7.| Daemons

Trynton's gaze bore into me, probing and intense, as if he were dissecting every inch of my face. Though I knew this body was not truly my own, I still felt exposed under the weight of his scrutinizing stare.

I shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to demand he look away. The last time I had spoken out of turn, the consequences were fresh lashes torn into my hand by the whip, my back brutalized until the skin hung in ragged strips. 

Even the slightest motion now pulled agonizingly at my manacled wrists suspended above me.

"Where did you get those scars?" Trynton asked at last, pointing at the disfigured skin on my face.

I knew the sight they presented—mounds of melted, uneven flesh rippling across my forehead, cheek and chin as if left by the harsh caress of fire. 

Unsure how to respond, I grappled with the knowledge that I was a reincarnated soul trapped within the confines of a stranger's body. I knew nothing of this boy's past, save for the fact that he had been born into slavery, his mother had died in childbirth, and these scars had marked him since his first breath.

"I came out this way," I finally admitted, hoping my words would satisfy Trynton's curiosity. His scrunched up expression, however, suggested otherwise.

"I've seen worse," he said, his voice was low as he spoke of the horrors he'd witnessed. "Especially after collecting bodies from the Feeding Grounds following a Blood Moon." 

A haunted look crept into his eyes, as if he were recalling a scene too terrible to describe.

I weakly lifted my head, curious about what he meant. Although Anyae was kind enough to give me bread and water, it did little to ease the pain I was in.

The cold air at least kept the swelling at bay, but my abused muscles screamed even when I willed them to stillness. Perhaps Trynton registered my horrible state, his lingering stare holding a hint of pity...or maybe guilt.

With a grunt, he leaned forward from his crate and produced a set of jingling keys. My breath hitched as he rose and approached, arm outstretched for the manacles biting into my wrists. I flinched instinctively, bracing for another blow.  

But it never came. Instead, he worked the locks with surprising tenderness until the shackles fell away, letting me crumple bonelessly to the blood-stained hay with a muffled thump and a wince of agony as it jarred up my flayed back. 

With Trynton looming over me, I didn't dare move or meet his gaze. Until he muttered, "I probably shouldn't be letting you down. But I reckon you ought to listen comfortably."

Listen comfortably? I pushed myself upright, fighting dizziness as I wrapped my arms around my shivering torso. How the hell could any comfort be found lying exposed in this freezing barn with a torn shirt? 

I risked a glance at Trynton, now resettled on his crate, regarding me curiously. 

Seizing on the opportunity to divert his scrutiny, I asked, "Have you witnessed the Blood Moon yourself? The...attacks?"

Trynton fixed me with an expression of such profound disbelief that it bordered pity. Wordlessly, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing the scars on his arms. 

They were long and deep, like a pair of claws had torn straight through his skin and never really healed the same. They looked painful and ugly.

"'Course I have, boy," he grunted, tracing the mutilated flesh with calloused fingertips. 

"And I'd just as soon never lay eyes on the unholy sight again. But the Free Cities, they're like a feast laid out for the Daemons to devour at their whim."  His haunted gaze bored into me once more. "Before you got sold, didn't your folks ever warn you 'bout the Blood Moons? The attacks?" he removed the shackles from my raw, swollen ankles with a clink of metal on metal.

Agony swept down my legs as the iron cuffs fell away, but at least there was some relief from the chafing restraints. I flexed my abraded skin, reveling in even this small freedom.

Yawning gaps riddled my memory of this boy's life I now lived. How could I explain the missing years, the knowledge of things that occurred when he was still an infant? 

I would have to stumble through this fucked existence, crafting lies to survive another day. My entire life would be made up stories for the moments I missed. 

"I had an accident when I was younger, before I was sold. Don't remember anything since I was six, just the basic things like eating and breathing." I finally said, hoping he'd buy it. 

Trynton snorted. "An accident? What kind of accident robs a kid of his memories like that?" Skepticism laced his gruff voice.

I tried to look away, but he grabbed the back of my head and forced me to meet his gaze. 

"Tell me the truth," He demanded, grip biting into my skin.

"I am." I told him, swallowing hard and hoping that Trynton would believe me.

I spoke as much of the truth as I understood—that I had no idea how I ended up in this boy's body, or what his life was like before I took over. 

All I had were flashes of memories, triggered by pain or fear. Memories that were not mine, but his.

Another knifing pain splintered through my head, and I gasped. A scene unfolded before my eyes, as vivid as if I was there…

An old woman claiming to be my mother flung me into a closet, her watery blue eyes brimming with rage. She glared through the crack as if I were an abomination.

I felt the six-year-old boy's terror as ragged breaths tore from his throat. He clutched his hands, begging. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," he meant it with every fiber of his being, unable to fathom why he was cursed with these strange, uncontrollable powers that erupted without warning. He didn't want to hurt anyone. 

"Everything you touch, you destroy! You're a monster that can't help his wicked ways," she spat, slamming the door and leaving him alone in darkness.

The vision faded, and I blinked. I was back in the barn, still sitting in the hay. 

Trynton let go of my hair, seeming to finally believe me, and headed for the exit. "Stay here," he growled over his shoulder. "I'll get a fire goin', make this place less of a goddamn icebox."

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dimming light. 

As soon as his footsteps faded, Anyae emerged from her hiding spot beneath an old carriage in the back. She waved at me, then slipped out into the night like a ghost. 

I saw the angry red cuts and purpling bruises covering her bare feet—the price she had paid to bring me scraps, trudging through knee-deep snow without shoes.

She should have looked out for herself instead of me. Not that I wanted to be selfish, but I knew in my heart that had our roles been reversed, I would have saved myself rather than risking danger for her.

The thought made me feel guilty.

Before the blizzard could bury the world in white, Trynton returned, a hulking shape weighed down by an arm full of logs. Steam rose from  his chapped lips as he shook the snow from his beard like an angry bear, logs tumbling to the frozen ground.

"Shite," he cursed, "It's like All Mother's tryin' to bury us in ice."

He struck flint against steel, sending sparks flying like tiny stars in the darkness. Fire sprang to life, casting a golden glow over the barn, pushing back the shadows.

I moved closer, numb fingers outstretched toward the beckoning heat. The cold had seeped into my very bones, slowing my thoughts. 

Trynton sat across from me near the fire, a mug of something hot and brown cradled in his rough hands. I hadn't noticed it before, but then again, there was more light now.

"Go ahead," he said suddenly. "Ask your question."

"Why?" I croaked out. "Why this? Why are people like me being treated like animals?" My hands trembled, unable to feel the warmth no longer. 

These Daemons, the endless chase, the chains that cut my wrists—they were nothing compared to the question that burned deep inside me: why this injustice? Why this pain, in a world already dark and cruel?

"To know that, you need to know about Daemons and the Vatican. We can get to answerin' that question another time," Trynton said.

I found my voice again, that fragile croak emerging from a parched throat. "When did you first see one of them?"

The massive man leaned in closer over the flames until I could make out every crevice and line etched into his weathered features. "I'll tell you about how I got these scars."