Chapter Two: The Cave and the Cooked Fish
The darkness inside the small cave was absolute. It felt safe, but heavy.
The stone walls were damp and cold. They barely held the two fugitives.
Asher was exhausted. His hands shook as he gently lowered Nemesis to the rough floor. The adrenaline that had let him carry the demon—whose shadow body felt light, like heavy smoke—was gone. Now he trembled.
The air around the demon still smelled of old magic and weakness. Nemesis was free, but not healed. The effort of staying solid had drained him. His shadow form was firmer now, but his white eyes were closed. His jagged, scary mouth hung loose. His small, sharp horns touched the rock.
Asher was scared. But he didn't freeze.
He had freed the demon. But he hadn't thought about what came next. Now he was responsible.
He looked at Nemesis's left leg. That was why the demon limped. Two arrows were buried deep in the shadow flesh. The beast hunters had shot him before the dragon attacked.
Asher knew what to do. He had treated his own wounds many times.
He found a small, sharp piece of flint. He tore a strip of cloth from his already ruined shirt. He cleaned the area around the arrows.
No time to hesitate.
He took a breath. Then he pulled the first arrow out—fast and clean.
A low, painful groan came from the demon's mouth. His shadow body jerked.
Asher waited. Then pulled the second.
Dark liquid—the demon's blood—seeped out. It sizzled when it touched the cold stone.
"Stay still," Asher whispered. But Nemesis was unconscious. Or in a deep sleep.
The boy needed heat. And medicine. He had risked everything to free this creature. He wasn't going to let it die from infection or cold.
He left the demon and slipped out of the cave.
The moon was still low. Long, scary shadows stretched across the battlefield. The caravan was destroyed. Broken wagons. Scattered supplies. Silence. The kind of silence that follows a massacre.
The dragon was gone. It had taken what it wanted.
Asher moved fast. He gathered dry twigs for a fire. He didn't go far from the cave. Then he searched for herbs he knew. In the dim light, he found moonwort—a strong painkiller. And dragon's tooth root—a powerful antiseptic.
He went back inside. The cave smelled of earth and smoke. The demon hadn't moved.
Asher built a small fire near the cave entrance. The warmth pushed back the cold. He crushed the herbs between two flat stones and mixed them with a little water from his dirty canteen. The paste warmed by the fire and gave off a sharp, earthy smell.
He knelt beside the demon. Gently, carefully, he spread the cool paste on the open wounds.
That's when Nemesis woke up.
His white eyes snapped open. Wide. Burning. Full of panic.
The shadow body jerked away from Asher's touch. The demon's mouth stretched into that terrible grin—a snarl of fear and rage. He let out a low, guttural scream that seemed to swallow the light.
Nemesis was awake. And he saw only a small human pressing something painful into his leg. He had escaped a trap, only to be tortured again. That's what he believed.
Asher froze. His hands hung in the air. His fear finally caught up with him.
He was face to face with a demon of pure shadow. And the demon thought he was the enemy.
Slowly, carefully, Asher lowered his hands to the ground. Palms up. Empty. Then he backed away toward the fire.
The demon watched him. Breathing hard. His shadow hair flickered with leftover fear.
Asher knew what he had to do. Build trust. No words. Just actions.
He reached for his black pot. Inside were his last pieces of food—a few small, shriveled wild fruits. He placed them on a clean leaf near the cave entrance. Then he walked back outside.
Nemesis was confused. Why would the human leave? He watched Asher through narrowed white eyes.
The boy returned minutes later. His arms were full. Yuca roots. More wild fruits. And several small, stiff fish he had caught in the stream before the dragon attacked.
Asher peeled the yuca. He sharpened thin branches with his flint and stuck the fish on them like skewers. Then he placed the skewers near the hot embers.
The cave filled with the smell of cooking meat. Warm. Savory. Delicious.
Asher took his own small portion of fruit and sat down. He ate slowly. Watching the demon.
Nemesis just stared. The fear in his eyes turned into cold suspicion. Cooking. Sharing food. These were foreign ideas to a creature made of vengeance. He ignored the fruit Asher had left for him. He kept watching the boy, waiting for the betrayal.
But the fish kept cooking. The smell grew stronger. To a demon weakened by weeks of magical starvation, it was irresistible.
Asher pulled one of the roasted fish from the fire. It was hot, flaky, perfect. He placed it on a clean leaf, blew on it to cool it, and pushed the leaf toward Nemesis.
This was his offer. His peace treaty.
Nemesis's nostrils flared. He smelled the cooked meat. He had been fed only by magic and the grimoire for too long. The scent of real food was overwhelming.
Hunger won.
With a shaky hand, Nemesis snatched the fish. He brought it to his jagged mouth. One last suspicious sniff. Then he tore into it.
He devoured the fish like a starving animal. Fast. Messy. Desperate. Every bite showed how weak and hungry he really was.
Asher calmly ate his own fish and yuca. He didn't look away from the demon. But he didn't push either. No more moves. Just silence.
The boy and the demon ate together. The fire crackled. The cave stayed dark and hidden.
A fragile, unspoken truce had begun.