Chapter 6: Encounter

Aaron stood in the doorway, shoulder jammed against the frame, watching Ma knead dough like it was the only thing keeping her hands steady. Flour drifted in the air, soft as ash, catching the morning light spilling through the cracked window. He'd thought he had time—weeks, maybe months—before that demoness showed her face in Eldoria, her shadow slinking over his patched-up life. But time's a bastard, always slipping through your fingers. She was here. Early. Too damn early.

"Something's off," he rasped, voice barely a whisper, lost under Ma's off-key hum. It rattled him—had something changed? Had he fucked up the timeline? But it didn't matter. What's done was done, etched in blood and ember, no undoing it now.

"Ma," he said, louder, stepping into the kitchen. She looked up, flour smudged on her cheek, eyes narrowing like she was ready to call him out. "Take it easy today, alright? I'll do the field work."

Her hands froze, dough sticking to her knuckles. "You? Since when do you volunteer for that?"

"Just—rest, Ma. I've got it." He tried for a grin, but it came out crooked, shaky. She squinted, suspicious, her fingers twitching like she wanted to grab him and shake some sense loose.

"You're actin' like you've seen a ghost," she said, voice all gravel and grit, but she flicked a wrist, flour dusting the air. "Fine. Don't kill yourself out there."

"Yeah," he managed, throat tight, and bolted before her stare could peel him open.

Amelia was out back, swinging that stick like it was forged for her, whacking a stump 'til splinters flew. Her pigtails swung wild, one drooping lower, and she spun when she heard his boots crunch. "Aron! You're late—spar with me!"

"Not today, 'Melia." He stopped short, hands jammed in his pockets, dirt under his nails. "Stay with your pa, alright? Just—stick close."

She frowned, stick sagging in her grip. "Why? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." A lie, thick and sour on his tongue. "Got field stuff. Busy day."

Her eyes lingered, green and sharp, like she could see the cracks he was hiding. "Okay," she said slow, chewing her lip. "But you're sparrin' me tomorrow, no excuses."

"Deal," he croaked, and turned away fast, before that grin of hers could sink its hooks in deeper.

The field stretched out, wheat swaying lazy under a sun too hot for spring. Aaron didn't waste time. Spells hummed in his bones, layered deep—strength, speed, endurance, all the tricks he'd stitched into himself over months. He grabbed the scythe, and it was over in minutes. Blade swung. Wheat fell. Bundles stacked. Done. Too quick, maybe, but he wasn't here to play farmer—he was waiting.

Market street was a mess of noise and dust, stalls sagging under their own weight, hawkers shouting over each other. Kids darted through, chasing a scruffy mutt with a stolen crust, their laughs sharp as broken glass. Aaron paced, boots scuffing the dirt, same as he had back then—back when the demoness first caught him, her voice like honey over a blade. His stomach churned just thinking about it, a sour twist that made him want to spit.

He stopped near Tully's cart—old man tapping his foot like always, hat drooping over eyes soft as a dog's, watching the world like it might owe him a favor. Aaron nodded, got a grunt back, and let the ember flare in his eyes. The spell wasn't his—hers, that demoness, a gift he'd snatched before running from her deal. The world lit up, ember threading gold through the stalls, red pulsing in the crowd, blue bleeding from the sky like a bruise.

There she was.

A merchant, draped in a human skin too smooth to be real. Her stall glittered with trinkets—rings, charms, junk that caught the light wrong. Her smile was a trap, too kind, too soft, slicing through the market's din like a whisper you can't unhear. "Finest wares in Eldoria, dear—come take a look," she purred, voice velvet over venom. Aaron's gut lurched, bile burning his throat. He wanted to hurl, let it splash her pristine skirt and watch that smile crack.

He'd prepared for this. Ember simmered in him, spells woven into his muscles, his bones—enough to break her if he had to. He moved past, slow, head down, boots dragging like any kid's might. Playing the part. But her eyes—they burned into his back, wide and unblinking, same as before. What was it? What'd pulled her to him then, and now? His power? His guilt? Something he couldn't scrape off?

He kept walking, hands flexing, ember humming low and restless. The market buzzed on—Old Tully muttering about the weather, a woman haggling over a bruised pear with shaky hands she tucked away fast. Aaron's chest ached, not from magic but from them—Ma, Amelia, this scrappy little life he'd kill to keep. Her stare followed, a weight pressing down, heavy as the storm brewing in the air.

The market hushed as the afternoon bled into evening, shadows stretching long and lazy across the dirt. The hawkers had packed their shouts, stalls sagging under the weight of unsold wares, and the air softened—cooler now, tinged with the bite of coming dusk, like the world was exhaling after a hard day. Aaron played the kid, kicking stones with a pack of scruffy brats his age, their laughter sharp and wild, cutting through the quiet. "Oi, Aron, toss me that!" one yelled—a skinny thing with a gap-tooth grin—and he lobbed a bruised apple their way, snagged from Tully's cart for a grunt and a wink.

He ran errands too—hauling a sack of grain for the baker with knuckles like walnuts, fetching a spool of thread for Widow Mara, who smoothed every coin flat between her fingers like it was a prayer. A few light coins jingled in his pocket, cold against his thigh, earned from sweat and small favors. Felt good, in a dumb, simple way—better than blood money, at least.

But it was all a dance, a mask. He felt her—her—trailing him like a shadow stitched too tight. The demoness. He didn't look back. Didn't need to. Her presence was a itch under his skin, a hum he couldn't shake.

He broke away from the market, boots crunching a path to the lake—a quiet stretch of water, edged with reeds that bent like mourners, where folks didn't linger. Too still, too lonely. He'd come here before, back when her whispers first hooked him, back when he was stupid enough to listen. He sat at the edge, legs dangling, water lapping at the toes of his boots, dark and glassy, reflecting a sky turning bruise-purple.

She sat beside him. Just like that—no sound, no warning, like she'd always been there. Her dark hair was bundled under a scarf, strands slipping loose like ink spilling over parchment. Purple eyes glinted, sharp and deep, the kind that could drag a man under and make him thank her for it. Her body—tight in that merchant's wear, curves pressing against the fabric—screamed danger wrapped in silk. Aaron's stomach twisted, bile clawing up his throat like a fist.

"Oh, hello, child," she purred, voice nimble and soft, a lullaby laced with thorns. She leaned closer, elbow brushing his, and smiled—too kind, too smooth, a mask that didn't fit. "What brings a little one like you out here all alone?"

He didn't answer. Didn't want her words slithering in, curling around his thoughts like they had before. She tilted her head, those eyes wide and gleaming. "You've got a spark, don't you? Something special. Tell me—what's your name?"

Rage flared, hot and sudden, a coal bursting in his chest. He hated her voice, hated that smile—hated how it'd started everything. Sure, he'd bent to the dark, chose it with his own bloody hands, but she'd been the spark, the shove, the honeyed whisper that made ruin taste sweet. His fingers twitched, ember humming in his veins, spells layered deep in his muscles, his bones—ready, waiting.

"Shut your demon ass up," he snapped right away, voice cracking like a whip. His hand moved—fast, faster than he'd meant—yanking the knife from his belt and hurling it at her neck. A blink, a blur, the blade sang through the air, glinting in the fading light. She jerked back, barely, the edge grazing her scarf, slicing a thread loose. It fluttered down, slow and mocking, landing on the water's surface like a dead leaf.

Her smile didn't falter—widened, even—lips parting to show teeth too sharp for a human mouth. "Oh, my," she breathed, a laugh threading through it, soft and delighted, like he'd handed her a gift. "Such fire. I knew there was something about you."