"Grandmother, look! I caught him!" I giggled, cupping my hands carefully around the small green frog I'd been stalking through the garden for the better part of an hour. The afternoon sun filtered through the apple trees, casting dappled shadows across the small patch of land behind Grandmother Vespera's cottage.

  Grandmother looked up from her book, those dark eyes of hers softening as they always did when she looked at me. "Careful, little one. All creatures deserve gentle hands."

  I nodded solemnly and loosened my grip just enough for the frog to poke its head out between my fingers. "I'm being gentle. See? He likes me."

  "Of course he does." Grandmother set her book aside and patted the bench beside her. "Who wouldn't like my Seraphina?"

  I released the frog near the small pond and scampered over to her, climbing onto the bench. My legs dangled, not yet long enough to reach the ground. I reached up to scratch at the two small bumps on my forehead that sometimes itched.

  "Don't scratch, dear," Grandmother said, gently pulling my hand away. "Remember what we talked about?"

  "Special places need special care," I recited dutifully, though I didn't fully understand why the bumps on my head or the small nub at the base of my spine needed to be hidden or treated differently. They were just parts of me, like my nose or my fingers.

  Grandmother nodded approvingly. "That's right. Now, shall we practice our letters before dinner?"

  I groaned dramatically, flopping back against the bench. "But we practiced yesterday! And Mother won't be home for another week to see how good I've gotten."

  A shadow passed over Grandmother's face at the mention of Mother, but it vanished so quickly I almost thought I'd imagined it. "Your mother works very hard for us, Seraphina. When she returns from Lady Blackwood's estate, wouldn't you like to show her how you can write your full name?"

  I considered this, twisting a lock of my hair around my finger. "I suppose. But can we practice magic instead of letters?"

  Grandmother's expression grew serious. "Seraphina Nightingale, what have I told you about that word?"

  I ducked my head, properly chastised. "Not to say it where anyone might hear."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because some people don't understand, and they might be afraid," I recited, the words familiar from countless repetitions.

  Grandmother cupped my chin, tilting my face up to meet her gaze. "That's right. The world isn't always kind to those who are different, little one. But being different isn't bad—it's special. Like a secret treasure you keep safe."

  I nodded, though I didn't fully grasp why my "special" parts needed to be hidden when the village children proudly showed off their missing teeth or scraped knees. Still, I trusted Grandmother. She knew everything.

  "Can we at least practice the lights?" I pleaded, referring to the small illuminations Grandmother could summon with a gesture. "No one can see us here."

  Grandmother glanced around, confirming we were indeed alone in our secluded garden, then smiled conspiratorially. "Just a small lesson, then."

  She held out her palm, and a tiny point of silver light appeared, dancing above her skin. I watched, entranced as always by the beautiful glow.

  "Remember," she said softly, "intention shapes reality. Think of light, of warmth, of illumination."

  I stretched out my small hand beside hers, concentrating with all my might. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a faint purple spark flickered above my palm—smaller than Grandmother's light, but undeniably there.

  "I did it!" I squealed, bouncing on the bench.

  "Wonderful, my darling!" Grandmother beamed with pride. "Your mother will be so impressed when she returns."

  At the mention of Mother, my excitement dimmed slightly. "Do you think she'll stay longer this time?"

  Grandmother's smile faltered. "Your mother does what she must to keep us safe and provided for. Lady Blackwood pays her well, but the work is demanding."

  "I miss her," I admitted, watching as my tiny light faded away.

  "I know," Grandmother said, drawing me close against her side. "But we have each other, don't we? And soon enough, she'll be back with stories from the big house and perhaps even a sweet or two from the kitchen."

  I nodded against her shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent of dried herbs and something else—something ancient and comforting I couldn't name. "Will you tell me the story about Queen Lilith again? The one where she built a kingdom where everyone could be themselves?"

  Grandmother chuckled, the sound rumbling through her chest. "Again? You've heard it a hundred times."

  "It's my favourite," I insisted. "Please, Grandmother?"

  "Very well," she conceded, settling back against the bench. "Long ago, before the Shattering tore the world asunder, there existed a magnificent realm called Nocturne..."

  * * *

  I slammed the lid of the trunk shut, not bothering to hide my frustration. The wooden box contained everything I owned in the world—a pitiful collection of clothes, books, and trinkets that could be packed away at a moment's notice. Just like always.

  "Careful with that, Seraphina," Mother said, her voice tired as she folded linens into her own travelling case. "That trunk belonged to your father."

  I bit back a sharp retort. Mother rarely mentioned my father, and I didn't want to discourage her from speaking of him. Instead, I turned to face the small cottage that had been our home for nearly three years—the longest we'd stayed anywhere since I could remember.

  "I liked it here," I said, my tail lashing behind me in agitation. The thin, black appendage ending in a spade-like tip had a mind of its own sometimes, betraying my emotions even when I tried to hide them.

  "We all did," Mother replied softly. At thirty-eight, Elena was still beautiful, though fine lines had begun to appear around her amber eyes. Unlike me, she could walk freely among humans without fear. No horns protruded from her forehead. No vestigial wings pressed against her shoulder blades beneath her clothes.

  "Then why must we leave?" I demanded, though I already knew the answer. "Just because old man Thatcher glimpsed my horns when my hood fell back? He was drunk! No one would believe him anyway."

  "One person's suspicion becomes two, then four, then the entire village," Grandmother said, emerging from the cottage with her medicine bag. Despite appearing elderly to human eyes, Vespera Nightingale moved with fluid grace. "We cannot take such risks."

  I reached up and touched one of the small horns that curved from my forehead. They'd grown noticeably in the past year, no longer the tiny bumps of my childhood.

  "If you'd just teach me the concealment magic properly, we wouldn't have to run," I argued. "I could hide them easily, and we could stay."

  Grandmother's expression hardened. "That kind of magic isn't as simple as you imagine, Seraphina. It requires tremendous concentration and energy. If you're not born with the gift for it, it can take decades to master."

  "Then teach me faster!" I snapped, my wings shifting uncomfortably beneath my cloak. "I'm sixteen now, not a child. I learn quickly."

  "Sera," Mother intervened, her voice gentle but firm. "Don't be impatient. Your grandmother is doing everything she can to teach you at a pace that's safe."

  "Safe," I echoed bitterly. "Nothing about our lives is safe. We're always running, always hiding."

  "You'll learn it in due time," Mother assured me, crossing the yard to place her hands on my shoulders. "Some skills can't be rushed."

  I shrugged away from her touch, anger and frustration boiling over. "I'm tired of this! Tired of packing up and disappearing every few years. Tired of making friends only to abandon them without explanation. Tired of pretending I'm something I'm not!"

  My voice broke on the last words, and I hated the tears that sprang to my eyes. I blinked them back furiously.

  "You think I don't understand?" Mother asked quietly. "Sera, I've been running since before you were born."

  "At least you can walk through a market without wearing a hood," I retorted. "You don't have to bind your wings or hide your tail."

  Grandmother approached, her dark eyes unreadable. "Each of us bears our burdens, child. Your mother sacrifices just as much as you do, perhaps more."

  I looked away, shame tempering my anger. I knew they were right, but knowing didn't make it easier.

  "I just want to belong somewhere," I whispered. "Just once."

  Mother's expression softened with sorrow. "I know, my love. I know."

  * * *

  I laughed as Julian finished his story, nearly spilling my cider in the process. The five of us sat in our usual spot—a small clearing near the creek that ran behind the tannery. It was our private sanctuary, far enough from town that we could speak freely without worrying about prying ears.

  "You're making that up," I accused, pushing my hair back from my face. I'd grown it longer over the past three years, carefully styling it to cover the curved horns that protruded from my forehead. With my wings bound tightly beneath my clothes and my tail wrapped around my waist like a belt, I could almost pass for human.

  Almost.

  "I swear it's true," Julian insisted, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "Old man Harwick was so drunk he tried to milk a goat from the wrong end!"

  Elise snorted with laughter beside me. "And they let him teach at the school?"

  "Different standards back then," Marco said with a shrug, passing around a flask of something stronger than cider.

  I took a small sip, savouring the burn. At nineteen, I'd finally found what I'd been searching for—acceptance. These four knew what I was—half-demon, neither fully human nor fully otherworldly—and they didn't care. Or so I thought.

  Grandmother would be furious if she knew I'd revealed myself. "Trust no one with your true nature," she'd warned countless times. But after years of hiding, the relief of honesty had been too tempting to resist.

  "Sera, show us the thing with your eyes again," Mira requested, leaning forward eagerly.

  I hesitated. "Someone might see..."

  "We're alone," Julian assured me, scanning the trees. "Come on, it's amazing."

  Relenting, I focused my energy and let my eyes shift, the pupils narrowing to vertical slits as the irises glowed with a soft amber light.

  "Beautiful," Mira whispered, and for a moment, I felt a surge of pride rather than shame in my demonic heritage.

  The snap of a twig broke the spell.

  "Someone's coming," Marco hissed, scrambling to his feet.

  I quickly normalised my eyes, tugging my hair forward to ensure my horns remained hidden. My heart hammered against my ribs as footsteps approached—too many footsteps, too purposeful to be casual passersby.

  Five men emerged from the trees, their silver breastplates emblazoned with the sunburst emblem of the Solarian Empire. Inquisitors. Here, in Landskavia.

  My blood turned to ice. Landskavia tolerated the occasional presence of Solarian Inquisitors as part of an uneasy truce with the much larger empire, but I'd never actually seen them in our town before.

  "What's this gathering about?" the lead Inquisitor demanded, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  "Just friends enjoying the afternoon, sir," Julian replied, his voice steady despite the fear I could smell radiating from him.

  The Inquisitor's gaze swept over our group, lingering on me. "Is that so?"

  I kept my eyes downcast, praying they would lose interest and move on.

  "Actually," Mira's voice cut through the tension like a knife, "you might be interested in this one."

  My head snapped up in disbelief as she pointed directly at me.

  "Mira?" I whispered, confusion and betrayal washing over me in equal measure.

  The Inquisitors' attention focused entirely on me now, their expressions hardening.

  "Everyone else, disperse," the leader commanded, drawing his sword. "Now."

  My friends—the people I'd trusted with my secret—stepped back. Elise and Marco looked confused and frightened, but they didn't protest. Julian hesitated, conflict evident on his face, but ultimately turned away.

  Only Mira remained, a smile spreading across her face that I'd never seen before—cold, calculating, victorious.

  With a swift motion, the lead Inquisitor grabbed my cloak and tore it away. I felt the binding around my wings snap, the small vestigial appendages spreading slightly in their newfound freedom. My tail, disturbed by the sudden movement, uncoiled from my waist.

  "Half-breed demon," he announced, satisfaction in his voice. "Exactly as reported."

  Two Inquisitors seized my arms while another pressed the tip of his sword against my throat.

  As they began to drag me away, I caught Mira's eye. She was accepting something from another Inquisitor—a small pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins.

  She'd sold me out. For money.

  The friend I'd trusted most smiled wickedly at me as I was hauled away, her betrayal cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

  * * *

  I huddled in the corner of the wagon, my wrists and ankles raw from the iron shackles. For a week, they'd transported me like livestock—no, worse than livestock. Farmers at least feed their animals properly. I'd received only scraps of stale bread and murky water, just enough to keep me alive.

  The journey passed in a blur of pain and terror. Every bump in the road sent agony through my bruised body. They'd beaten me when they caught me—a "half-breed abomination" they called me. One of them had torn my cloak away, exposing my small horns and the vestigial wings I'd spent my entire life concealing.

  My captors—Solarian Inquisitors with their gleaming silver armour and cruel eyes—spoke little to me during the journey, except to hurl insults or strike me when I made too much noise. I'd stopped crying after the second day. Tears only seemed to entertain them.

  "We're here, demon spawn," the captain announced as the wagon lurched to a halt. "Your new home."

  Two inquisitors dragged me from the wagon. My legs, numb from days of confinement, buckled beneath me. They laughed as they half-carried, half-dragged me through massive iron gates into what appeared to be an ancient fortress. The stone walls loomed overhead, blocking out the evening sky.

  We descended a winding staircase, the air growing damp and cold with each step. The torches on the walls cast dancing shadows that seemed to mock my fate. Other prisoners moaned from cells we passed—some sounding human, others decidedly not.

  "Special accommodations for you," one guard sneered, producing a heavy key. "Being half-human might save your soul, but we can't have you mingling with the pure ones."

  They threw me into a cell at the end of a long corridor. I landed hard on the stone floor, the impact knocking what little breath I had from my lungs. The door clanged shut behind me, the lock engaging with a sound of terrible finality.

  When I could finally push myself up, I took in my new prison. Stone walls slick with moisture. Iron bars too thick for even the strongest creature to bend. A small, barred window set high in the wall allowed a sliver of moonlight to penetrate the gloom. In one corner sat a filthy bucket. In another, a thin pallet that might once have been straw but now resembled mouldering compost.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  One of the guards shoved a wooden bowl through a slot in the door. It skidded across the floor, spilling half its contents—a grey, lumpy gruel that smelled of rancid fat and mould.

  "Dinner is served," he said, and the others erupted in laughter.

  I remained silent, trying to make myself as small as possible in the corner farthest from the door.

  "Look at her, cowering like a rat," another guard said. "Tomorrow we begin the purification."

  The word sent ice through my veins. I'd heard whispers of the Solarian purification rituals—tales told in hushed voices among non-humans. Stories of pain beyond imagining, of bodies and minds broken beyond repair.

  "Why are you doing this?" I finally asked, my voice barely audible. "I've done nothing wrong."

  The captain stepped closer to the bars, his face illuminated by the torch he carried. His eyes were cold, empty of compassion.

  "Your very existence is an affront to God," he said, his voice carrying the fervour of absolute conviction. "You are an unholy union of human and demon—corruption made flesh."

  Another guard nodded. "But! Unlike full demons, which must be destroyed, you still have human blood. You can be redeemed."

  "Through pain," the captain continued, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Pain cleanses. Pain purifies. The demon taint can be burned from your body and soul, if you survive the process."

  "I'm just trying to live," I whispered. "I've harmed no one."

  "Demons always lie," the third guard spat. "Your kind brings corruption wherever you go."

  They turned to leave, their laughter echoing down the corridor. The captain paused at the door.

  "Rest well, half-breed. Tomorrow, your salvation begins."

  When their footsteps faded, I crawled to the darkest corner of my cell and drew my knees to my chest. The thin fabric of my torn dress offered no protection against the cold stone. My body trembled—from cold, from hunger, from fear. I thought of my mother and grandmother. Had they escaped? Were they searching for me? Or had the inquisitors found them too?

  I pressed myself tighter against the wall, as if I could somehow disappear into the stone. Tomorrow. What horrors would tomorrow bring?

  * * *

  This part contains content some may find disturbing. You've been warned.

  I woke to the sound of keys in the lock. Morning light filtered weakly through the high window, bringing no warmth to my cold cell. Three inquisitors entered—the captain and two others. Their faces revealed nothing but cold purpose.

  "Time to begin your salvation, demon spawn," the captain said.

  I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. They seized me roughly, binding my wrists with iron shackles that burned against my skin. I recognised the faint blue glow—cold iron, enchanted to weaken demonic essence. My small horns throbbed with pain, and I felt my vestigial wings press flat against my back in instinctive self-protection.

  They dragged me down corridors I hadn't seen the night before, deeper into the fortress. We entered a large circular chamber with a high ceiling. Various implements hung from the walls—whips, brands, knives, and things I couldn't name. A stone table dominated the centre, with straps at each corner.

  "Please," I whispered. "I've done nothing wrong."

  "Your existence is your crime," one guard said, shoving me toward the table.

  They stripped me naked, ignoring my pleas and struggles. The cold stone against my bare skin made me gasp. They secured my wrists and ankles with leather straps, leaving me spread-eagled and exposed.

  A thin man in white robes entered, carrying a leather case. His face was gaunt, eyes deep-set and intense. He regarded me with clinical detachment, as if I were an interesting specimen rather than a person.

  "I am Inquisitor Thaddeus," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "I will oversee your purification."

  He opened his case, removing several silver instruments that gleamed in the torchlight. "The demon taint runs in your blood, child. We must draw it out."

  The first cut came without warning—a thin, precise slice along my forearm. I screamed, more from shock than pain. He collected my blood in a small crystal vial, studying its colour.

  "Darker than human blood," he noted. "But not fully corrupted. There is hope for you."

  What followed was a methodical exploration of pain. He made small, careful incisions across my body, testing my reactions, noting which areas produced the most agony. All the while, he spoke in that same soft voice about cleansing and salvation.

  Hours passed. When he finally stepped back, my body was covered in dozens of shallow cuts, each burning as if touched by fire.

  "A promising start," he told the guards. "The subject shows appropriate response to physical stimuli. We can proceed to the next phase tomorrow."

  They left me strapped to the table for what felt like eternity before finally returning me to my cell. They threw a bucket of cold water over me first—"to clean the demon filth"—then tossed a thin shift at me to cover myself.

  That night, I curled into a ball on my pallet, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my body. I whispered my mother's healing prayers, but they brought no comfort. The cuts wouldn't stop burning.

  I didn't sleep. I couldn't.

  The next day brought new torments. Thaddeus arrived with a different case, this one containing vials of liquids. "Holy waters," he called them, though they burned like acid when he dripped them onto my skin and into my cuts.

  "The demon part of you rejects the sacred," he explained calmly as I writhed and screamed. "This is good. It means we can identify the corruption."

  By the third day, they had established a routine. Mornings began with Thaddeus and his "examinations." Afternoons brought the guards and their own brand of purification.

  The first time it happened, I didn't understand at first. Two guards entered my cell after Thaddeus had finished for the day. I was lying on my pallet, too weak to move.

  "Pretty little thing, for a half-breed," one said, kneeling beside me.

  His hand touched my leg, sliding upward. I tried to pull away, but my body wouldn't respond.

  "The human part of you might enjoy this," he whispered. "The demon part certainly will."

  I understood then. I tried to fight, to scream, but a hand clamped over my mouth. They took turns, these men who claimed to serve a god of light and mercy. They called it part of my purification, said they were showing my human half what it meant to be with real men instead of demons.

  When they finished, they left me broken on the floor.

  "We'll be back tomorrow," one promised. "Consider it part of your treatment."

  And they were. Sometimes two, sometimes three. Different faces, same cruelty. Thaddeus never participated, but he knew. Once, when examining bruises on my thighs, he simply said, "The flesh must be humbled before the spirit can rise."

  Days blurred together. Food came irregularly—always the same tasteless gruel. Water was often withheld as "part of the process." My body grew weaker, but the pain never diminished.

  They tried drowning me on the fifth day. Held my head underwater until my lungs burned and darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, then pulled me back at the last moment.

  "The demon tries to escape through death," Thaddeus explained. "We must not allow it."

  By the end of the first week, I had stopped begging. Words meant nothing here. I retreated deep inside myself, trying to find some place they couldn't reach. I thought of my grandmother's stories about Queen Lilith and her realm where beings like me could live without fear. I imagined myself there, safe and whole.

  The second week brought new torments. Thaddeus introduced me to fire. "Demons fear holy flame," he said, holding a candle close to my skin. "It reminds them of their ultimate fate."

  He burned patterns into my flesh—symbols of the Solarian faith meant to "contain the corruption." Each night, the guards would come, tearing open the burns, finding new ways to violate me.

  I lost track of time. Lost track of myself. The girl I had been seemed like a distant memory belonging to someone else. I stopped fighting. Stopped responding. They didn't like that—it meant more pain, more creative torments to force reactions from me.

  On what I later learned was the twelfth day, Thaddeus brought in a new device—a silver circlet studded with inward-facing spikes.

  "For your horns," he explained. "We must suppress their growth."

  When they placed it on my head, forcing the spikes into the sensitive flesh around my horns, something broke inside me. I screamed until my voice gave out, then made silent, animal sounds of agony.

  That night, for the first time, I prayed for death.

  By the fourteenth day, I was barely conscious most of the time. My body was a map of pain—cuts, burns, bruises, and worse. Thaddeus seemed disappointed with my progress.

  "The demon essence resists strongly in this one," he told his assistants. "We may need to consider more extreme measures."

  They strapped me to the table again. Thaddeus produced a long, thin blade that glowed with enchantment.

  "Today we will excise the physical manifestations of your corruption," he said, eyeing my small horns. "Without anaesthesia, of course. Pain is essential to the process."

  I couldn't even summon the strength to be afraid. I stared at the ceiling, retreating to that place inside where nothing could touch me. I didn't hear the first screams—not mine, but from somewhere outside the chamber.

  The door burst open. Thaddeus turned, irritation on his face. "I left explicit instructions not to be disturbed—"

  His words cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, choking sound. Through half-lidded eyes, I saw something dark and fluid moving through the room—like living shadow. Screams erupted from the guards. The straps at my wrists and ankles suddenly fell away, cut by an unseen force.

  A familiar face appeared above me. Grandmother. But not as I had ever seen her. Her skin was obsidian black, her eyes pools of darkness with pinpoints of silver light. Shadowy patterns rippled across her skin as she moved.

  "Seraphina," she whispered, her voice somehow both gentle and terrible. "My child."

  I tried to speak, but no words came. She gathered me in her arms with impossible gentleness, wrapping me in what felt like cool darkness.

  "Close your eyes, little one," she said.

  I obeyed. Even through closed eyelids, I sensed flashes of movement, heard sounds no human throat could make. The screams of the inquisitors changed in pitch, becoming something primal and terrified.

  When I opened my eyes again, we were outside the chamber. The corridor was... different. Bodies lay strewn about, but they didn't look like bodies anymore. They resembled husks, drained and twisted, their faces frozen in expressions of absolute horror.

  Grandmother carried me through the fortress. More bodies marked our path. Blood spattered the walls in abstract patterns. I should have been horrified, but I felt nothing except a distant sense of rightness.

  "I'm sorry it took so long to find you," Grandmother whispered. "I had to track the magical signature of your blood. They had wards..."

  We emerged into night air. Stars glittered overhead, so beautiful they made my eyes sting with tears. Grandmother carried me to a small clearing in nearby woods, where she had prepared a simple camp.

  She laid me down gently on a bedroll, then began examining my wounds. Her face remained impassive, but the shadows around us darkened and writhed with what I recognised as rage.

  Only then, seeing the concern in her ancient eyes, did something inside me finally break. I began to sob—great, heaving cries that tore from my raw throat.

  "Grandmother," I gasped between sobs. "They... they..."

  "I know, child," she said, gathering me into her arms again. "I know."

  I clung to her, my tears mingling with the blood of my tormentors that still stained her skin. I cried for what felt like hours—for my pain, for my lost innocence, for the person I had been before this place.

  Grandmother held me through it all, her cool hands stroking my hair, careful to avoid my injured horns. She whispered old words in a language I only half-understood—protective spells, healing incantations.

  "They will never touch you again," she promised. "I have made sure of it."

  I believed her. The fortress behind us was silent now, a tomb for those who had thought themselves righteous in their cruelty.

  * * *

  For five years after the fortress, I didn't leave our cottage. Not once.

  Mother and Grandmother had found this place deep in the forests of northern Landskavia, far from any village or patrol route. A small stone structure with moss-covered walls and a thatched roof that leaked during heavy rains. I didn't care. After the cold stone cell, even this humble shelter felt like a palace.

  "Drink this," Mother would say each morning, offering herbal concoctions that smelled of earth and magic. "For the pain."

  The physical wounds healed first. Mother's skilled hands worked tirelessly, applying salves and bandages, whispering healing incantations as tears slid silently down her cheeks. I pretended not to notice how she wept when she thought I was sleeping.

  My body mended, but my mind remained fractured. I flinched at sudden movements. I screamed myself awake most nights. I couldn't bear to be touched, even by Mother.

  "It will take time," Grandmother told her when Mother grew frustrated with my lack of progress. "Some wounds cannot be rushed."

  Grandmother understood. She never pushed, never demanded I speak of what happened. Instead, she simply existed alongside my broken self, a patient shadow waiting for me to remember how to live.

  During those five years, I learned to breathe again. To eat without vomiting. To sleep for more than an hour without nightmares. Small victories that Mother celebrated with quiet joy.

  Grandmother taught me magic—not just concealment spells, but protective wards, detection charms, offensive capabilities. Her methods were different from the formal instruction I'd received before. This was survival magic, raw and practical.

  "Your mixed blood gives you advantages," she explained one evening as I struggled to maintain a shield spell. "You can draw from both demonic and human sources of power."

  "What good did that do me when they took me?" I snapped, my first display of anger in months.

  Grandmother didn't flinch. "You were unprepared. You will never be unprepared again."

  She was right. I threw myself into learning with single-minded determination. If I exhausted myself with practice, I could sometimes sleep without dreaming of Thaddeus and his blade.

  By the third year, I had mastered basic concealment magic. I could hide my horns, tail, and the small vestigial wings at my shoulder blades with a thought.

  "You should practice maintaining the illusion for longer periods," Grandmother suggested. "When you eventually leave—"

  "I won't use it," I interrupted.

  Mother looked up from her mending. "Seraphina, you must. It's not safe—"

  "I won't hide what I am anymore," I said, my voice steady. "That's what they want—for us to be ashamed, to skulk in shadows. I won't give them that satisfaction."

  Grandmother studied me, those ancient eyes seeing more than I wanted to reveal. Then she nodded once. "Then we will teach you to fight instead."

  The fourth year brought strength back to my body. Grandmother's combat training was merciless—she might look like an elderly human woman to outsiders, but her shadow form moved with deadly precision. She taught me to use my smaller stature as an advantage, to strike at vulnerable points, to use an opponent's momentum against them.

  "You will never overpower a fully armoured inquisitor," she said. "But you can outsmart one."

  I learned to throw knives, to move silently through forests, to track and hunt. I learned to listen to the whispers of shadows that spoke to my demonic blood. I learned the patrol schedules of the nearest Solarian outposts by heart.

  Mother watched these lessons with worried eyes but never interfered. She knew, as I did, that the world would never allow me peace. Better to be dangerous than vulnerable.

  By the fifth year, I had begun venturing outside our cottage—first just to the garden, then to the edge of the forest, finally to a small stream half a day's walk away. Each excursion stretched the boundaries of my fear.

  I remember the first time I encountered another person—a trapper checking his lines. I froze, terror washing over me in a cold wave. He stared at my horns, my obviously inhuman features. I waited for the shout, the attack.

  Instead, he nodded once and continued on his way.

  I returned home shaking but triumphant. "Someone saw me," I told Grandmother. "He didn't do anything."

  "Not everyone is an inquisitor," she replied. "Some humans simply wish to live their lives unmolested, as do we."

  That night, I made my decision. "I'm leaving," I announced over dinner.

  Mother's spoon clattered against her bowl. "Seraphina, no—"

  "Not forever," I assured her. "But I can't stay hidden away forever. And..." I hesitated, finding the words. "There are others like me. Half-breeds, full demons trying to survive. They need help."

  "And you believe you're the one to provide it?" Grandmother asked, her tone neutral.

  "Who else?" I countered. "I know the patrol routes, the safe passages. I know how inquisitors think, how they operate. I can help others avoid what happened to me."

  Mother began to cry silently. I reached across the table and took her hand—a gesture that would have been impossible months earlier.

  "I'll be careful," I promised. "I'll visit when I can."

  Grandmother nodded slowly. "You will need supplies. And better weapons than those practice blades."

  And so I began my new life. At first, I simply travelled, mapping routes and gathering information. I learned which villages harboured sympathetic residents, which roads were heavily patrolled. I discovered small communities of non-humans living in secrecy—goblins in abandoned mines, trolls in remote mountain caves, half-elves passing as human in border towns.

  I began guiding those in danger to safety. A young half-orc fleeing conscription. A family of brownies whose forest home had been cleared for farming. A troll child separated from his clan during a Solarian raid.

  Word spread among the hidden communities. "Seek the Twilight Guide," they whispered. "The half-demon woman with the small horns. She knows the way."

  Three years into this work, I realised my activities had drawn attention. Twice I narrowly avoided inquisitor patrols that seemed to be searching specifically for me. I knew then that I had to sever my connection to Mother and Grandmother. If they were watching me, they might follow me home.

  I wrote a letter explaining my decision and left it on Mother's pillow while she slept. Then I disappeared into the night, tears streaming down my face.

  For twenty years, I maintained my distance. Occasionally, I would send anonymous gifts through trusted traders—herbs Mother couldn't grow herself, rare books Grandmother enjoyed. Sometimes I would watch their cottage from the forest's edge, just to assure myself they were well.

  Once, when Mother fell ill with winter fever, I risked a brief visit. I arrived after dark, slipping through Grandmother's wards with the passphrase she'd taught me.

  "I knew you would come," Grandmother said, unsurprised by my appearance at the door. "She's been asking for you."

  Mother's eyes, clouded with fever, brightened when she saw me. "My Seraphina," she whispered, reaching for my hand. "My brave girl."

  I stayed three days, until her fever broke. Then I vanished again before dawn.

  As the decades passed, I built my network of safe houses and sympathetic contacts. I learned to move between worlds—human settlements where I concealed my nature, and hidden enclaves where I could be myself. I gathered intelligence about patrol routes, about inquisitor tactics, about the politics of the Solarian Empire and how they affected those they deemed "abominations."

  I made my promise under the light of a blood moon, thirty years after my escape from the fortress: No one else would suffer as I had, not if I could prevent it.

  When word reached me of Mother's declining health, I abandoned all caution. Grandmother's message found me in a goblin settlement near the Wasteland border: "She doesn't have long. Come now."

  I travelled for three days without rest, arriving at the cottage to find it much as I remembered, though smaller somehow. Inside, Mother lay in her bed, her once-chestnut hair now white, her strong healer's hands thin and spotted with age.

  "You came," she whispered when I knelt beside her.

  "I'm sorry I stayed away," I said, taking her hand. "I wanted to keep you safe."

  She smiled weakly. "My Seraphina. Always protecting others."

  I stayed with her for two weeks. We talked of simple things—the herbs in her garden, the birds that nested in the eaves. I read to her from her favourite books when her eyes grew too tired to see the words. And when she slipped away one quiet dawn, I was holding her hand.

  Grandmother and I buried her beneath the apple tree she'd planted when we first came to the cottage. We stood together as the sun set, two women marked by loss but unbroken.

  "What will you do now?" Grandmother asked.

  "Continue my work," I replied. "It matters more than ever."

  She nodded, unsurprised. "Then take this." She pressed a small pendant into my hand—a purple stone set in silver. "If you are ever in mortal danger, break it. I will come."

  I kissed her weathered cheek. "Thank you for everything, Grandmother."

  That night, I returned to my mission with renewed purpose. Mother had spent her life healing others; I would spend mine ensuring they weren't harmed in the first place. Each person I guided to safety was a victory against the system that had nearly destroyed me.

  And if sometimes, in quiet moments, I dreamed of a world where such work wasn't necessary—a world where beings like me could live openly without fear—well, dreams had their place. But reality demanded action, not wishful thinking.

  Until Queen Lilith returned, I would be the shield between my people and those who would harm them.

  * * *

  Sera's voice faltered as she concluded her story, her amber eyes fixed on the dancing flames of their campfire. "After Mother died, I promised myself I'd continue helping others like me. I've spent decades guiding half-breeds and other non-humans to safety, but sometimes..." She swallowed hard. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just postponing the inevitable. The Solarians grow stronger each year, and our safe havens fewer."

  Lilith sat in silence, absorbing the weight of Sera's history. Something tightened in her chest, a pressure that felt foreign yet familiar. Though she'd never experienced such trauma personally, Jacob had known loneliness, isolation, the feeling of being an outsider. That part of her understood Sera's pain all too well.

  "I'm sorry," Lilith said softly, fighting back unexpected tears that threatened to spill. The emotion caught her off guard, a reminder that beneath her demonic exterior, Jacob's humanity remained. "No one should suffer as you have."

  Sera looked up, surprise evident on her face. "My lady, there's no need for your sympathy. I told you this not to earn pity, but so you'd understand why your return means everything to those of us caught between worlds."

  Lilith nodded, considering her response carefully. The campfire crackled between them, sparks rising into the night sky like tiny stars. She felt a strange obligation to share something of herself with Sera after such vulnerability, yet caution held her back.

  How could she possibly explain Jacob? The truth about Infinity, about being transported into a game character's body? It seemed impossible without sounding mad. And worse, it might shatter Sera's hope, the very thing that had sustained her through decades of hardship.

  "Perhaps," Lilith said finally, "I should tell you something of myself in return." She adjusted her position, wings folding more comfortably against her back. "Not everything in the legends is accurate, and there are parts of my story few have ever heard."

  Sera's eyes widened, her expression shifting to one of reverent attention. "I would be honoured, my lady."

  Lilith drew a deep breath, organising her thoughts. She would tell Sera about the Lilith she had created as Jacob, the backstory she had lovingly crafted over years of roleplaying. It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't entirely false either.

  "First," Lilith said with a gentle smile, "I wasn't born a queen. I wasn't born at all, not in the way you might think."

  Lilith took a deep breath, drawing on memories of the backstory she'd crafted for her character across years of gaming. "It all started during what was known as the Age of Shadows..."