Page 48 of Demonic Cage
With the dagger in hand, I decisively turn to Kripot.
“How do we continue?” I ask.
He points to one of the targets.
Three months later
I clench my fist and slam my knee. From the corner of my eye, I see Kripot raise his hand. Slowly, I exhale to regulate my heartbeat.
As Kripot’s hand falls, I spring off the ground, sprinting forward like Usain Bolt. At least, that’s how I think I look.
When I explained to Kripot and Nárs who I was referring to, the blue giant only likened me to Aergia – whoever that is – and Nárs disappeared to my world for a day to find pictures of the athlete, only to come back with a photo of Michael Jackson. When I questioned him, he said I resemble Jackson more because I lean forward at the end of each exercise, just like him. Except, I actually fall.
Just a hundred meters. That’s as far as I need to go without actually falling on the track filled with moving rocks. I take a few steps, and to my right, a stone wall the same height as me emerges. Then another on my left. The ground shifts beneath me. I quickly step aside. In the next moment, a sharp rock appears. I recoil, but another grazes my shoulder. I cry out in pain and clutch my hand to my shoulder, then glance at my palm. I’m bleeding.
The ground trembles beneath me. The formation to my left disappears. I step over. Not a good decision. A rock rises from beneath my foot. It lifts me, but I jump away.
I keep running. I can’t rely on memory. The obstacle course changes every day.
I arrive at the wrong place. My legs buckle, and I fall to my knees, then sprawl ungracefully on the ground. I can barely breathe, and my lungs ache from the few seconds of exercise.
The trembling stops. Kripot towers over me, staring down at me in pity.
“How far?” I gasp between breaths.
He shakes his head seriously. “Pathetic. Disgusting. Twenty-two meters.”
My eyes widen. “That’s three more… than… yesterday,” I say, barely catching my breath.
Kripot never even bothers to roll his eyes but I recognize when he’s had enough of me. I struggle to my feet.
“Statistically speaking,” I begin, knowing Kripot hates it when I talk to him, “it’ll take another twelve months to reach—”
“You won’t have that time, little champion.”
A chill runs down my spine. The Demon King is looking at me from atop a rock, and it feels like his cloud-gray eyes are a brush painting me. Every part of me he surveys shudders. I remember his dark gaze between my legs, and my stomach churns. Warmth spreads through lower belly, where he left his kiss three months ago.
Three months ago.
I haven’t seen Darya since. Why is he here today?
He jumps down, landing in front of me. I don’t have time to react as he firmly turns me around. He applies something to my bleeding shoulder, something with a metallic scent, and immediately –immediately– the pain fades. The wound closes completely.
I look at Darya in confusion, who signals to Kripot, and the giant leaves. The Demon King leans casually against the table filled with weapons. His crossed legs exude an insolent self-confidence.
Darya’s tight, black clothes cling to him like a second skin, emphasizing his muscular, toned body. He truly is like a weapon, because I tremble as he slowly looks into my eyes through his dense eyelashes, and I feel like I’m falling apart. The power emanating from him forces my knees to buckle.
There are so many things I want to ask him, but if I’ve learned anything in this hell, it’s that you have to wait for the devil to show his teeth. I could only question Nárs with limited inquiries. Was Darya truly there when Pandora created the demons? What has he been doing for the past three months? Why hasn’t he visited me? Why is he here now?
I look up at his smooth face and ageless, curved eyes. If he really is thousands of years old, he’s holding up well. I wonder if I could become a demon too, but at the thought of the black, smoky monsters – whom I haven’t seen in three months either – I grimace.
Darya raises an eyebrow. “Not many greet me with disgust on their faces,” he remarks.
“‘You’ll get used to it,” I retort. “What are you doing here?”
“I am the King of Filizi. I don’t need to explain myself.”
“Do you want to sacrifice me to the monster?” The question just bursts out of me.
