The boy they once called Elian was no longer a boy.
Not truly.
Not after what he'd seen.
Not after what he'd done to survive.
The world didn't offer him shelter anymore. It gave him thorns, wolves, and cold rain. It gave him silence. And over time, silence became the only thing he trusted.
He walked with a blade now.
It wasn't holy, or forged in angelic fire — just steel, cracked and blackened from the heat of something unnatural. He never sheathed it. He didn't dare.
Because some nights, it sang.
And it never sang unless they were close.
Elian was sixteen.
He hadn't spoken his name in months. Hadn't prayed in years. He still wore the pendant the priest gave him, but the chain had rusted. And the symbol etched into it — the old mark of the Watcher Saints — had begun to fade, as if even the silver knew it no longer belonged to him.
Still… he hadn't let it go.
Not yet.
He couldn't say why.
He'd made it to the fractured coast, where the sky bled orange each night and the sea foamed black around jagged rocks. Old war machines rusted in the cliff walls. Halo-shards embedded in stone still sparked when the wind hit just right.
Some called it cursed land.
Elian just called it far enough.
He made camp inside a ruined chapel built into the cliffside. Broken wings carved into the stone. Empty candleholders. No altar — just a shattered slab of obsidian in the center, with ancient ash in the cracks.
He didn't sleep. Not really.
He rested. Eyes half-closed, hand near the blade, heartbeat slow and quiet like prey playing dead.
And that night, something stirred.
Not outside. Within.
A warmth beneath the skin. A pressure above the brow. Like something pushing outward, bone or fire or both.
He sat up fast.
Breathed slow.
Not tonight. Not yet.
Not now.
He walked to the edge of the cliff, wind cutting his cloak like knives.
Three years, and he still hadn't given in.
He hadn't grown horns.
He hadn't broken.
He hadn't fallen.
And yet… he hadn't stopped changing either.
That was when he saw the smoke.
Far down the coast. Rising black and thin from a ruined tower. Too controlled for a wildfire. Too small for an army.
A campfire.
Someone was out there. Someone alive.
And that could mean anything.
A traveler.
A soldier.
A demon.
An angel.
Or worse… someone looking for him.
He gripped the rusted pendant on his neck.
He whispered, not a prayer — but a warning to the fire inside him:
Then he turned and started toward the smoke.
Elian crept along the rocky slope above the ruined village.
No birds.
No dogs.
No voices.
Just the soft crackle of fire, and the distant hiss of something burning wet wood.
And then—
a scream.
High. Human.
Then cut short.
Elian drew his blade.
The edge whispered again — a low hum like breath across glass. That meant one thing:
A demon was still here.
He dropped to a crouch, sliding behind the half-fallen wall of an old bakery. The stone was still stained black, the window frames clawed out.
He edged forward, eyes scanning—
There.
At the far end of the square.
A shape knelt in the ash.
Too slender to be a demon. Cloaked, but not like a priest or pilgrim. The figure stood slowly, and light caught the edge of a long, curved blade—steel the color of moonlight and fire.
Then came the sound:
Sching.
A demon's body fell to the ground behind her, still twitching, still steaming.
The katana-wielding figure didn't flinch.
Didn't turn.
Just stood there, smoke and blood curling in the wind around her silhouette.
Elian stayed low.
She didn't look angelic. No wings. No aura.
But she also didn't look like anyone he'd ever seen.
And no one carried a blade like that without a reason.
She finally spoke.
"I know you're watching."
Her voice was low. Clipped. Young — maybe his age or a little older — but sharpened like everything else about her.
"You can come out, or you can stay there and bleed. Your choice."
Elian stayed silent.
"You're not a demon. They don't breathe that quietly. And you're not one of them. You wouldn't be hiding if you were."
She turned slightly, enough for him to see her face.
Dark eyes, storm-gray. Hair tied back roughly with a leather strip. Blood on her coat — not hers, judging by how steady her grip was.
She looked tired.
But not weak.
Never weak.
Elian slowly rose from behind the wall.
"I'm just passing through," he said carefully.
"No one just passes through here," she replied. "This place was wiped out two nights ago."
"I saw the smoke."
"And thought what? Campfire stories? You wanted to roast a rabbit?"
Elian didn't answer.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?"
He hesitated.
Then lied.
"Just a traveler."
That made her smile. Barely.
"Aren't we all."
She sheathed the katana in a smooth, practiced motion. The blade hissed like it didn't want to go.
"I'm not here for you," she added. "Unless you're what's been killing people."
"I'm not."
"Good. Because I already dealt with what was."
She jerked her head toward the fallen demon behind her — a massive, scaled thing, horned and bloated, its chest carved open clean through.
"I track them," she said. "Hunt them. End them."
A pause.
Then:
"Name's Sera."