—
Her small fingers curled tightly around the battered satchel, its cheap leather peeling like sunburnt skin. It had once been her father's—discarded when the stitching gave way, deemed not worth repairing. Now, it was her most precious possession.
The girl knew what people saw when they looked at her: the grime-streaked cheeks, the tangled hair that smelled of sweat and damp wool, the dress that hung loose where it should have fit snug. She had a sweet face—round-cheeked, wide-eyed—but no amount of childish charm could mask the stench of poverty that clung to her. Usually, it was enough to make strangers cross the street rather than entertain her pleas.
But today was different.
Today, she wasn't begging.
Peering around the corner of the bakery, she held her breath, scanning the street for prying eyes. The coast was clear. She clenched her tiny fists, screwed her face into what she hoped was a look of determination, and gave a firm nod.
"I can do this," she told herself.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her stomach twisted, but not from hunger—this was something sharper, hotter. Fear.
Yet the gnawing emptiness inside her was still worse although her mother had gone another day without eating to feed her.
The bearded baker moved through his open-air shop with practiced ease, rearranging loaves on the wooden shelves. She knew his routine by now: the way he'd hum as he worked, the precise moment he'd step into the back room to fetch more flour.
She waited.
Her knees trembled. A gurgle rose from her belly—too loud, she was sure—and she pressed a hand to it, as if she could silence the betrayal.
Then, her chance came.
The baker turned, disappearing through the rear door.
She was moving before she could second-guess herself, her bare feet silent on the cobblestones. A furtive glance left, then right—no witnesses—and she darted into the shop.
The scent of fresh bread hit her like a physical blow, so rich it made her dizzy. Her hands moved on instinct, snatching two crusty rolls and shoving them into the satchel. A third followed. As she reached for the fourth, her fingers—slick with nervous sweat—fumbled.
The loaf clattered onto a metal tray, the sound explosive in the quiet shop.
For a heartbeat, she froze.
Then—
"Hey! Come back here, you little brat!"
The baker's roar shattered the stillness.
She ran.
The door exploded inward with a splintering crack, its weakened hinges finally surrendering under the baker's furious kick. The girl barely had time to scramble backward before a meaty hand seized her by the collar, yanking her off her feet and slamming her onto the warped floorboards. Dust mushroomed around her, clogging her throat as she gasped.
"Where's your mother, you little gutter rat?" the baker roared, his face purpling with rage. Spittle flecked his beard, glistening in the dim light like dew on thorns.
The girl opened her mouth—to beg, to lie, to scream—but no sound came out.
Then, as if summoned by her terror, a shadow filled the doorway.
Her mother stood there, her hollowed cheeks slack with confusion. In her arms, she clutched a pitiful bundle of foraged greens—dandelion leaves and wilted parsley, nothing that could truly fill a stomach.
The baker's gaze snapped to her. "Ah! The bitch of the house finally shows her face!" He released the girl with a shove, his boots thundering across the floor as he advanced on the woman. "Your brat tried to steal from me. You know what that means, don't you?"
A wet, guttural chuckle rumbled in his chest as he closed the distance. Before the mother could react, his hand lashed out, seizing her by the throat. Her foraging scattered across the floor as he lifted her clean off her feet, her toes brushing the ground like a hanged man's.
"By the looks of you," he sneered, his breath reeking of yeast and stale beer, "you couldn't pay me even if you sold your bones. But don't worry—" His tongue slithered over his lips, thick and glistening. "I'm a reasonable man. We'll work something out."
The girl's vision blurred with tears. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think—could only move.
With a wordless shriek, she launched herself at the baker, her tiny fists flailing.
He reacted faster than she'd thought possible for a man his size.
A crushing backhand caught her across the face.
The world upended.
She tasted copper and dirt as she hit the floor, her skull ringing like a struck bell. Through the haze, she saw her mother thrash in the baker's grip, her voice raw with a sound the girl had never heard before—not pain, not fear, but something worse.
"NO! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING—JUST DON'T TOUCH HER!"
The baker's grin split his face like rotten fruit. "Now you're speaking my language, whore."
He dropped the mother—only to drive his fist into her stomach with a wet crunch.
The girl tried to crawl toward them, but her arms wouldn't obey. Darkness crept in at the edges of her vision, the sounds of the beating muffled, as if she were sinking underwater.
The last thing she heard before the blackness took her was the wet smack of flesh on flesh—
And her mother's whimpers, softer now, like a wounded animal giving up.
/—/
Her eyelids fluttered open.
The first thing she noticed was the absence of pain.
No throbbing in her cheek where the baker's fist had landed. No gnawing hunger twisting her stomach into knots. Even the ever-present ache in her legs from too many nights spent curled on the hard floor was gone.
Was it all a dream?
She lifted her hands—small, delicate, but strangely clean. The dirt that usually clung stubbornly under her nails had vanished. Her skin, though still pale as moonlight, no longer carried the grayish tinge of malnutrition. The only pain was the smallest bit of throbbing in her head.
Experimentally, she pressed a hand to her stomach. No ominous gurgle answered.
She felt... whole.
A voice cut through her daze—deep, masculine, laced with bewilderment.
"It's a girl?"
The words seemed to slip out unbidden, the owner as startled by them as she was. She turned toward the sound and saw a hornless figure, broad-shouldered, his crimson eyes wide with confusion.
"This isn't the Blood Mother," Gregarious said, his brow furrowing. "It's just a human girl."
Another voice answered, trembling with devotion so thick it bordered on delirium.
"Th-that's..." Haydric's face alight with something between rapture and terror. He swayed on his knees, his gaze locked on her as if she were the sun after a lifetime of darkness.
Gregarious placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "He must have expected her to look like the carvings," he thought to himself. "The wings, the crown... This must be a disappointment."
Haydric quickly shrugged off the touch with a snarl, his forehead thudding against the stone floor in a bow so deep it looked painful.
"That's HER!" he cried, his voice cracking. "The Blood Mother! Her presence doesn't deceive a true Demonoid!"
Gregarious glanced around, his confusion deepening. Everywhere, warriors and priests alike had dropped to their knees, their weapons forgotten, their faces transfixed. Even the injured had dragged themselves upright, their pain forgotten in the face of revelation.
Could this really be their goddess? Gregarious thought, his stomach churning. She looks no older than ten or nine. A child.
Haydric's voice rose in a shaking hymn of devotion. "Blood Mother! This unworthy servant begs to speak! Let us follow you, even if it costs our last breaths!"
Before the girl could respond—before she could even turn her head—the air shivered.
An invisible force gripped them all, lifting them effortlessly into the air. Gregarious thrashed, his limbs flailing as he fought against the unseen grip, but it was useless. Within seconds, the entire assembly hovered meters above the ground, suspended like puppets on strings.
Then—she turned.
Tears streaked her cheeks, glistening trails against skin that had once been deathly pale but now flushed with unnatural life.
Her eyes—wide, terrified—scanned the faces before her. And in each one, she saw it: a piece of herself.
Her blood.
As if in answer, twin spirals began to push through above her forehead, curling upward with grace.
Horns.
/—/
A sudden warmth pressed into her small hands—soft fur brushing against her fingertips, the faint scent of lavender and old cloth filling her nose.
"Here, make sure you take care of it."
The voice was gentle, almost smiling, but the face it belonged to was just out of reach, blurred at the edges like a painting left in the rain. She clutched the toy bear tighter, its stuffing lumpy from years of love, its once-velvety paws worn smooth by childish fingers.
It was hers.
It had always been hers.
But who gave it to her?
She sifted through the fragments of her memory—her mother's flinching touch, her father's drunken shouts, the baker's meaty fists—but none matched this voice. This was someone different. Someone kind.
Why can't she remember? she thought.
Then, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, another flicker surfaced.
A hand, outstretched.
"Take my hand."
She reached out, her pale fingers trembling as they slotted perfectly against the larger palm. The moment they touched, warmth bloomed inside her chest, spreading through her veins like liquid gold.
And with it came the words, clear as a bell:
"Even a flower can bloom in a windowless room."
Her breath caught.
The bear was still there, tucked safely in the crook of her other arm. She squeezed it instinctively, its familiar weight an anchor in the whirlwind of half-remembered faces.
But the hand holding hers—
The voice speaking to her—
Who—?
Before she could grasp the answer, the memory rippled, dissolving like sugar in tea.
Yet the bear remained.
And so did the aching certainty that whoever had given it to her had loved her.
/—/
Her eyes snapped open—wide, searching—as her arms instinctively tightened around empty air. The ghostly impression of the toy bear still lingered against her chest, its warmth and weight so vivid she could almost feel the seams beneath her fingertips. But when she looked down, there was nothing.
Only the hollow curve of her own arms, clutching at absence.
A cold realization settled over her.
It's gone.
Her gaze swept across the cavern, over the kneeling figures who hovered midair, suspended by her will. Their veins pulsed with her blood—precious, stolen, woven into their very being. But none carried the bear. None carried that one, fragile piece of kindness she couldn't afford to lose.
Disdain coiled in her gut, hot and sharp.
Then—
Agony.
A pain so vast it split her ribs open, spilling outward in a wave that shattered the air itself.
Plop.
The sound was almost comically soft for what came next.
One by one, the Demonoids burst.
Flesh peeled back like overripe fruit. Bones splintered into crimson mist. The cavern walls were covered in a grotesque tapestry of shredded muscle and ruptured organs. In an instant, the chamber was splattered in blood, a churning sea of red that lapped hungrily at the stone—
Everywhere except around her.
A perfect circle, two meters wide, remained untouched. As if the blood itself feared to cross that boundary.
She looked down at herself. The ragged brown tunic she was wearing, threadbare and stained melted like shadow, reforming into a robe black and elegant. The fabric clung to her slight frame, its edges whispering against the floor.
Then came the pain in her back—a white-hot tearing as flesh split and leathery wings shoved free, their membranes streaked with old scars. She flexed them experimentally, stretching first close to her body, then wide, their span casting a monstrous silhouette across the blood-slick walls.