Chapter 12: Results

The Slayer Guild's tower didn't stand—it loomed, a beast hunched against the sky, its cold stone walls slick with damp that gleamed like tears in the torchlight. Shadows coiled along the edges, twisting like they'd grown teeth overnight, hungry for something soft to chew. The silence was a fist—unyielding, heavy—pressing on Aaron's chest until his ribs ached, each breath a quiet rebellion. He stood there, boots scuffing the uneven floor, kicking up dust that danced in the flickering glow like ghosts too stubborn to fade. Amelia hovered behind him—too damn close—her breath jagged and quick, slicing the stillness, her fists balled tight like she'd slug the dark if it blinked wrong. Her pigtails brushed his shoulder, a graze he felt down to his bones, a tether he hadn't asked for but couldn't cut.

A figure emerged from the gloom—a woman draped in a dress white as fresh snow, the kind that blinds you after months of gray muck. She moved like she owned the air, each step a claim, her gaze slicing through him—cold, sharp, a butcher's knife sizing up a lamb. She stopped, arms folded, chin tilted just enough to say you're beneath me, and her voice came smooth as ice over a blade, dripping with disdain that stung like nettles. "What makes you worthy?" she asked, every syllable a jab, peeling him bare—an arrogant village boy, dirt under his nails, stinking of hay and bravado, daring to tread where heroes and demigods carved their names in blood and ash.

Aaron didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just grinned—crooked, reckless, a spark igniting the ember in his chest, flaring hot like a coal tossed on dry straw. His hand moved—quick, sure, a flick of muscle and will—and the air shivered. A grimoire flickered into being, leather-bound, edges frayed like an old promise, his name scrawled across the front in jagged ink: Aaron. It hung there, solid as stone, a middle finger to the quiet. The clerk's gasp cracked the stillness—a raw, choked sound, like she'd swallowed a bone—her eyes popping wide, grotesque, like they might roll out and bounce. "A child prodigy," she whispered, voice trembling, stumbling over the words as if they'd tripped her on the way out. She bolted—snow-white hem flapping like a wounded dove—off to fetch someone, anyone, to judge this scrappy freak who'd just kicked the world off its hinges.

Amelia's glare seared into his side, hotter than a branding iron, subtext screaming what the hell are you playing at. Her fingers twitched—itching to grab him, shake him, throttle him maybe—but he just shrugged, loose and easy, like he hadn't turned the room into a powder keg. "Easy, 'Melia," he muttered, voice rough as a barn floor, barely glancing her way. She didn't ease—her jaw clamped tight, a tea kettle left too long, steam hissing silent, and the air between them thickened, heavy with questions she'd choke on before asking.

Footsteps echoed—fast, uneven—and the clerk dragged back a woman who didn't walk so much as arrive. Tall, 24, glasses perched on a nose sharp as a hawk's beak, silky dark hair spilling over a figure plump and defiant, her presence a weight that bent the room around her. Elyra. Aaron's breath snagged, a splinter in his throat he couldn't swallow. She was here—the prodigy who'd spun Kaelthara's magic into a wall he couldn't breach, who'd stood on those ramparts and laughed—laughed!—as his armies broke like waves on rock. Her eyes landed on the grimoire, then flicked to him, sour as milk left in the sun, her mood a storm rolling in fast and ugly.

"This?" she snapped, voice a whip cracking at the clerk, glasses slipping a fraction down her nose. "You drag me out for some petty boy who can summon a damn book?" She stepped closer, looming, her glare a blade aimed square at his chest. "Sure, it's cute—prodigy, whatever—but this guild ain't a sandbox for tricks, kid. It's for world-breakers. You're not it." Her words bit, each one a splinter under the nail, and the clerk flinched, shrinking back like a scolded pup.

Aaron's grin stretched—too wide, too knowing, splitting his face like a crack in frozen earth. "Elyra," he said, soft and warm, like they'd shared a bottle over a dying fire, like he could still taste that truce-night wine—bitter, sharp, her smirk over the rim burning hotter than the drink. Her eyes narrowed—shock, suspicion, a flicker of something old and buried—but before she could spit back, he turned, casual as a kid pointing out a stray cat, and gestured to the window. Outside, through glass warped and streaked, Seraphina staggered down the street—nose bleeding again, a red smear on her silk glove, scratching her hair like she'd claw her scalp off. She hauled a sack of engineering gear—overpriced junk he'd saddled her with—cursing under her breath, a litany of venom that carried even through the stone.

"That's mine," he said, voice dropping low, a raw truth slipping out like a knife from its sheath, quiet but deadly. "A demon—high blood, enslaved." He paused, letting it sink, then added, softer, "I ENSLAVED her."

Elyra loomed ahead, staff humming low, a faint blue glow licking at its tip. "Such bold words," she said, voice smooth as oil but sharp enough to cut. "Calling her a demon—a high-ranking one—and your slave." She leaned closer, staff sparking once, a warning. "If any other fool spouted that, I'd call them mad. Drag them out by their ears." Her gaze flicked to the grimoire in his hand, its leather worn, its edges curling like it'd seen too much. "But you… you're not just any fool, are you?"

Elyra's breath caught—just a hitch, a gasp she swallowed fast—but her eyes betrayed her, wide and wild for a heartbeat before she slammed the mask back down. She'd cranked the city's spell higher, testing, watching that demoness bleed under its weight. A creature who could breach her gates, resist her magic—that was no small thing. Dangerous. Extremely dangerous. 

Watching her falter a bit, Aaron stepped forward. "Don't panic, I told you, she is mine...." The words landed heavy, a punch to the gut, and the clerk flinched, her clipboard clattering to the floor.

Amelia's boots scraped the stone, a sharp skff—she was close now, too close, her breath hot on his neck. "Aron," she hissed, low and frayed, subtext screaming you're gonna get us killed. Her hand hovered, trembling, like she'd yank him back if she could just find the nerve.

Elyra scoffed, forcing calm over the panic flickering in her chest. "Bold's one thing, kid. Stupid's another." She stepped closer, staff sparking again, blue light painting her face sharp and cold. Gazing at his grimoire. "You've got a trick—fine. But this guild? We don't play with parlor games. We break worlds. You're not there yet." She paused, eyes narrowing, mind spinning behind those glasses—gears clicking, weighing him. "First and final chance. Impress me, or you're out. Her too." She nodded at Amelia, who stiffened, fists clenching tight.

Aaron's eyes flashed—ember-hot, fierce—and his grin came back, wider, feral, a wolf baring teeth through the pain. "I don't need your pity," he said, voice steady now, a promise carved in blood. "I'll show you."

Snap!

Outside, Seraphina was a mess—silk cloak snagging on the cobble, boots stumbling under the weight of a sack stuffed with overpriced gears and bolts. The city's magic was a hammer on her skull, pounding harder with every step, a high whine clawing at her ears. She was a demon noble—centuries old, power like a river—but here, it was nothing. Blood leaked from her nose again, red drops splattering the stone, her gloved hand swiping at it, smearing it worse. Then—snap. Her knees buckled, fast and hard, like strings cut. The sack hit the ground with a dull thud, spilling its guts—screws, wires, a cracked lens rolling free. She went down after it, palms slapping the cobble, blood dripping from her ears now, staining her silver hair crimson.

 "How…" The clerk started, voice a whisper, then steadied it. "How did you do that?"

Aaron's grin faltered—just a flicker, a crack in the bravado. "Told you," he said, softer now, almost tired. "I broke her, enslaved her, minced her until she was mine….." The words landed heavy, a punch to the gut, and the clerk flinched, her clipboard clattering to the floor.

The tower groaned, shadows slinking closer, and Elyra turned, staff flaring bright enough to sting the eyes. Burning. Burning with awe, burning with curiosity, "hmmm….true indeed, truly you don't disappoint." 

***

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