(5) Demons

She hated this, every second of it. The humiliation of being used as a political pawn, the sting of betrayal after being kidnapped and paraded like some bargaining chip, made her blood boil. The only ones she truly pitied were the guards who had been slaughtered trying to protect her. Diplomatic mission? What a farce. It had been a setup from the very beginning, and she had walked right into it.

Now, she sat in the dim, decaying grandeur of an abandoned mansion, deep in the heart of a forest that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. The men surrounding her were not the kind to hesitate; if the negotiations went sour, she knew they wouldn't think twice about ending her life. She forced herself to appear calm, to wear a mask of bravery, but beneath the surface, fear gnawed at her. It was a quiet, relentless terror, the kind that whispered what-ifs into the darkest corners of her mind.

Her father's words echoed in her head, a reminder of the responsibility she was supposed to carry as an adult, as the daughter of a king. He had always told her to be strong, to think before she acted. But how could she have prepared for this? She clung to the hope that he had sent out a search party, a guild mission, that his own people were scouring the land for her. Yet, deep down, she knew the truth. No one would be foolish enough to storm a compound teeming with mercenary mages and warriors. Not for her. Not even for a king's daughter.

"Im sorry dad" she whispered under her breath 

But then she heard it—a sound that smashed through the suffocating silence like a hammer. Her long, pointed ears twitched, instinctively straining toward the noise. Shouts. Panic. Chaos erupting somewhere beyond the walls of her prison. Her head snapped up from the desk where it had been resting, her forehead sticky with sweat and her mind dulled by hours of boredom and dread. Her heart leapt, a wild, desperate hope flaring in her chest. Something was happening. Something had changed.

She strained against the ropes binding her to the chair, the rough fibers digging into her wrists. The chair itself creaked in protest, but it held firm, as unyielding as her captors had been. She cursed under her breath, frustration and adrenaline surging through her. Of all the times to be tied to a *bloody chair*—now, when the air was electric with the promise of chaos, when the shouts grew louder and the sound of footsteps thundered down the hall. She craned her neck, desperate to see, to understand what was happening. Was it rescue? An attack? Or had her captors simply turned on each other?

The mansion shook violently, the force of the explosion rattling the walls and sending a tremor through the floor beneath her. She flinched, her body instinctively tensing as the sound reverberated through her bones. For a moment, she wondered if someone had unleashed a high-level fireball downstairs—something powerful enough to level a building. But no, this wasn't the sharp, crackling roar of fire magic. This was deeper, more visceral, almost guttural. It reminded her of the experiments her father's scientists had conducted, the ones with volatile liquids that exploded with terrifying force, leaving craters in their wake. 

Before she could fully process the first explosion, a second one followed. It was slightly quieter, but only by a fraction, the sound still deafening in the confined space. The mansion groaned in protest, dust raining from the ceiling as the walls seemed to sway. She held her breath, her ears ringing, her mind racing. What in the gods' names was happening down there? 

And then she heard it

A sound she couldn't place, something entirely foreign. It was sharp but muffled, like the crack of a whip wrapped in layers of cloth. It didn't match anything she'd ever heard before, not the clash of swords, not the roar of spells, not even the strange mechanical contraptions her father's engineers tinkered with. It was quick, precise, and utterly alien. Her imagination strained to make sense of it, but it was like trying to describe a color she'd never seen. 

Her eyes locked onto the door, her pulse quickening. The anticipation was sickening, a twisted mix of hope and dread coiling in her stomach. Whatever was happening downstairs, it was coming closer. The shouts grew more frantic, the strange muffled cracks punctuating the chaos like a macabre drumbeat. She leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow, her breath shallow, her heart pounding. 

The door remained shut

Well till it didn't 

It burst open with a force that made her jump in her chair, the ropes cutting into her skin as she strained against them. The man who stumbled through was the one she assumed had been in charge of her kidnapping, through her education she had to learn about previous battles this man an ex-general for the Umbralians.

The one with the cold eyes and the voice that brooked no argument. But now, he looked nothing like the composed, ruthless figure she'd come to know. His face was pale, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he slammed the door shut behind him and pressed his back against it, as if he could hold back whatever was coming with sheer willpower alone. 

The look on his face, she would never forget it. Fear. Raw, unbridled terror. It was etched into every line of his expression, his wide eyes darting toward the door as though it might explode inward at any moment. This was a man who had faced down Armies and mages without flinching, and yet now he looked like a cornered animal, desperate and wild.

"What the hells is happening down there?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended, fueled by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. 

He turned to her, his gaze locking onto hers, and for a moment, he seemed to remember she was there. His lips parted, but the words that came out were barely more than a whisper, trembling with a dread that sent a chill down her spine. 

"Demons…" he breathed, his voice cracking. "Demons are here."

The word hung in the air like a death knell. Demons. Not mercenaries, not rival factions, not even her father's soldiers. Demons. The kind of creatures from nightmares, the kind that didn't just kill—they devoured, they destroyed, they left nothing but ash and despair in their wake. Her stomach dropped, her mind racing to make sense of it. Demons didn't just appear out of nowhere. They didn't attack mansions in the middle of forests. And yet, the man's terror was too real, too visceral to be a lie.

And then she heard it—the sound of boots, methodical and deliberate, approaching the door. Not the chaotic rush of a mob, not the clatter of armor or the chanting of spells. 

And definitely not guttural roars,

This was different. Controlled

As the footsteps grew louder, the man's panic surged. He moved quickly, his hands trembling as he untied her from the chair, yanking her to her feet. Before she could react, the cold edge of a knife pressed against her throat, his grip unsteady but firm enough to make her freeze. She could feel his breath, hot and ragged, against the back of her neck. His fear was palpable, a living thing that seemed to fill the room.

"Don't move," he hissed, his grip tightening on her arm. "You're my ticket out of this."

She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The knife pressed harder against her skin, and she could feel the faint sting of it breaking the surface. Her mind raced, but there was no escape, no clever plan. All she could do was hope, hope that these so-called "demons" would let her live. If she survived this, she thought bitterly, she'd be thankful for the strange, terrifying sounds she'd heard today. But gratitude was hard to muster with a blade at her throat.

The door exploded inward with a deafening *boom*, the sound unlike anything she'd ever heard. It wasn't the crack of magic or the splintering of wood, it was sharp, mechanical, and utterly alien. She flinched, her ears ringing, as four figures stepped through the shattered remains of the door. They were men, but unlike any she'd ever seen. Their clothing was strange, dark, and form-fitting, with odd patches and gear strapped to their bodies. Their faces were obscured by helmets and visors, their movements seemed to always be coordinated as they fanned out into the room. 

With peculiar devices clutched in their hands, they resembled crossbows, though these were far stranger—smaller, denser, and oddly menacing.

The man behind her tensed, his grip on her tightening as he pressed the knife closer. "Get back, you fucks!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "I'll kill her! I swear I'll kill her!"

One of the four men with a calm, steady voice stepped forward slightly, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, alright," he said, his tone even but firm. "We'll back up. Just put the knife down, and everyone can go home alive. No one has to die here."

"Bullshit!" her captor spat, his voice rising in pitch. "I'd rather cut this bitch's throat and start another war then let the Enclave be brought down by war reparations!"

She could feel his hand shaking, the knife trembling against her skin. Her mind raced, but there was nothing she could do. She was trapped. 

Her elven hearing, usually a gift, now felt like a curse. She could hear everything, the faint rustle of fabric, the steady breaths of the soldiers.

A voice.

A tiny, almost imperceptible voice, coming from one of the strange men's ear. It was calm, precise, and utterly alien to her.

"Overwatch to Alpha-1, I have a shot on the HVT's shoulder, but I need you to shift right to clear my line of fire. Move approximately five steps to your right. Acknowledge with one tap if understood."

The words were strange, filled with terms she didn't recognize. *Overwatch? HVT? Line of fire?* None of it made sense, but the tone was clear, calm, professional. She watched as the man in front of her tapped something on his neck twice, a subtle acknowledgment as he moved to her right.

Her captor, oblivious to the exchange, continued to rant, as they tried to calm him down, his voice only growing more frantic. But she could feel the tension in the room shifting, the air thickening with anticipation. Something was about to happen. Something she couldn't predict.

Her eyes darted to the man in front of her, the one who had shifted slightly to the right. Why had he moved? What was he doing? Her mind raced

'move away from the line of fire'

In a party mages warned their teammates to move before they fired something towards an enemy, she applied it to this situation too… But she was here too, wouldn't she be hit too, how painful would whatever was coming be.

In the blink of an eye, it happened.

It was too fast—far too fast for her to comprehend. One moment, the room was tense, the air thick with the threat of violence. The next, something shattered the window behind her with a sharp, explosive crack. She didn't even have time to flinch. Her world was a blur of motion and sound, none of it making sense. It was a deadly whisper of something cutting through the air. She didn't understand what had happened, only that something had changed.

The man holding her hostage jerked violently, his grip on the knife faltering as a strangled cry escaped his lips. Something had struck him in the shoulder, the force of it sending him stumbling backward. The knife clattered to the floor, and she seized the moment, her instincts screaming at her to move. She stumbled forward, her legs unsteady, her heart pounding in her chest. Wide-eyed and breathless, she scrambled to put distance between herself and her captor, her mind still reeling from the sudden, inexplicable turn of events.

They shot him, again, the force of whether they shot him with, brought the man to unconsciousness

She looked up, her chest heaving, a storm of emotions swirling in her wide eyes—shock, relief, and perhaps even a flicker of disbelief. She was alive. She was free. The weight of gratitude pressed heavily on her heart, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a smile broke across her face. She could finally return to her father, to the safety of her home. 

With as much dignity as she could muster, she straightened her posture, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her voice, though still trembling, carried the regal tone of someone accustomed to command. "Thank you, dear adventurers. Might I know the names of my saviors?"

The room fell silent, the soldiers exchanging glances that she couldn't quite decipher. For a moment, she thought they might introduce themselves, might offer her the courtesy she deserved. But then one of them spoke, his tone flat and entirely devoid of the reverence she expected. 

"Bag her. Let's go."

Her eyes widened, her gratitude quickly giving way to outrage, as a black bag moved over her head and she was picked up "Unhand me!" she snapped, her voice rising with indignation. "Do you know who I am? I am Princess Erin of the Verdant Kingdoms, and I demand to be treated with respect!"

One of the men chuckled, a low, amused sound that only fueled her anger. "Piotr," he called over his shoulder, "she's as feisty as you."

"Overwatch this is leader, meet at extraction we need to get to the drop off point"

"Copy that leader"

***

Princess Erin's jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. These men were nothing like the knights or adventurers she had imagined. They were crude, disrespectful, and entirely unimpressed by her title. But as much as she wanted to argue, to demand better treatment, she knew she was in no position to refuse.

The black bag over her head was stifling, the coarse fabric scratching against her skin as she sat in what she assumed was some kind of carriage. But this was no noble's carriage—no plush seats, no smooth ride. Every jolt of the wheels sent a fresh wave of discomfort through her, and with each bump, her protests grew louder and more indignant. 

"Do you have any idea how improper this is?" she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting. "I am a princess, not some common criminal! This is an outrage!" Her complaints spilled out in a steady stream, each word dripping with frustration and disdain. But her words seemed to bounce off the men around her, their attention elsewhere, their patience wearing thin. Under different circumstances, her fiery outbursts might have been amusing, even entertaining. But now, they were just another noise in the chaos.

After what felt like an eternity—though in reality, it was only half an hour—one of the men finally snapped. 

"Jesus, Miguel, take the bag off. I can't listen to her talk for another hour," the leader barked, his voice frayed with irritation. He was the oldest of the group, the one the others seemed to defer to, and his tone carried the weight of someone who had reached the end of his patience.

Princess Erin, emboldened by the knowledge that they wouldn't kill her—at least not yet—seized the opportunity to push back. Her voice was laced with sarcasm as she quipped, the bag still firmly over her head, "Yeah, Miguel, take the damn bag off."

There was a beat of silence, followed by a muffled chuckle from one of the men.

She would not have the last laugh though 

There was a beat of silence, and then one of the other men, Miguel, presumably, spoke up, his tone casual, almost too casual "Sir, did the orders specifically say she needed to be retrieved alive?"

A small, startled eep escaped her lips before she could stop it. Miguel, presumably, sighed heavily before reaching over and yanking the bag off her head. The sudden rush of light made her blink, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior of the vehicle. 

She glared at the men around her, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes blazing with a fire that dared them to challenge her. But beneath the surface, her heart raced, a flicker of fear gnawing at the edges of her confidence. These men were unlike anyone she had ever encountered—cold, efficient, and utterly unimpressed by her royal status. For all her bravado, she couldn't shake the unease that coiled in her stomach.

But then, the Miguel spoke again, his voice cutting through her tension. 

"Relax," he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. "You're going home."

Those words, simple as they were, hit her like a wave, washing away the sharp edges of her fear. Her breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. Home. The word echoed in her mind, soft and reassuring. She had been so focused on the indignity of her capture, the roughness of her treatment, that she hadn't allowed herself to hope for this. 

Her glare softened, though she wasn't ready to let go of her pride entirely. She crossed her arms, her gaze flickering between the men as if searching for some sign of deception. "Home?" she repeated, her voice quieter now, less sure. "You mean… the Verdant Kingdoms?"

The leader nodded, his expression unreadable. "That's what the orders say. So sit tight, Princess. We'll have you back to your father soon enough."

The tension in her shoulders eased, just a little. She wanted to believe him, to trust that this nightmare was finally coming to an end. But years of royal training kept her guard up, her instincts warning her not to let her defenses down completely. Still, as she leaned back against the seat, the black bag now discarded at her feet, she allowed herself a small, cautious hope. 

Home. She was going home.