someone in the corner was arguing with the bard about whether or not "The Ballad of Saintess Aeve" was a terrible song. Near the mercenary guild's side door, a table of off-duty hunters leaned over their drinks.
"I'm telling you," a scarred man with cropped hair said, slamming his mug down, "the demon attacks've gotten worse these past five years. Just last week, the Grentham caravan lost half its wagons to those oversized wolves."
"Aye," muttered another, tugging at his beard like it held the answer. "An' the beasties've gone strange, they have. Packs roamin' the hills together, ones that ne'er shared a trail afore. Somethin's stirrin', mark my words."
The last part sounded purposefully ominous, though the tavern didn't disagree, they shared looks of discomfort amongst themselves. The fragile peace they'd had was starting to slowly crack, and none of them wanted to accept it, nor fully believe it. Apart from some others, of course...
"You younglings, aye, you bask in the soft glow o' peace now, don't ye?" croaked the old man, his voice like gravel stirred in honey, as he cradled a teeny cup of something clear as moonlight and fierce as dragon's breath. "'Bout fifty winters past, eh? Demons then...real beasts, not these wee goblin gnats ye fret over. Back in my day, you'd scarce take five hundred paces 'fore some slavering horror leapt from the bracken, keen to gnaw your leg clean off, bones and all!"
People jeered him. "Then your hero party back then was rubbish," someone called.
The older man scowled.
"Fools, were they?" he growled, voice low and laced with the lilt of old valleys. "They were iron-blooded and flame-hearted, stronger than the soft-limbed lot you call heroes now. Aye, they bled for the realm when your kind were still sucklin' at the hearth."
No one believed him. They laughed and jeered, dismissed him completely. Who would believe the lies of a drunk old skunk like him anyway!
He huffed, muttered into his unfinished drink, and left. The tavern owner, polishing a mug, said into the silence, "Old Brann's right. I remember those days, I was still a child back then. The Hero party back then could've cleared a forest in a week."
The crowd grumbled but soon returned to their chatter. The door creaked open, letting in a gust of night air and a stranger entered. He stepped in just as old Brann shuffled out.
A new chirpy tune started up.
The stranger had a tall, lean figure, hood low, stride unhurried. His leathers were worn but cared for, the steel fittings gleaming faintly in the lamplight. The pouch at his hip looked expensive, a little too casually displayed for a man this far from the city. His boots were polished, blade at his side well-balanced...someone with coin, skill, and the sense to keep both.
Conversations dulled for a pulse, long enough for one voice to whisper, "New face." Another muttered, "Looks dangerous, bet he's from the borderlands" Then mugs were lifted again, dice thrown, the room swallowing him up.
The jaunty tune from the corner musicians picked up, light and bouncy, as the stranger crossed to the bar. The crowd lost interest, soon noticing how the man failed to lower his hood and cloak thus continued with their talks.
"Anyways, the Light Realm's lookin' after us. Haven't you heard? The prophecy came out last month. Means things're gonna turn 'round."
That got a scoff. "A prophecy? Means some priests got drunk enough to hear voices again."
A round of laughter ensued.
"No, no," the bearded man cut in. ""came straight from the Saintess herself. Something bout 4 heroes being too little. I was told by the trade master; he was there himself. He said She fainted, just dropped like a sack of flour, and when she opened her eyes, gold light poured out!"
A few regulars in the crowd groaned.
"You've told this story six times this month," someone called.
"Don't you have other people to fool!"
At that, the drunk in the corner, a wiry man with a sunburnt nose, perked up and wobbled over to the centre, mug in hand. "I was there," he announced.
Several newer pairs of sceptical eyes turned his way.
"You?" the bearded man asked flatly. "You were in Solmir during the Divine festival?...At the royal ball too? What, scrubbin' goblets and practisin' yer curtsy behind the ale barrels?"
The drunk squinted. "I was… invited."
Someone snorted into their ale. He ignored them, straightening like a bard about to perform. "She stood there, in the middle o' the hall, and she said," he deepened his voice dramatically , "Four stand strong... yet the sword is unbalanced…' then something about 2 people"
"Sounds made up already."
"Get sucked by a blood harpy, you drunk!"
"Shut it, you buffoons, I'm gettin' to the good part!"
He waved his mug for emphasis, splashing beer onto the floor while bumping into a bulky-looking man whose drink promptly fell onto his lap. The bulky man seemed ready to jump him, only to be stopped by his partner, who held him down with a sigh. The partner muttered something about him not being worth a fight, much to the anger of the other, who backed off.
"Voice of Forests… whose step wakes the earth…'"
"an elf," the bearded man muttered, face pinched with anger.
The drunk jabbed a finger at him. "Exactly what I thought! Then she goes,"
"'The other, the Wandering fire or some nonsense, and darkness and chains is n ther' too…'"
"Definitely made up," someone said.
"It's true! I was there!" He thumped his chest proudly, missed, and nearly spilled the rest of his drink. "Mark my words, hick they'll find these two, and then the Demons'll be sorry!"
"Or we'll all be rotting in the mud first," the scarred man grumbled into his cup, voice like gravel soaked in beer.
The drunk ignored him, already waving for another round.
The talk drifted, a lazy swirl of words and smoke, until a woman near the hearth spoke up. "You reckon it's tied to that surge, five winters past?"
The tavern hushed.
"That night…" someone murmured, "felt like breath itself were crushed out o' me. Sky turned red as a butcher's cloth. Only a minute it lasted, but that minute—"
"Some say it were the birth of a new Demon King," another whispered. "More wicked than the last… an' gone before any could lay eyes upon him."
"Aye, and the monster dens what vanished overnight?" A man spat to the side.
"That's his doing, they say. Rampagin' through the wilds like a storm loosed from that demon realm o' theirs."
Meanwhile, the newcomer accepted his drink with a nod, lifting it as if he hadn't a care in the world. He sipped, slow and thoughtfully, eyes half-lidded under his hood.
Then the words Demon King reached his ears. The drink clearly went down the wrong way. He coughed once, muffling it behind his hand, then let out a quiet disbelieving laugh that earned him a few curious glances.
"Demon King?" he repeated, voice dripping amusement. "Big title. What's he do, sit on a throne and demand better wine?"
That earned him a round of snorts and jeers.
"Ye'r serious?"
"Where've ye been hidin', under a bloody stone?" another jeered.
"Never heard of a Demon King, by the Light Ruler, you must be the sorriest merc that ever lived."
He leaned an elbow on the counter, flashing a rakish smile. "Guilty. Rock, cave, take your pick. I've clearly been missing all the exciting bedtime stories."
The men laughed at him, already turning away, when two at his side leaned closer. One smirked.
"Tell you what, stranger, we'll explain it. For a price."
"Aye," the other chuckled. "One gold coin, or a round for the lot o' us."
The tavern chuckled with them, expecting the man to brush it off. Instead, the hooded stranger swept a hand toward the bar with a flourish. "Drinks, then. For everyone, you can even call your friends."
The stranger dropped ten silvers on the counter, humming as if he'd bought little more than a loaf of bread. The barkeep froze, then began pouring with renewed speed as the tavern erupted in cheers.
"Well?" He leaned back in his chair, lazy grin playing at his lips. "Humour me."
The two men exchanged startled looks, then puffed up with importance as mugs thudded across tables.
"Every fifty years or so, a new Demon King rises," said the first, tone grave with drink and borrowed legend.
"Aye," said the other, nodding solemnly. "Always the same tale—buildin' armies, crushin' kingdoms, spreadin' disaster across the land."
"They've got lieutenants, too," the first went on, warming to his tale. "Demons that eat men whole, sorcerers who can burn a field black with a word. Generals who can scatter a battalion afore breakfast."
"Some stronger than four heroes combined," the second added eagerly. "Some've ruled for decades. Took whole hero bands to bring 'em down."
"And those heroes," said the first, wagging a finger, "either die noble, or drag the beast in chains to the Light Realm."
The stranger swirled his mug; expression caught somewhere between fascinated and amused. "Sounds terrifying. Almost makes me wish I had stayed under that rock."
The tavern laughed. Someone clapped him on the back. "So what about you, eh? With coin like that, what's your tale?"
He put a hand to his chest with mock gravity. "Tragic, really." He put a hand to his chest with mock hurt, then let his gaze sweep over the men with a quieter, firmer tone.
"Name's Theron. Theron Vale," he said, letting the weight of the name settle. "Son of the chief of Vale. My village… it burned. I'm the last." He paused, letting the words sink in, then gave a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Lucky for me—or unlucky, depending on how you see it—I've been picking up skills that keep me alive when most others don't. Swords, stealth, a bit of trickery, and knowing which road to take before the monsters even think of it." He tapped the hilt at his side lightly. "So, naturally, I drank too much, sharpened a blade too often, and wandered into mercenary work. A sob story, really, but it pays the bills. You can tell it to the bard later."
The men exchanged glances. There was no arrogance in the words, but a quiet confidence that suggested this was a man who had seen more than his years should allow. Theron raised his mug in a mock toast. "To dead villages and bad wine,"
The men snorted, shaking their heads, but the story fit well enough. Mercenaries always came with grim pasts and money to burn. The stranger raised his mug in a mock toast. "To dead villages and bad wine."
The tavern roared back, raising their cups in kind. To them, he was just another merc with charm and coin to spare. Which suited him perfectly.
*******
Rusty Pike was still roaring by the time the hooded stranger pushed away from the bar. Empty mugs cluttered the tables, dice clattered, the bard had somehow switched mid-song to a bawdy ballad about a milkmaid and a knight, and half the hunters were singing along at the top of their lungs.
Theron tossed a final silver coin at the barkeep — partly out of habit, partly because it amused him to see the man's eyes widen — and slipped out into the cool night. The door swung shut behind him, muting the chaos to a dull roar.
For a moment, he just stood under the star-pricked sky, tugging his hood back and letting the night air clear the sour tang of ale from his head. He had drunk with them for hours, laughed at their stories, even joined a dice game he hadn't bothered to cheat at. On the surface, it was all good fun. But the moment the noise faded, so did his grin.
Demon Kings. Dozens of them. Running around the Human Realm like common bandits. He clicked his tongue, a humourless sound.
"Low lives, the lot of them," he muttered, stretching his shoulders. "Wearing a title they don't understand, waving it like a child playing crown-and-sceptre."
It was irritating enough that these exiles strutted about calling themselves by his title. What irritated him more was that he hadn't known. For centuries, he'd ignored the Human Realm, dismissing it as a sandbox where the weak squabbled… which was funny, since he was once human. Time had changed him indeed. He hadn't realised his own banished criminals were parading here as kings.
He started walking, boots crunching on gravel as the borderland road opened before him.
"Pathetic," he went on under his breath. "They bully farmers, raze villages, set themselves up as tyrants…and these humans, blind as ever, lap it up."
His lip curled into a frown, though the edge of it was sharp. "More powerful than four heroes combined, they said. Ha. If those clowns were Demon Kings, then I'm a Light Realm saint."
He ran a hand through his ebony black hair, exhaling. Even so, part of him found the whole thing perversely entertaining. Exiles clawing at scraps of power, humans trembling in awe, stories spreading until they were carved into tavern tales.
All this time, they thought the crown was a mask anyone could put on. That it's just a title. A role. How… quaint. The truth sat heavily behind his smirk. Maybe he should just show them the real deal sometime, then dip. Provided the Light Realm doesn't find out… millennia-old treaty withstanding and all.
He continued to walk down the quiet road, night air sharp in his lungs. His smirk had faded, however, replaced by the faint crease of thought.
Five years ago.
That sudden surge. A demonic aura so vast it had rattled the realms. He remembered it clearly, the pressure that suddenly lifted and rolled across the Abyss Realm like a tidal wave, the kind that made even him grip his throne armrest tighter. And then, just as suddenly as it came… it vanished.
He frowned, kicking a loose stone down the path. They say it was the birth of a Demon King. Ridiculous. There could only be one born after a thousand years…the last one stared at him in front of a mirror daily. Nonetheless… there was only one other being he could imagine wielding such power… The Prime Minister.
Theron's jaw clenched at the thought.
That shadowy figure from the south of the Abyss Realm—the one even he avoided crossing. The one who had humiliated the last tyrant king in under half an hour. Meanwhile… Theron had taken…no! Even thinking about it was embarrassing. He could still remember how heavily injured and close to death's door he had been for daring the same.
For all his bravado, Theron had made a deliberate choice in his reign: never interfere with the Prime Minister's region. Never give him reason to notice.
If that aura belonged to him…Theron gave a short, humourless chuckle, which masked his shudder.
"No. Impossible. That man wouldn't waste a single breath in this pathetic little realm. Not when there are empires and armies to keep under heel and terrorise. I may have been human once, but him? He's…" He cut himself off, swallowing the thought. Even alone, he didn't like saying it aloud.
A faint sound behind him broke the silence, stumbling footsteps, muttered words. It was the drunk from the tavern, the one who had sworn he'd witnessed the Saintess's prophecy. The man reeled down the road, clutching a half-empty mug he must've stolen. He staggered, then collided right into Theron's shoulder.
"Watch where—" Theron began, catching him by the arm before he collapsed completely. The drunk blinked up at him—and froze. His bleary gaze locked on Theron's hood, on the faint glint of crimson where his eyes caught the moonlight. For a heartbeat, silence stretched.
Then the drunk whispered hoarsely, "The Wandering Flame…"
Theron's brow arched. "What?"
"Your eyes…" The drunk's grip tightened, trembling. "Red as fire… same as she said. The Wandering Flame… whose tread wakes chains and shadow."
Theron stared at him, unimpressed outwardly, but a flicker of unease brushed through his chest. "You've had too much ale, good sir." He gently shoved him back toward the road.
The drunk stumbled away, still muttering the words, wandering flame, wandering flame…until the night swallowed him. Theron exhaled slowly, shoving both hands into his pockets. He told himself it was nothing, just prophecy-addled rambling. And yet… the words lingered.
"Wandering flame, hm? Sounds like a bad tavern song." He started walking again, boots crunching against gravel. "Next he'll be telling me I'm destined to marry a star or sprout wings."
He tugged his hood lower, quickening his stride toward the faint lantern glow of the inn down the road. The tavern noise had already faded into memory, just another night of cheap stories and cheaper ale. Prophecies. Demon Kings popping up like weeds. Superstitious drunks seeing omens in the colour of a man's eyes.
"Humans," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as if to shake the thought off entirely. "Always needing a story to scare themselves to sleep."
By the time he reached the inn's door, the smirk was back on his face, his irritation neatly folded away. Tomorrow would bring another round of bad ale, loud gossip, and fools with too much to say.
And if the world wanted to spin tales of wandering flames and false Demon Kings—well, let them.
The truth was his alone.
Theron Vespris. The only one.