The cloak weighed heavy on Ren’s shoulders, its rough fabric damp but warm against her skin.
The figure beside her didn’t speak, didn’t even hesitate, just guided her forward with a firm but silent urgency.
Ren tried to turn her head, to catch a glimpse of their face, but the hood of the cloak had been drawn up just enough to block most of her peripheral vision.
“Who—”
She started, but before she could finish, she was pushed gently yet insistently toward an open doorway.
The storm howled behind her.
Warmth spilled from the house, the scent of burning wood thick in the air.
Her foot crossed the threshold, and the next thing she knew, she was inside.
***
For a moment, Ren just stood there, blinking against the sudden shift from cold and wet to warmth and firelight.
The house was small but filled with a quiet, lived-in comfort.
Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, the walls lined with shelves crammed with books, stray papers, and unidentifiable trinkets.
A stringed instrument—something between a guitar and a violin—rested on a stand near an old record player.
The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and something simmering in a black cauldron over the fire.
Around it, figures were huddled together, their backs to her.
For a second, she mistook them for humans.
The flickering firelight cast them in warm, familiar shapes—figures wrapped in cloaks, hair tousled, hands reaching out toward the flames.
Then she saw the horns.
Small, curling shapes protruding from temples.
Some short, some long and ridged, some smooth and polished.
Demons.
Ren swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of the dampness of her clothes, the weight of the cloak still wrapped around her.
None of them had noticed her yet.
She turned slightly, glancing toward the door just as the one who had ushered her inside stepped forward.
An elderly demon woman stood at the entrance, peering outside.
Her eyes scanned the street outside with sharp precision, lingering for a moment before she exhaled sharply and shut the door with a loud, deliberate bang.
The sound made the others stir.
As if on cue, several of them rose to their feet.
Without a word, they moved toward the windows, pulling thick wooden planks from against the walls.
Nails were hammered in with practiced ease, securing the shutters closed.
Ren tensed.
They had done this before.
Many times.
She watched as they worked—not frantically, not with panic, but with a silent urgency that made her stomach twist.
Whatever they were preparing for, it wasn’t unexpected.
The locks on the door snapped into place, one after the other.
Ren’s fingers twitched at her sides.
She forced herself to breathe.
Then, slowly, she turned her attention to the rest of the room.
Unlike the stark, utilitarian fortress she had come from, this place felt… different.
Not like home—at least, not like the homes she remembered—but like something real.
Lived in.
A messy shelf full of books sat in one corner, pages dog-eared and spines bent from use.
A table nearby was cluttered with ink bottles and scattered papers, some filled with scratchy, hurried writing, others with neat, deliberate script.
Her gaze drifted toward the walls.
Near the window, she spotted something that made her breath hitch.
Puncture marks. Small, uneven holes in the wood.
Like something had tried to get in before.
She turned back toward the demons, her skin prickling.
Whatever was outside in the storm—whatever they were shutting themselves in from—
It wasn’t the rain they were afraid of.
The last of the locks clicked into place.
A hush settled over the room, thick as the storm outside.
The only sound was the steady crackling of the fire, the bubbling of whatever simmered in the black cauldron above it.
Ren barely had time to process what had just happened before movement drew her attention.
The elderly demon was approaching her.
She moved with a measured, deliberate grace, her steps slow but certain, like someone who had never once hesitated in their life.
Now that Ren could see her properly, she noticed the details time had carved into her.
The woman’s white hair was long, streaked with the softest hints of silver-blue, tied loosely at the nape of her neck.
Her horns, ridged and weathered, bore the signs of years that had shaped them into their current form.
Lines were etched deep into her face, not in a way that made her seem fragile, but the opposite.
They spoke of years lived, of burdens carried and battles fought—not just with weapons, but with the quiet resilience of someone who had endured.
Ren knew she should have felt intimidated.
And she did.
But when the woman’s eyes met hers, something shifted.
For all the hardness in her features, for all the weight she carried, there was something there that caught Ren off guard—something warm.
It wasn’t kindness, exactly.
It wasn’t soft or gentle.
It was something deeper, something knowing.
Something that made Ren’s chest ache in a way she couldn’t explain.
A memory stirred in the back of her mind.
Or maybe the ghost of one.
That warmth—she had felt it before, long ago.
She could almost see the face of the person it belonged to—almost.
But when she reached for it, it slipped away, vanishing into the fog of everything she had lost.
Ren’s breath caught.
Then, without a word, the old demon reached out and placed a firm, steady hand on her shoulder.
The touch was grounding—solid, real.
She didn’t speak, didn’t ask who Ren was, didn’t question why she had been standing alone in the storm.
She simply reached for the cloak and, with practiced ease, unfastened it from Ren’s shoulders.
The damp fabric slipped away, leaving Ren exposed to the warmth of the fire.
Still, the woman said nothing.
Instead, she tilted her head—just slightly—toward the fire. A quiet, wordless command.
Sit.
Ren swallowed.
She didn’t know why, but she obeyed.
She moved forward, stepping past the others who had already settled near the fire, and lowered herself onto the rough-hewn floor beside them.
The heat licked at her damp skin, chasing away the last of the storm’s chill.
The cloak was gone, but for the first time since stepping into this world, she didn’t feel cold.
The old woman turned away, moving back toward the fire with the same steady presence, as though Ren had always been meant to be here, as though this was nothing unusual.
But Ren—
Ren couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just shifted.
Like she had taken a step toward something she hadn’t even realized she was searching for.
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