"Auntie!" the little girl whispered, the word barely more than a breath. Her fingers clutched Heavenly-Autumn's sleeve as if letting go might make the courage leave her too. "We have to be careful when we escape." Her voice shook, but she forced the warning out anyway. "Demons are scary… and they love human blood."
For a heartbeat, it felt as if the temple itself listened—stone walls holding old screams, corridors smelling faintly of smoke and iron. This was the moment the child had waited for, not days or months, but years—years of watching shadows pass her door and learning to breathe quietly, years of dreaming of a sky she could barely remember. "It makes them stronger and faster," she added, swallowing hard. "If we don't hide our scent, they'll catch us quickly." She tried to sound certain, but sorrow pressed into every word, as if she'd learned these truths the cruelest way.
"How do you know these things?" Heavenly-Autum asked, but the question faded when she saw what the girl was doing. The child dropped to her knees and hurriedly shoved blankets under the matt, smoothing them down with frantic, practiced strokes until the lumps looked like sleeping bodies. Her small hands moved fast, yet they trembled—betraying how terrified she was beneath her careful plan, beneath the bravery she was trying so hard to wear.
"I been here for a very long time, Auntie." The little girl didn't look up at first. When she finally did, her eyes were too old for her face, wet with memories she didn't speak aloud. "I seen a lot of scary people and demons… and things." The last word came out thin, like she couldn't name everything she'd survived. She lifted her chin as if daring herself not to cry, but her fingers shook so badly they bunched the fabric instead of smoothing it, and her breath hitched with the effort of holding it all in.
"It's okay," Heavenly-Autumn said, gentle and calm, even as her chest tightened at the child's fear. She softened her voice like a blanket, trying to give the girl something the temple never had: comfort that didn't come with a price.
"Do you have any idea how to get out of here?" Heavenly-Autumn asked softly, keeping her voice steady even as her eyes flicked toward the door. "You said you've been here for years. Do you remember how you were brought here… or how to find your way back to your village?"
"Bits and pieces," the little girl murmured, her brows pulling together like the memories hurt to touch. "I remember demons coming to the village. They grabbed me so fast—like I was nothing—and they kept saying I was a sacrifice." She swallowed, then forced herself to move. With quick, practiced hands, she tugged up a poorly knitted carpet. Underneath, packed dirt gave way to a narrow opening—an actual tunnel, hidden like a secret prayer. "I dug it with a spoon," she said, a flicker of pride cutting through the fear. "Every night, a little bit. I kept thinking… someday my savior would come." Her gaze darted to Heavenly-Autumn, bright and trembling. "Like when I pray at the temple every day. And then you showed up, Auntie. One day you really did."
When the lights finally blinked out, the darkness felt like permission. They slipped into the hole and crawled, shoulders brushing dirt walls that crumbled at every shaky breath.
Heavenly-Autumn tried to focus on the child's small form ahead of her, but the tunnel seemed alive with skittering legs. Ants, beetles—things with too many feet and zero respect for personal space—crawled over her hands and sleeves.
Dirt sprinkled down her collar and clung to her skin, turning every second into an itchy, miserable ordeal. Still, she kept going, jaw clenched, because stopping meant being caught.
And as the air grew cooler and the tunnel tilted upward, one thought nagged at her like a thorn: If demons were calculating, manipulative, and vicious… wouldn't they notice a child's plan? Wouldn't they check for an escape?
They broke through to the surface at last, gulping night air like it was water. The little girl didn't waste a heartbeat.
From beneath her tunic she pulled out a roughly folded map—smudged, creased, and clearly drawn by someone making do with scraps. "I'm not good at writing," she admitted, trying to sound casual, "but I can draw… kind of." She pointed at a scatter of dots and crooked lines. "These are the places they made me deliver goods to. And my village should be somewhere around here." Her finger hovered, hopeful and unsure all at once.
"And where do you think you're going, Norah?" The voice slithered out of the dark behind them. The figures that looked like the little girl's human parents wavered—then peeled apart like a lie. Horns curled from their skulls, fangs glinted, and their eyes burned with a hungry, inhuman light.
"How cruel," Heavenly-Autumn snapped, stepping in front of Norah before the child could even breathe. "To wear her parents' faces and steal her from her home." Her anger rang sharp, bright as steel. "I will not let you take her. I'm bringing Norah back to her family, and if you try to stop me—" her hands tightened, ready to strike "—I won't hold back."
One demon laughed, low and ugly. "And how do you think the villagers will act when they see the human sacrifice return?" it hissed. "That human's sole purpose is to be offered at the temple when she comes of age. It was decided before she was even born—since she was conceived in her mother's belly."
Norah froze. Her eyes widened as a memory slammed into her—small hands, warm voices, the gentleness of being held. "Mama… Papa…" she whispered, tears spilling fast now. "They said my name meant honor." Her voice cracked on the word. "Was I… was I the village's honor?"
"You were the village sacrifice," the demon said, almost patiently, as if explaining something obvious. "So come back with us to the temple." Its smile sharpened. "We can start the ritual a few years early."
Norah's small hand lifted—drawn toward the demon like a puppet string had snagged her wrist. Heavenly-Autumn didn't let it happen. She grabbed Norah's hand and yanked her back, then turned and ran. The path ahead was rough and wild, biting at their feet.
Thorns sliced at their legs and arms, leaving stinging lines that quickly became deeper cuts. Norah's steps began to falter, her breaths turning ragged. Without slowing, Heavenly-Autumn scooped her up, holding her tight against her chest as she sprinted with everything she had left. "Come on, Nor!" she gasped, forcing speed into her legs. "Hold on—just hold on!"
Heavenly-Autumn set the little girl down at the base of a tree, hands gentle even as her own skin burned where claws had raked her. Blood seeped warm down her arms, turning her grip slippery as she snatched up her bow and arrow.
The demons pressed in, laughing, carving deeper—testing how much pain it took to make her kneel. She drew the string back until it screamed, shoulders shaking under the strain, and loosed an arrow that struck one demon.
She spun and fired again—too rushed, too desperate—and the shot cut through the dark but missed.
Before the demons could surge forward, a wolf-demon dropped from the sky like a falling star and drove a brutal kick into one of their faces, snapping the creature's head sideways. "Is my human bride in danger!" Koga roared.
"Jerk." Heavenly-Autumn clicked her tongue, irritation sharp only because fear was choking her. "Since you have it under control, we leaving." She scooped the little girl up again and ran—legs trembling, breath tearing, injuries screaming with every step—refusing to slow even as blood soaked into her clothes.
"Auntie… are you and Mister Jerk… husband and wife?" the little girl asked, and her words dissolved into a small, brittle cough against Heavenly-Autumn's shoulder.
Heavenly-Autumn's face twisted in disgust so strong it almost looked like grief trying to hide. "More like, I hate him. He's so freaking annoying. Ugh—just thinking about him makes me mad," she said, forcing her voice to stay light, as if anger could keep the night from swallowing them.
"Can you… slow down for a bit?" the little girl pleaded, and Heavenly-Autumn's footsteps finally dragged to a stop. The village was close—she could see it from here, just a distance away. For one heartbeat, she told herself, one breath, one second wouldn't matter. "I don't see the harm in stopping for a second," she thought, trying to convince the panic in her chest.
"Auntie… can you tell me your real name?" the little girl asked.
"It's Heavenly-Autumn Rose Islay,"she said, then added, softer, "Why would you like to know, Normie?"
I like the name Normie; it doesn't mean sacrifice but is full of love.
"Mama Heavenly…" Norah smiled—small and weak, but it landed like a knife and a blessing at once. Heavenly-Autumn's heart softened until her eyes caught the dark, spreading stain on the child's clothes, the ugly gash she hadn't wanted to see. "Do you think… in a next life… you can be my Mama instead?" Norah asked, earnest as a prayer.
"Normie, stop talking like this and apply pressure on the wound," Heavenly-Autumn said frantically, hands pressing down as if she could physically hold life inside the child. Her palms shook, slick with blood, and her voice cracked around the name like she couldn't bear it.
"The day I saw you at the temple… you looked like an angel," Norah whispered. "What was you praying for?"
"I-I wanted… to bring peace with humans and demons," Heavenly-Autumn said, sadness threading through every syllable, because peace felt like a childish wish in a world that took little girls for rituals.
"I would like that very much," Norah murmured, eyelids fluttering as if they were suddenly too heavy to lift. "Mama… thank you for saving me."
Heavenly-Autumn's heart broke more with every step as she reached the village, tears streaming down her face, holding the little girl who had just passed away in her arms—still warm, still impossibly small, as if she might wake if Heavenly-Autumn begged hard enough.
The villagers came out slowly. A mother and father who resembled the little girl stepped forward, and behind them stood five small children, peering around their parents' legs like they didn't know what they were looking at.
"Why would you bring that thing here?" the mother said, terrified, her voice shaking as if the child in Heavenly-Autumn's arms was a curse instead of a daughter.
"How could you call Normie that!" Heavenly-Autumn said, tears spilling hotter as rage rose through the grief. "She was only 9 years old. She thought about her Mama and Papa every day—desperately praying all day and every day at the table full of demons." Her voice splintered. Then, when her gaze caught the other children clinging behind the woman, something inside her snapped, and she slapped the mother hard. "You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"You did all that to save her and yet, the same results. All you did was make that human become a sacrifice sooner."
The second slap was stronger, more fierce—because this time Heavenly-Autumn's hand was a fist, trembling with everything she couldn't undo.