Chapter 9: Risky lies

Aaron paced the kitchen, boots scraping the floorboards like a confession he couldn't spit out. Morning light sliced through the window, catching dust motes that twirled, carefree, while his stomach knotted tighter than a hangman's rope. Ma was at the counter, kneading dough with hands that could snap a branch or soothe a nightmare, humming a tune that wobbled like a drunkard's stagger. Flour dusted her cheek, a soft smear against the hard lines life had carved. He cleared his throat—gravel in his windpipe—and she turned, eyes pinning him like a moth to a board.

"Spit it out, Aron," she said, voice warm but worn, a quilt patched too many times.

He swallowed, mouth dry as ash. "Ma, I gotta talk to you." It came out shaky, a kid's whimper dressed in a man's boots, and he cursed himself for it.

She wiped her hands on her apron, slow, like she was stalling a verdict, and faced him fully, arms crossed—a wall of love and doubt. "What's gnawin' at you?"

He sucked in air, let it leak out slow, deflating. "There's this merchant—came by a few days back. He's lookin' for helpers, wants me to go to the city. Saw me and 'Melia sparrin', said we're strong, could use us."

Ma's frown cut deeper, a trench of worry. "A merchant? Doin' what?"

"Tradin' rare stuff—spices, silks, that kinda thing. Needs guards for the road." The lie stuck to his tongue, bitter as burnt coffee, and he shifted, boots squeaking on the floor. "It's a chance, Ma. Coin in my pocket, a bit of the world in my eyes. I could learn somethin' useful."

She shook her head, flour drifting like a ghost's sigh. "No, Aron. Too dangerous. You're young, and I need you here. Who's gonna split the wood? Keep 'Melia from breakin' her fool neck?"

"'Melia's fine on her own," he said, too fast, and her eyes sharpened, hawk-like.

"She's a child, same as you."

"I ain't a child, Ma," he shot back, then bit his lip, guilt a splinter under his nail. "I mean—I've trained, I'm stronger now. I can handle this."

She stepped closer, hand rising to his cheek, thumb tracing a scar he'd earned dodging Amelia's wild swings. "I know you're strong, Aron. Watched you two knock each other senseless out back. But the world ain't a game. It's bandits, beasts—things that don't care how quick you dodge."

His chest ached, her love a chain he couldn't break. "I know, Ma. But I need this—for us, for what's comin'. I'll be careful, I swear it."

She studied him, eyes like wells swallowing light. "I wanna meet this merchant. If he's real, if he can swear you'll come back whole, maybe I'll think on it."

Relief hit him like a breaker, too big to hold. "Thank you, Ma. I'll bring her tomorrow."

He turned to go, but her voice snagged him, soft and sharp as a thorn. "Don't lie to me, Aron. Not ever."

He froze, heart a drumbeat, but nodded, slipping out before the truth clawed its way up.

Next day, she came—the demoness, wrapped in human skin too flawless to trust. Lady Seraphina, she called herself, a vision in silk and shadow, her suit and pants clinging tight, curves plump and dangerous as a loaded crossbow. She strode through the village, and heads turned—old men gawking, kids whispering, a ripple of want and wonder trailing her like smoke. Aaron met her at the door, gut churning. "You're a merchant, here to hire me," he hissed. "Make it good."

She smiled, all teeth and secrets. "As you command, master."

Inside, Ma stood, arms crossed, eyes flint-hard. The demoness swept in, hand outstretched. "A pleasure, ma'am. Your son sings your praises."

Ma shook it, grip testing, wary. "You're the one takin' my boy to the city?"

"Indeed," the demoness purred, voice sliding like honey over a blade. "I trade in rare goods—exotics that draw thieves. Your son and his friend Amelia have the mettle I need."

Ma's gaze darted to Aaron, then back. "What'll they do? Fight off cutthroats? Haul your baubles?"

"Among other things," she said, smooth as a river stone. "They'll guard, learn the trade, see the world beyond these hills. A rare chance to grow."

Ma's jaw clenched. "And you'll keep 'em safe?"

The demoness leaned in, just enough, her scent—jasmine and ash—curling through the air. "Their safety's my vow, ma'am. I've protections, tricks of my own. They'll not face harm I can't fend off."

Ma softened, the demoness's charm a tide eroding her walls. But then—outside—a clamor. Voices pitched high, feet scuffling. Aaron peeked out: villagers crowding, mostly lads, drawn by Seraphina's glow like moths to a lantern.

"Damn it," he muttered, stepping outside.

Tom, thick as an ox and twice as dumb, grinned greasy. "What's a dame like that doin' with you, Aron? You her errand boy?"

Aaron's ember sparked, heat in his veins. "Back off, Tom."

Tom shoved him, a lazy jab. "Or what? You'll tattle?"

Before Aaron could swing, Amelia was there, eyes wildfire-bright. "Leave him," she snarled, fists balled.

Tom leered. "Oh, 'Melia's playin' too?"

Her punch cracked like thunder, catching Tom's jaw, dropping him into the dirt like a sack of meal. Gasps, laughs—a few lads scattered.

Aaron grabbed her arm. "Enough, 'Melia. Not now."

She yanked free, glaring as Tom staggered up, clutching his face. "Next time, I'll crack your skull," she spat.

Inside, Ma watched through the glass, face a storm—pride warring with fear. The demoness smiled, sly as a fox. "See, ma'am? They're ready for anything."

Ma sighed, a sound like wind through bare branches. "Alright, Aron. You can go. But you write me—every day—and if it turns sour, you're back here. Swear it."

He nodded, throat knotted. "I swear, Ma."

She hauled him into a hug, fierce, like she could weld him to her bones, and he clung back, breathing in flour and salt and home, guilt a stone in his gut.

The demoness slipped out, winking as she went, and Aaron felt it settle—triumph, shame, a love too heavy to carry. One hurdle down, one left: Amelia's pa, a bull of a man with a heart locked tight. But with 'Melia's knuckles and the demoness's silver tongue, they'd pry it open.

Outside, the village hummed, whispers chasing Seraphina's shadow, but Aaron stayed put, staring at Ma's back as she turned to her dough. He had a dragon to rob, a lie to live, and a ma to shield—even if it broke him. She waved him off, floury hand smudging the air, like she was wiping him from her sight, and it stuck in his ribs, sharp and quiet.

The air hung thick as molasses, heavy with the tang of burnt toast drifting from the house. Aaron stood by the fence, boots kicking up dust, the afternoon sun slumping low like it was done pretending to care. Amelia's pa loomed across from him, a wall of a man—shoulders wide as a barn door, hands rough with scars from timber and time, eyes glinting like he'd caught a scent on the wind. Nearby, Lady Seraphina—the demoness—leaned against a post. She'd already spun her web, words dripping honey about gold and glory, and Aaron had braced himself for the old man to snarl, to shove her out the gate. Instead, he'd grinned—too wide, too hungry—his gaze raking over her like he could peel the silk off with his eyes.

"City's a fine spot for 'Melia," he rumbled, voice like gravel under a wheel. "She's restless—needs to stretch them legs. Good chance, this." He nodded at Seraphina, still grinning, like a dog eyeing a bone.

Aaron's jaw hung slack for half a beat, words caught in his throat like a cough he couldn't shake. He'd expected fists, a roar, maybe a lecture about strangers and lies. Not this—not Amelia's pa practically packing her bags, sending her off with a wave and a leer. "Uh, yeah," he managed, rubbing his neck, the ember in his chest flickering low, sour. "She'll… she'll do good there."

The man clapped Aaron's shoulder, a thump that jolted his spine. "You too, Aron. Steady lad, you are. Keep her safe, yeah? Outta trouble."

Aaron nodded, lips twitching into something like a smile, but those hawk-eyes narrowed, cutting through him like they could see the demon king crouched in his shadow. "C'mere," he said, jerking his chin toward the barn. "Away from her."

They trudged over, boots crunching dirt, the wind tugging at Aaron's hair like it wanted a fight. Inside, the barn swallowed the light—dust danced in thin sunbeams, hay prickled the air, and that burnt-toast smell clung like a ghost. Amelia's pa leaned against a beam, arms crossed, his grin gone, replaced by something heavy, worn smooth by years. He rubbed a scar on his knuckle, a jagged little story, and fixed Aaron with a look that pinned him to the earth.

"Listen, Aron," he said, low, like he was letting out a breath he'd held too long. "I know 'Melia ain't like most. Never was. Stronger'n me, stronger'n you, maybe. Different—like she's got a fire no one can douse." His voice cracked, just a hair, and he smoothed the scar again, a tic Aaron hadn't clocked before. "But she's my girl, y'hear?"

Aaron swallowed, throat tight as a noose. "I know, sir. She's… she's special."

A snort broke the quiet, rough and sharp. "Special's too small a word. She's a damn tempest, always has been—cracked her first tooth and grinned like she'd won a war. But you—" He stepped closer, close enough Aaron could smell the sweat and woodsmoke on him, "you're somethin' else too. Thought you were just a kid with big dreams, scrappy, ambitious. Normal, like I was." His eyes glinted, peeling Aaron apart. "But you ain't, are you?"

Panic spiked, quick and cold—Aaron's hands twitched, the ember flaring hot under his ribs. Did he know? The regression, the crown, the blood that wouldn't wash off? "I…. don't—"

"Don't bullshit me," the man cut in, soft but steel-edged. "I've watched you two—sparrin' in the yard, movin' like you've dodged more'n fists. You've got a shadow on you, Aron, and it ain't small."

Silence dropped, thick as the dust around them. Aaron's pulse hammered, but the old man just clapped his shoulder again, hard enough to bruise, a father's weight. "Take care of her, yeah? Like she's yours. Like a wife, even." He chuckled, a jagged, barking sound that didn't match his eyes. "Jokin'. Mostly. She trusts you—God knows why—and that's more'n I can ask."

Aaron forced a laugh, but it lodged in his chest, a splinter he couldn't dig out. "I'll keep her safe, sir. Promise."

The man nodded, slow, like he was measuring Aaron's bones. "Good. 'Cause I'll track you down if you don't….HAHAHAHA!!" He laughed, turning away, boots scuffing hay. "She talks in her sleep, y'know. Mumbles about dragons and thieves. Mouth like a busted dam."

He was halfway to the door when he tossed back, "Tell her goodbye for me. And Aron—don't let her break too many faces."

The barn door creaked shut, leaving Aaron in the half-dark, dust settling like a sigh. His chest ached—not the ember, not this time, but a deeper bruise, a promise he hadn't signed up for but couldn't dodge. Amelia was the hero—the one who'd toppled him when the world couldn't—and now he was her keeper? It was a punchline, bitter and absurd, but her pa's words stuck, heavy as a blade.

Outside, the wind kicked up, carrying Ma's hum from the house, a tune that wove through his ribs and squeezed. He'd lied to her, danced with a demoness, and now he was hauling Amelia toward a dragon's jaws, all for a hoard that might not fix a damn thing. But then he saw her—pigtails whipping wild, fists cocked, grin sharp enough to draw blood—and the ache twisted into something else, something warm and reckless. she'd follow her into the fire, laugh through the burns, because that's what you do when life's this jagged and alive.