The archer carried me through the forest for what felt like an eternity, though I knew it had been less than an hour. My body remained weak, but my mind was sharp and hyper-focused on the world around me.

  The trees thinned, revealing a settlement nestled in a clearing a short way from the ocean’s coastline. The village wasn’t large, and it wasn’t in any rush to be. A handful of wooden houses leaned into one another like old friends, their roofs sagging under the weight of time. A mill creaked lazily in the distance, its wheel turning with the slow persistence of something that had seen generations pass without change. Farmland and livestock sat in the far distance just outside of town.

  A few villagers milled about, moving with the leisurely pace of people who had nowhere to be. A man sat outside a small shop, rocking back and forth in a wooden chair while his fingers idly carved a piece of driftwood. Two old women sat beneath a sagging awning, chatting in hushed tones. The occasional gust of wind carried the laughter of children and the chatter of locals past my ears.

  A pair of chickens strutted lazily through the dirt path ahead, pecking idly at the ground as a gray-haired man shuffled past them, carrying a bundle of firewood in his arms. A weathered sign sat above a local inn and tavern, its faded lettering declaring it “Beginner’s Rest” barely legible.

  The air smelled of earth, salt, and old timber, carried on a faint ocean breeze that rustled the rooftops. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once before settling into silence, as if even it had little energy for anything other than laziness.

  It looked like some sort of backwater town. The place was full of life, yet it felt unhurried, as if forgotten by time.

  Most people dressed plainly in pants and shirts or dresses. Occasionally, someone donned armor beneath large coats. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, but it looked wrong to me. I felt like I was in the past. I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t even sure what my present used to be.

  The other thing that stood out to me was the tattoos.

  Black rings, thick as bindings, inked deep into every person’s skin I saw. Some bore additional bands along their fingers, neat rows of dark lines that seemed too uniform to be random.

  I knew they meant something. I felt it in the way my mind got caught on the sight of them, snagging like a hook. But no meaning surfaced. It was strange. Not the tattoos themselves, but how completely natural they seemed to everyone but me. I couldn’t even explain why they were so weird. My mind just kept perceiving them that way.

  My eyes darted down to look at my hands and fingers. There was nothing on them—no marks or bands.

  Why does everyone else have them and I don't? I wondered. Because I’m a devil? Or just a child? What are they? What do they mean? I scanned the faces of the people around me. Lots of brown eyes, too. The archer is the only one I’ve seen with differently colored ones. Why is that?

  Stolen story; please report.

  “How will Amalia react,” the archer wondered while holding me, sighing. “It’s a baby. She won’t resist very long.”

  As he passed, villagers nodded in greeting, some pausing mid-task just to acknowledge him. A fisherman wiping his hands on his apron muttered a low, “Good to see you, Quintin,” while an older woman pressed a loaf of bread into his free hand without a word, her weathered fingers tight with unspoken gratitude. Even those who didn’t speak stole glances his way, their expressions a mix of respect and quiet expectation.

  I stared at the archer, Quintin, with newfound curiosity.

  A woman sweeping the steps of a small shop paused and leaned on her broom as we passed. “Did you find anyone?”

  Quintin shook his head. “Not alive.”

  The woman exhaled through her nose, her eyes flickering to me briefly before lowering them again. “Damn shame,” she murmured before returning to her sweeping, much slower than before.

  “Hey, Quintin!” A man in the village called out to Quintin. He wore light clothing with a breastplate over his shirt and a short sword at his hip. His brown eyes looked me and Quintin over. Like everyone else, he had two black tattoos on his wrists and ring-like tattoos on his fingers—each one except his thumbs. “Did you find anything?”

  Déjà vu.

  Quintin nodded. “There was more wreckage down the way. Found bodies and a demon.”

  “A demon?! You sure?!” The man recoiled in surprise. “What kind?”

  “Just birthed, and it wasn’t a strong one,” said Quintin. “I dealt with it.”

  “Of course you did.” Albus let out a breath, shaking his head. “If you couldn’t kill it, none of the rest of us would have any hope.”

  “You give me too much credit, Albus. If it had been any older or a high Tier, I’d have died. I’m not as good as I used to be in my military days.”

  “Still better than me,” Albus said with a half-smirk. Then, catching sight of me bundled in Quintin’s arms, his expression shifted. “What’s that?”

  “Something precious I found on the beach.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?” Albus looked at me and gasped. “A baby?” He leaned in slightly, his brown eyes scanning me with an expression between curiosity and unease. His gaze flickered to the bundle of cloth covering my ears, lingering just a beat too long. “Poor girl,” he muttered.

  Quintin shifted his grip, subtly pulling me closer against his chest. “She was pinned under a body,” he said, his voice even. “Only reason she’s still alive. If I’d been a second later, she’d be dead.”

  Albus straightened, exhaling sharply. His discomfort passed like a shadow. “Well, that’s a blessing then.”

  My thoughts temporarily confused me. Talking about “devils” and “demons” made the concepts of “Angels” and “God” appear in my head like they’d always been there, but I clearly knew nothing about them a moment prior.

  “I’ll take her home to Amalia. We’ll look after her,” said Quintin.

  Albus smiled at Quintin. “You two have been trying for a while now, haven’t yah?”

  Quintin nodded.

  “These things happen for a reason. Be glad. You’ll both do a great job.”

  Quintin looked at my face. I noticed his eyes drift to my covered ears. “Yes, they do.”

  Quintin and Albus said their goodbyes before separating.

  We continued walking until we reached the outskirts of the village, closer to the farms and mill, where we stopped in front of a charming two-story building that was slightly larger than any of the places I had seen in town.

  There were archery targets out front, their surfaces pockmarked from years of use. A shed sat beside the house, the door slightly ajar, revealing the faint gleam of metal tools inside. The air smelled different here than in town. There was less salt and a thicker scent of wood, smoke, and dirt.

  This must be where he lives.