Chapter 10 – The Wolf Stops Playing

The demon smiled at me with both mouths.

Hannah picked up her sword.

The afternoon sun cut a long gold stripe across the marble between us. Dust hung in the air. The black scales on the demon’s shoulders drank the light like spilled ink.

My pinky ring sat cold on my finger.

“Young master.”

“Hannah.”

“Step back.”

“Two steps or three.”

“Behind me.”

I moved.

My boots slid on dust. I almost tripped over the broken bench. I made it to the wall behind her in roughly the time it takes a normal person to lose their dignity twice.

Hannah rolled one shoulder.

Her braid swung. The sword in her hand looked, suddenly, very real. The polished wood caught the gold stripe on the floor and threw it back, sharper, like the light had remembered it had a job to do.

The demon took one long step.

Its claws clicked. Both pairs.

Hannah tilted her head.

“Hello.”

The demon hissed.

She smiled.

It was the small, slow, patient smile from the morning. The chess smile. The chef smiles. The smile she had used on me right after I made the worst mistake of my fictional life. Up close, in the gold sun, with a real sword in her hand, the smile was, possibly, illegal in several kingdoms.

“Young master.”

“Hannah.”

“Watch closely.”

“Watch what.”

“Mana.”

The word landed in the room like a small, quiet bell.

Hannah lifted her free hand.

She turned her palm up. She breathed in once, slow, the way a person breathes before they sing. The air around her shifted. The dust nearby drifted toward her without wind. The hem of her apron lifted, just a fraction, like a sigh.

A faint blue line traced up her wrist.

Then her forearm.

Then the back of her sword hand.

It glowed under her skin like a lit match held inside a paper lantern. Soft. Cool. Steady. The kind of light that did not promise anything except that it could.

I forgot the demon for a second.

I remembered the demon when it lunged.

It came in fast. Both top arms swung. The new arms reached. Black scales caught the gold stripe and ate it whole.

Hannah moved one step.

Just one.

She slid her boot six inches to the left. She rolled her shoulder. The practice sword in her hand met the demon’s wrist, and the wrist bent the wrong way. There was a wet, cracking sound. The demon’s top right arm folded against itself like a bad lawn chair.

The demon shrieked.

Hannah did not.

Hannah hummed.

She actually hummed. A small, lazy three-note thing. The kind of hum you would do while folding laundry. While sharpening a kitchen knife. At the same time, stepping casually around a creature from a bad dream and tapping the back of its other arm with the same wooden sword.

The other arm broke too.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“Are you watching?”

“Hannah, I am watching so hard.”

“Good.”

The demon swung with its lower arms.

Hannah caught one wrist with her free hand. The blue glow climbed from her forearm into her grip. The demon’s scales hissed. Steam rolled off the contact like hot water off a pan. The new wrist bent the wrong way, too.

The demon staggered back.

Hannah stepped in.

She did not chase. She did not lunge. She walked. The same lazy walk Lira had used on me in my bedroom this morning. The walk of a woman who knew, in her bones, exactly how long this was going to take, and exactly how much fun she planned to have along the way.

My ears were warm.

I told my ears to chill out. My ears did not listen.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“Mana.”

“Mana.”

“It is simple.”

“Hannah, you are bullying a demon.”

“It is rude.”

“Hannah.”

“Pay attention.”

She tapped her own sternum with two fingers.

The blue light bloomed there. A small, steady sun under her uniform. It pulsed once. Then, she traced down her arm again, brighter this time, and into the polished wood of the practice sword. The blade did not change color. The air around it did—a faint, rippling shimmer, like heat off a road in summer.

The demon roared.

Hannah turned her wrist.

The sword came down on the demon’s collarbone. The shimmer hit first. The wood hit a half second later. The collarbone, in both directions, gave up on being a bone.

The demon went to one knee.

Hannah crouched in front of it.

Like she was talking to a child, her braid fell off her shoulder. The blue glow pulsed quietly under her skin. She tilted her head, polite as a Sunday morning, and tapped the demon once on the forehead with two fingers.

“Hello.”

The demon snapped at her hand.

She moved her hand.

She tapped again—the other side of the forehead. The chest mouth tried to bite. She moved that hand, too. She tapped a third time, on the bridge of the demon’s nose, with the kind of patience that should not legally exist.

Then she winked at me.

I died.

Not literally. Spiritually. I died spiritually, on the spot, against the wall, holding a broken practice sword in two sausage hands.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“You are red.”

“I am dying.”

“You said that earlier.”

“I am dying again.”

“Different reason.”

“Same reason.”

“Different.”

She stood up.

She turned her back on the demon. On purpose. Like the demon had stopped counting, she walked, slow and unhurried, halfway to me. The blue light dimmed under her sleeve. Her storm grey eyes locked onto mine over the polished wooden blade.

“Mana lives in your core.”

“My core.”

“Below the ribs. Above the belly.”

“Cool.”

“You breathe in. You picture it warming. You push it out, slow, into your hands. Into your feet. Into your back.”

“That is the whole thing.”

“That is the basics.”

“How long until I can do that thing you just did?”

“Years.”

“Hannah.”

“Months. If you stop whining.”

“Months.”

“If you stop whining specifically.”

“I am whining less.”

“You are whining differently.”

The demon, behind her, scrambled to its feet.

It stood up on shaking legs. Its broken arms hung crooked. Black blood drooled down its chest mouth. The two red lights at the bottom of its empty eye pits flickered. The chest mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, a beat slower.

Hannah did not turn around.

She just smiled.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“Try it.”

“Now.”

“Yes.”

“There is a demon.”

“Yes.”

“Behind you.”

“I know.”

“Hannah.”

“Breathe.”

I breathed.

I closed my eyes for one stupid second. I pictured the place she had described. Below the ribs. Above the belly. A small, warm coal, the way she had drawn it with two fingers in the air. The pinky ring on my hand, traitor, went the tiniest bit warm.

A small, soft heat bloomed under my sternum.

It was nothing.

It was the size of a candle. It was barely there. It was, on a good day, less mana than a normal person used to lift a kettle. But it was there. Mine. Lit.

I opened my eyes.

I almost laughed.

“Hannah.”

“Young master.”

“It is on.”

“Yes.”

“It is small.”

“Yes.”

“It is, statistically, embarrassing.”

“Yes.”

“You are smiling.”

“Yes.”

The demon roared.

Hannah finally turned.

She turned slowly. The way a cat turns when the mouse has, finally, stopped being interesting. She lifted her sword from her shoulder. She rolled her wrist once. The blue glow flooded back up her arm in a single, smooth wave. The shimmer returned to the blade.

The demon stopped roaring.

The demon, for the first time since it had walked through the wall, took one step backward.

Both pairs of eyes flicked to the hole it had come in through.

Hannah saw it.

Of course she did.

She tilted her head. Slow. Patient. The same chess-piece tilt. Her braid swung the other way. The blue glow under her skin pulsed once, brighter, like a held breath finally let out.

“Young master.”

“Yes.”

“Demons run.”

“They do.”

“This one is thinking about it.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop thinking.”

“How.”

“Use your voice.”

I dropped my voice.

The candle beneath my sternum flickered slightly. The pinky ring felt a bit warmer. The hum behind my teeth rose, the same low note that had entered my voice when I was with Lira. With the Duke. With her, this morning, on the floor.

“Demon.”

It froze.

Both heads.

I did not aim for sleep. I did not aim to stop. I did not have the juice. I did not have any juice today for anything bigger than a paper cut.

So I aimed small.

“You already lost. The hole behind you. It is closed.”

The demon’s head snapped over its shoulder.

Its red lights flickered at the hole in the wall. The hole was, very obviously, still a hole. The afternoon sun was, very obviously, still pouring through it. A very confused bird sat on the rubble outside and tilted its head at the demon, as if even the bird thought this was sad.

The demon did not see the bird.

The demon saw a wall.

I felt it land. The thread pulled. The hum behind my teeth dipped, then steadied. The candle under my sternum guttered, almost out. I planted my feet. I held it.

Hannah moved.

She crossed the marble in two long, lazy strides. The blue glow beneath her skin brightened. The shimmer along her blade thickened. The demon turned to face her, claws raised, both arms broken and hanging.

Hannah did not swing.

She tapped.

Sword tip. Center of the chest, mouth. One soft, polite touch. The kind of touch a teacher uses to point at a word on a page.

The mana behind it was not polite.

The chest mouth burst.

Black blood sprayed sideways in a sheet. The demon’s body jerked. The smaller, white teeth in the chest of the mouth were scattered across the marble like spilled rice. The demon stumbled. Its plated shoulders shook. The two red lights at the bottom of its eye pits guttered and then, for one beautiful, dim second, almost went out.

The demon turned.

The demon ran.

It crashed back through the hole in the wall like a guest who had, finally, remembered an emergency at home. Its claws tore three new grooves through the rubble on the way out. Its broken arms slapped the broken stone. Its black scales caught no light at all on the way through.

It did not look back.

The dust rolled.

The bird on the rubble took off, finally, with a small offended squawk, and went to find a better afternoon.

The training hall went quiet.

Hannah lowered her sword.

She turned to look at me.

The blue glow under her skin faded. Slow. The shimmer on her blade dimmed. Her stormy grey eyes flicked from the hole in the wall to my face. Her braid was, somehow, still perfect.

“Young master.”

“Hannah.”

“You are still red.”

“I am aware.”

“It is mostly the demon.”

“It is mostly not the demon.”

“I know.”

“Hannah.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you let it almost kill me?”

“You are not almost dead.”

“I am partially dead.”

“That is not a thing.”

“In this house it is.”

She laughed.

A real laugh. Small. Quiet. The first I had heard from her all day. It cracked across her face like a window opening in a room that had, very politely, refused to admit it had any windows at all.

She walked over.

She tapped my sternum with two fingers, right where the candle was. The small, soft heat there pulsed once, polite, like a dog meeting a much larger one and choosing peace.

“Lesson three.”

“Lesson three.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Wear something you can sweat in.”

“Hannah.”

“Yes.”

“That is concerning.”

“Sleep well, young master.”

She turned.

She walked back to the rack. She set her sword down. She picked up the practice sword I had dropped and set it down too. The blue glow beneath her skin was gone. Her braid swung once over her shoulder. She did not look back.

The candle under my sternum guttered out.

The pinky ring went cool.

I sat down on the broken bench.

Outside, far past the eastern wall, a creature with two broken arms and one ruined chest mouth ran into the trees and did not stop running.

Far across the estate, in a council chamber that smelled of ink and old men, a Duke leaned back in a groaning chair, took a slow sip of warm water, and grinned at the ceiling beams as if he had somehow won a bet he had not even placed.