The shady figure didn't even get a full step out of the shadows.
One moment they were creeping toward us, hood low and silent. The next, Arden had slammed them into the nearest wall so hard the bricks groaned. No warning or explanation. Just a dull thud, and the body crumpling to the ground.
I stared, mouth half open. "W-what… Why would you do that?!"
Arden stood over the unconscious figure, checking their pulse as if he hadn't just laid someone out cold in the middle of an alley.
"They registered as a monster," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Spatial Awareness tagged them. It's a skill of mine. It senses hostile intent."
Right. Because someone walking quietly in an alley automatically meant they were a bad person. Spatial Awareness. Of course, whatever that meant.
"They are not dead," he added, seeing the look on my face. "I reinforced my fists with healing magic. They are just knocked out."
Sora, bless her heart, walked up beside him and gave his arm a tiny slap. It was about as threatening as a butterfly brushing against your sleeve.
She puffed her cheeks out in frustration, but with her soft voice and big eyes, she looked more like a pouting kitten than someone scolding a man for, well, casual assault.
While they fumbled through that little drama, I crouched down to get a better look at the poor soul he'd flattened. The hood had slipped back during the head-smash, revealing not some grimy cultist, but a girl.
She had small, curling black horns peeking through long, dark hair streaked with crimson, and faintly pointed ears. Her skin had a pale, smoky undertone that made her crimson eyes stand out like embers. A devil.
My breath caught. I'd only heard about them in stories, usually as a warning. But her horns were real, curving back like polished obsidian. And not just any devil, judging by the expensive-looking outfit and the pride practically stitched into every inch of it.
We stared.
She didn't wake.
I started praying she wasn't the vengeful type.
"…We should probably take her somewhere less public," I muttered, trying not to look at the growing crowd of confused peasants gawking from a safe distance.
Arden gave a curt nod, already scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Which, to be fair, she kind of didn't. Her whole body was light, wiry, like a coiled spring wrapped in way too much attitude.
He carried her, gently this time, into an abandoned building nearby. Roof half gone, walls leaning like tired old men, but it had four corners and wasn't filled with rats. That was good enough.
Arden laid her down on what used to be a cot, now more rust and splinters than actual bed. He brushed a splinter off the cot, like it mattered, like fussing with details could undo the part where he'd knocked a devil princess unconscious. The guy even mumbled an apology under his breath while checking her pulse and brushing hair out of her face like a guilty older brother.
Sora hovered nearby like a terrified healer in training. She kept wringing her hands, sneaking glances at the devil girl every other second like she was expecting her to suddenly sit up and start breathing fire or sprout wings or something.
Eventually, the girl stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at the ceiling. At first she looked more dazed than anything, like she'd fallen out of bed and hadn't figured out which way was up yet.
Then her memory caught up with her body. Her pupils sharpened. Recognition hit. Tension swept in like a cold wind.
She sat up stiffly, shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes locked on Arden with the kind of look people usually reserve for murderers and tax collectors.
"You…" she hissed. Her voice was low. Dangerous. Regal, even. Like someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
Sora panicked.
Sora immediately rushed forward, waving both hands in front of her chest, palms out in panicked little circles, like she was trying to physically push the tension down. "W‑wait! Please don't punish him! It was just, it was all a misunderstanding!"
The devil girl squinted at her like she couldn't decide whether to slap her, eat her, or pat her on the head. Then she turned her gaze on Arden. Then back to Sora.
"…Misunderstanding?" she echoed, like the word personally offended her.
Arden answered, calm and straight-faced. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just plain Arden. "I sensed hostile intent. I simply acted."
"You sensed me?" she snapped. "I was scouting. I wasn't even looking at you."
Her mouth opened again to deliver what I could only assume would be a searing rebuttal about nuance and magical profiling…
…and that's when her stomach betrayed her.
It wasn't a polite little rumble. It was a full-on, echoing, guttural roar. Like her insides were staging a protest. It bounced off the crumbling walls with the dramatic flair of a dying animal.
She froze.
Her glare wavered. A faint blush colored her cheeks, as if her body had betrayed her before her pride could catch up.
Arden didn't say a word. He reached into his bag, pulled out a piece of dark bread, and held it out to her lips. He wasn't gentle, but he wasn't rough either. It was just a fact. An offering.
Is he insane? I thought, my own body tensing. She's going to set him on fire. I'd seen what devils could do in the stories, and offering one bread like a stray dog seemed like a fantastic way to lose a hand.
Lysandra froze. Her mouth opened and accepted the bread before the rest of her seemed to realize what was happening.
She chewed slowly, her eyes locked on him the whole time, wary and confused.
The silence stretched out. Her face was a mask, but it was a mask starting to crack. A tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. Something more like shock, or maybe betrayal.
Her eyes went wide, as if she couldn't believe what she was tasting.
"...What is this?" she asked. Her voice was rough, like the words were being dragged out of her against their will.
"It's bread," Arden said, his voice flat. "With dried fruit in it."
She stared at the crust like it was a puzzle box that might bite her. Then, with the careful hesitation of someone testing thin ice, she took another bite. She chewed slowly, her dignity clearly holding on for dear life.
"…Fine," she grumbled around the mouthful. "I suppose I forgive you. But try anything like that again, and I'll peel the skin from your bones and make a cloak out of it."
Charming.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, a gesture that managed to look regal even after a threat like that. Straightening up, she fixed them with a look of pure, unearned authority.
"I am Lysandra," she announced, her voice sharp and clear. "Princess of the Obsidian Spire. A robed fool, one of your so called 'cultists' in this realm, summoned me. He performed the binding and ordered me to aid him in removing a threat."
Her gaze, cold and precise, landed on Arden.
"According to his information… that threat was you."
Arden didn't react, just waiting silently for her to continue.
"I had no choice," she went on, her voice sharp with bitterness. "A summoning contract binds us. We have to obey. The price for our service was supposed to be his soul. A simple transaction."
She swung her legs off the cot, her lip curled in disgust, as if the very ground beneath her was an insult.
"But he found a loophole. Of course he did." She practically spat the words. "Mortal trash."
Arden tilted his head. "What kind of loophole?"
"He only offered half his soul," she said, the words dripping with venom. "He used some cursed relic to split it in two, binding the other half somewhere else."
Sora winced. "Is that... even allowed?"
"Apparently it is," Lysandra growled. "It technically satisfied the contract's wording without him having to die. But it shattered the connection between us. He got what he wanted and vanished, leaving me stranded here."
"So you're stuck," I said, the pieces clicking into place. "You can't go back."
Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and cold. "Correct."
She rose to her full height, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves with a theatrical flourish. "But his little trick isn't just about me. It's part of something bigger. They're trying to bring back the Demon Lord. And when they do, devils like me will be summoned by the thousands. We'll be nothing more than fodder. Slaves thrown at a war we want no part in."
She looked away, and for a moment, the haughty mask slipped completely. "I saw them drag my uncle from his circle once. A warlock burned him alive to power a siege spell. Said it was an honor to die for his master's bloodline."
Her laugh was a harsh, broken sound. "We don't get honor. We get used."
Her voice was tight, her face a mask of cold, bitter truth. "I won't let that happen again."
A heavy silence fell over the room. It was the kind of quiet that felt like a held breath, waiting for something to snap.
Sora looked frozen, her hands clasped tightly together like she couldn't decide what to do with them.
Then Arden stood up.
"Then our goals are the same."
Lysandra blinked, caught off guard. She'd probably expected an argument, or at least some suspicion.
"If you want revenge on the cult and to stop the Demon Lord's return," Arden continued, his voice calm as ever, "we can help each other."
She crossed her arms, looking him up and down like she was sizing up a strange animal. "And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
"I want to stop the cult too," he said simply. "And you're useful."
That got a reaction. A small, sharp smirk tugged at her lips, a mix of amusement and approval.
"Fine," she said. "But I am not taking orders."
"That's fine by me."
She held his gaze, and for just a second, something in her expression changed. The fire was still there, and all the pride, but the fight had gone out of it.
"Then we have a deal."
And just like that, between the shared food and the shared grudges and the looming threat of a demonic resurrection, we had acquired a devil princess.
Because of course we had.
It wasn't even that late by the time things settled down. Lysandra insisted she was fine, which really meant she declared it with so much pride that arguing felt pointless. Arden agreed we shouldn't stay in the abandoned house, so after grabbing a few supplies he'd stashed nearby, we slipped out into the city.
The sun was already low, painting the sky a deep orange and stretching long shadows from the rooftops. Arden led us to a small market squeezed between two old watchtowers. Lysandra kept fidgeting with her cloak, pulling it tight around her shoulders like she could somehow hide the horns that practically screamed "look at me." And people were looking. I could feel their sideways glances.
"This isn't working," Arden muttered. "We need something less obvious."
He solved the problem by buying her a hat. It was a ridiculous thing, with a wide brim and a poofy top that looked like it belonged on a performer who'd lost a bet. But it was deep enough to completely cover her horns.
Lysandra stared at it like he'd just handed her a dead rodent.
"Absolutely not."
"It hides your horns."
"It murders my dignity."
Arden didn't argue. He just held it out, his silence making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.
Finally, with a sound of pure disgust, she snatched it from his hand and jammed it onto her head. It slumped to one side, looking even more absurd.
"If anyone laughs," she grumbled, "I will personally scrape the smile from their face."
The rest of the day was a long, slow parade of embarrassment. Lysandra tried to take charge at a produce stall, demanding the "finest fruits" from a bewildered farmer as if he were a palace servant.
She then tried to pay with a jewel from her hair, causing a scene when the man had no idea how to handle a gemstone worth more than his entire stall. Arden just watched, arms crossed, not saying a word.
Later, after a disagreement over which way to go, she ripped the hat off and threw it on the ground, her horns gleaming in the sunlight like a challenge to the world. Sora let out a panicked squeak, dove for the hat, and crammed it back onto Lysandra's head while whispering frantic apologies to the confused people around us.
A merchant walking by nodded at Lysandra. "Bold choice," he said, mistaking the whole disaster for a fashion statement. She went completely still, torn between fury and the urge to disintegrate the man on the spot. "Thank you," she finally forced out, her voice strained and her eyes promising violence.
Without a word, Arden bought a second, identical hat and somehow fit it into his bag. A spare. Just in case.
I just followed them in a daze, caught between laughter and the urge to find a hole to crawl into. We didn't leave the city that night. We'd drawn too much attention, and there was no point in running yet.
So we ended up back in the abandoned house, sleeping under a half-fallen roof with our cloaks as blankets. Lysandra looked at the dusty floor, then at Arden, her expression making it clear that this was utterly unacceptable.
"Absolutely not," she stated, her voice cutting through the quiet. "I am not some common vagrant to bed down in filth. Have you no concept of propriety?"
Arden regarded her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he pulled a small, smooth stone from a hidden pocket. It looked utterly ordinary. He held it in his palm, and the air around it shimmered.
A faint, golden lattice of light expanded from the stone, weaving itself into the shape of a small, private room in the corner of the ruin. The light solidified into the illusion of polished wooden walls and a luxurious four-poster bed with a silken canopy, looking completely out of place amidst the decay.
Lysandra eyed the creation, then gave a short, regal nod. "Adequate."
She swept inside the shimmering space and sat on the edge of the illusory bed like a warlord mid-siege, and was asleep in minutes. The faint, magical hum of the construct was the only sound.
At some point during the night, Arden slipped away. He returned just before dawn, saying nothing. But his expression was lighter, and something about the way he moved told me things had been set in motion.
As he passed the magical room, he casually palmed the small stone again, and the shimmering walls and bed vanished without a sound, leaving Lysandra asleep on a perfectly ordinary, if now miraculously clean, pile of rags he must have arranged while she slept.
The next morning, we departed early. The city was only just beginning to stir. Chimney smoke curled into the pale sky, and vendors bellowed about fresh bread as if it might ward off despair itself.
Sora clung to Arden's arm, shrinking behind him whenever a passerby drew too near. Arden, as always, moved with quiet purpose. His stride was unhurried, his gaze forward, like he knew every twist of the streets by heart, even if the rest of us were left guessing.
And, of course, he did.
Radames might be Emperor, but not even he welcomed strangers into his home without warning. Arden, it turned out, had sent word ahead through some old channel known only to those with the right ties. A hawk bearing his seal, or perhaps a whisper passed to the right ear in the right tavern. He never said, and no one asked.
Whatever he did, it worked. The guards posted at the manor gates did not challenge us, though one of them gave Lysandra a long, uneasy look, like she might set fire to the stones beneath her feet if he so much as blinked wrong.
We were led inside without fanfare. Two guards escorted us through a vast corridor lit by morning sun, the air tinged with incense and something older. Parchment, perhaps, or dust that remembered finer centuries.
The walls shimmered with polished stone threaded with gold, and the ceiling arched so high I half expected to see saints perched in the rafters, silently judging my posture.
That was when we passed Seraphina.
She breezed by like a walking contradiction, her arms full of random, clearly unnecessary gizmos. One hand clutched what looked like a spinning compass with far too many needles.
The other cradled a box that made faint gurgling noises, and strapped to her back was something long and cylindrical that let out a low hum every few seconds.
She nodded in passing, completely unbothered by the sheer chaos she carried, and muttered something about delivering supplies for the mana filtration alignment before vanishing around a corner.
We did not ask. Arden did not even blink.
Eventually, we made our way back to the quarters Radames had assigned us. They were familiar by now, with their not too fancy, not too ugly furniture and the blessed luxury of real beds.
The real surprise came when one of the guards hesitated in the doorway, cleared his throat awkwardly, and said, "His Grace has decreed that the guest will be sharing your quarters."
I blinked. "Wait. Lysandra?"
He nodded, clearly uncomfortable. "His exact words were something like, 'If it is Arden, it will be fine. He collects these types.'"
I stared at him. He stared at the walls.
Lysandra, who had been standing behind us the whole time with her arms crossed, went very still. "He intends for me to sleep in the same room as commoners?" she said, her voice dangerously low. Then her eyes narrowed further. "And he collects us?"
Her tone could strip paint.
Arden did not respond. Just walked inside like none of it mattered. And maybe to him, it did not. But judging by the look on Lysandra's face, someone was going to pay for the implication.
Probably not today. But someday.