My head was splitting.

  Every heartbeat throbbed in my temples with a dull, rusty pain—as though someone were slowly driving nails into my skull, unhurried, almost savoring it. My cheek burned with living fire: the wound pulsed, stretching from temple to chin, and every time I blinked, the skin pulled tight, cracked, and wept fresh blood.

  I tried to move—and let out a quiet, dog-like whimper.

  There was no bed beneath me.

  No straw that smelled of home.

  Only rough rags soaked in sweat, piss, and old blood. The hard earth underneath pressed into my back like the cold stone of a grave.

  The stench of damp rot, decaying straw, and iron hit my nose. Somewhere nearby, coals hissed softly—the st dying breaths of a fire that no longer warmed, only smoked.

  I slowly opened my eyes.

  There was no ceiling—only the dark, smoke-stinking fabric of the tent. Through the tears and holes seeped dull, gray morning light, as though the sky itself had decided the sun had no business here anymore.

  Fighting nausea and dizziness, I propped myself up on my elbows.

  A man sat in front of me.

  Graying beard, short gray hair, face—a map of old scars: deep furrows, white ridges, one eye slightly narrowed as though always sighting down a bde.

  The armor he wore was older than he was: worn thin, cracked in pces, covered in scratches and bck stains of dried blood. Some ptes were missing—ripped away along with flesh long ago.

  Father always said:

  “You can read a warrior’s entire life from his armor.”

  This armor screamed of hundreds of deaths—other people’s, and nearly his own.

  The man grunted—short, without warmth.

  “Well, little one… congratutions.”

  His voice was calm, almost indifferent, like someone who had long ago grown tired of being surprised.

  “You’re the only one who survived your entire vilge.”

  The words struck harder than any wound.

  My throat cmped shut, as though molten lead had been poured down it.

  Images fshed before my eyes again:

  fmes devouring roofs,

  screams turning into gurgles,

  the arrow bursting from Mother’s chest along with blood,

  Father colpsing face-first into the mud, coughing bright crimson.

  I clenched my teeth until my gums bled.

  The man sighed—wearily, as though he had seen this a thousand times.

  “I can’t babysit you, kid—”

  “My name is Drake!”

  I wanted to shout it—loud, furious.

  But from my throat came only a pitiful, broken yelp—like a wounded animal.

  The man raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  I clenched my fists—nails digging into palms.

  “Uncle… I want to kill demons.”

  My voice shook, but the words spilled out on their own—like vomit.

  “Please… take me with you.”

  He stared at me for several long seconds.

  Then he suddenly ughed—loud, hoarse, joyless.

  “Drake… ha-ha… you’re a funny little bastard.”

  He wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

  “My name is Kane. I’m the commander of the third demon-killer squad.”

  My heart clenched—painfully, sweetly.

  Commander.

  The one who cuts down demons.

  The one who can take revenge.

  Something strange stirred in my chest—a mixture of hope and thick, sticky darkness.

  Kane noticed my smile—thin, almost insane—and snorted.

  “Hey, don’t smile like that, kid. It’s creepy.”

  He waved a hand as though shooing a fly.

  “My squad is mostly scum.

  Ex-convicts, thieves, murderers, rapists… whoever they could scrape up after the civil war, when decent people were mostly gone.”

  He shrugged—indifferently, tiredly.

  “So how about I just take you to the nearest vilge—”

  “No!”

  I shot to my feet.

  The world spun, blurred, but I didn’t fall.

  “I want to destroy demons!”

  I stared straight into his eyes—unblinking.

  “Even if you abandon me in some vilge… or in the forest…

  I’ll follow you anyway.”

  Kane stopped smiling.

  He looked at me for a long time.

  Too long.

  Then he exhaled heavily—like a man surrendering to the inevitable.

  “Damn it.”

  He scratched his beard.

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  He nodded toward the tent fp.

  “I’m training my nephew—Lohan—right now.

  You can practice with him.”

  I smiled wide—for the first time since that night.

  “Thank you, uncle!”

  And at that moment my stomach growled—loud, traitorously.

  Kane burst out ughing again—hoarse, without mirth.

  “Ha-ha! Of course.”

  He waved a hand.

  “Go find Lohan.

  He’ll show you where to sleep… and where to eat.”

  Then he turned serious—instantly, like a bde.

  “Stick close to him.”

  And added quieter:

  “If you’re lucky—you’ll survive.”

  I wanted to ask a thousand more things.

  But Kane had already sat down at the rough table.

  Before him y maps, bloodstained letters, lists of names—crossed out, scratched through.

  He began writing—quick, sharp strokes.

  I understood: distracting him was dangerous.

  I slipped quietly out of the tent.

  Outside, life boiled—filthy, cynical, reeking of sweat and death.

  Warriors were breaking camp: tearing up stakes, loading sacks of loot, sharpening bdes on stones.

  Somewhere men cursed viciously.

  Somewhere else they ughed hoarsely over someone’s death.

  But there were no other tents like Kane’s.

  His stood alone—like an isnd in a sea of filth.

  “Hey, kid!”

  I flinched.

  “Over here!”

  I turned.

  A tall young man was waving at me—nineteen years old, but already with tired eyes and a fresh scar across his eyebrow.

  “I’m Lohan.”

  He smiled—crooked, insincere.

  “Uncle Kane told me to look after you.”

  He nodded toward a rge cauldron from which came the smell of rancid fat and meat.

  “Eat what’s left—quick.

  We’re moving out soon.”

  He was tightening straps on a sack—sharp, practiced movements.

  I asked no extra questions.

  I ran to the cauldron and practically fell on the remains of the broth.

  It was cold, thick, with floating chunks of greasy meat and gristle.

  I ate so fast I nearly choked—my throat burned, but I didn’t stop.

  “My name is Drake.”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve—it immediately soaked up blood and grease.

  “I hope you’ll teach me to kill demons.”

  Lohan froze for a second.

  He stopped tightening the strap.

  Looked at me—long, measuring.

  “Wow.”

  “And what did Kane say?”

  I smiled proudly—the smile came out crooked, almost feral.

  “Uncle Kane doesn’t mind.

  He said we’d train together.”

  Lohan flinched.

  “Kid…”

  He scratched the back of his head—nervously.

  “His training… it’s not for children.”

  I lifted my head.

  “I’m ready for anything.”

  Lohan stared at me for several more seconds—as though trying to see in my eyes what Kane had seen.

  Then he sighed heavily.

  “Well… welcome to the squad, then.”

  He turned away, continuing to pack.

  But I noticed—his hands were trembling slightly.

  And in that moment I understood:

  even here, among demon-syers, fear hadn’t gone anywhere.

  It had simply changed color—turned bck, like demon blood.

  And it would stay with me forever.