The shady figure didn't even get a full step out of the shadows.
One second they were creeping toward us, hood low and quiet as a whisper—and the next, Arden had slammed them into the nearest wall so hard the bricks groaned. No warning. No explanation. Just a dull thunk, followed by the body crumpling to the ground like a sack of flour.
I stared, mouth half open. "W-what… Why would you do that?!"
Arden stood over the unconscious figure, checking their pulse like he hadn't just laid someone out cold in the middle of an alley.
"They registered as a monster," he said plainly, like that was the most obvious thing in the world. "Spatial Awareness tagged them. A skill of mine. It senses presence, reads danger."
Right. Because when someone walks quietly in a suspicious area, clearly that means they're about to commit murder. Spatial Awareness. Of course.
"They're not dead," he added, seeing the horror on my face. "I reinforced my fists with healing magic. Just knocked them out."
Sora, bless her heart, walked up beside him and gave his arm a tiny slap. It was about as threatening as a butterfly brushing against your sleeve. She puffed her cheeks out in frustration, but with her soft voice and big eyes, she looked more like a pouting kitten than someone scolding a man for, well, casual assault.
While they fumbled through that little drama, I crouched down to get a better look at the poor soul he'd flattened. The hood had slipped back during the head-smash—revealing not some grimy cultist, but a woman. Not just any woman either. She had small, curling black horns peeking through long, dark hair streaked with crimson, and faintly pointed ears. Her skin had a pale, smoky undertone that made her crimson eyes stand out like embers. A devil. And not just any devil, judging by the expensive-looking outfit and the pride practically stitched into every inch of it.
Devils weren't exactly common sights. They usually stuck to the underworld unless some desperate fool yanked them topside with a summoning ritual. And judging by the fine clothes under the dusty cloak, this one wasn't some back-alley thug.
We stared.
She didn't wake.
I started praying she wasn't the vengeful type.
"…We should probably take her somewhere less public," I muttered, trying not to look at the growing crowd of confused peasants gawking from a safe distance.
Arden gave a curt nod, already scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Which, to be fair, she kind of didn't—her whole body was light, wiry, like a coiled spring wrapped in way too much attitude.
He carried her—gently, this time—into an abandoned building nearby. Roof half gone, walls leaning like tired old men, but it had four corners and wasn't filled with rats. That was good enough.
Arden laid her down on what used to be a cot, now more rust and splinters than actual bed. He brushed a splinter off the cot, like it mattered, like fussing with details could undo the part where he'd knocked a devil princess unconscious. The guy even mumbled an apology under his breath while checking her pulse and brushing hair out of her face like a guilty older brother. Apparently, he'd laced his punch with healing magic beforehand—just in case—which explained why she didn't currently have her brains leaking out her ears.
Sora hovered nearby like a terrified nurse in training. She kept wringing her hands, sneaking glances at the devil girl every other second like she was expecting her to suddenly sit up and start breathing fire or sprout wings or something.
Eventually, the girl stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at the ceiling. At first she looked more dazed than anything—like she'd fallen out of bed and hadn't figured out which way was up yet.
Then her memory caught up with her body. Her pupils sharpened. Recognition hit. Tension swept in like a cold wind.
She sat up stiffly, shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes locked on Arden with the kind of look people usually reserve for murderers and tax collectors.
"You…" she hissed. Her voice was low. Dangerous. Regal, even. Like someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed—or else.
Sora panicked.
Sora immediately rushed forward, waving both hands in front of her chest, palms out in panicked little circles, like she was trying to physically push the tension down. "W‑wait! Please don't punish him! It was just—it was all a misunderstanding!"
The devil girl squinted at her like she couldn't decide whether to slap her, eat her, or pat her on the head. Then she turned her gaze on Arden. Then back to Sora.
"…Misunderstanding?" she echoed, like the word personally offended her.
Arden answered, calm and straight-faced. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just plain Arden. "I sensed intent. I acted."
"You sensed me?" she snapped. "I was scouting. I wasn't even looking at you."
"You felt hostile."
Her mouth opened to deliver what I could only assume would be a searing rebuttal about nuance and magical profiling—
—and that's when her stomach betrayed her.
It wasn't a polite little rumble. It was a full-on, echoing, guttural roar. Like her insides were staging a protest. It bounced off the crumbling walls with the dramatic flair of a dying moose.
She froze.
Her glare faltered. A blush rose—just faintly, like her pride hadn't yet informed her bloodstream what was happening.
Arden didn't say a word. He reached into his bag, pulled out a piece of dark bread, and—gently, without looking away—pressed it to her lips.
Not forcefully. Not mockingly. Just… deliberately. Like feeding a wild animal—one that might bite if you blinked wrong.
Lysandra froze. Her mouth accepted it before the rest of her caught up.
She chewed, hesitantly. Eyes locked on him.
The silence stretched. Her face unreadable.
Then, slowly, her expression cracked—just a flicker. A twitch at the corner of her mouth, confusion tangled with betrayal.
Her eyes widened. Like her taste buds had just committed treason.
"…What is this?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse, as if confessing it tasted good had scraped its way out.
"Bread. Filled with dried fruit," Arden said, in the same tone you'd use to describe a brick.
She gave the crust a long, suspicious look. Like it might explode if she let her guard down. Then, with the hesitance of someone about to shake hands with a known traitor, she took another bite. Chewed slowly. Dignity clinging on for dear life.
"…Fine," she grumbled, still chewing. "I forgive you. Barely. Try anything like that again, and I'll fry the flesh from your bones and wear it as a shawl."
Charming.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist—regal, despite the savage threat—and straightened up with the kind of posture you only see in paintings of people who have never worked a day in their lives.
"I am Lysandra, Princess of the Obsidian Spire," she declared, voice ringing with polished authority. "I was summoned here by a robed fool—one of your cultists. He spoke a name, performed a binding, and ordered me to aid him in neutralizing a potential threat."
Her eyes slid to Arden with practiced disdain.
"Based on what I overheard… that threat was likely you."
Arden didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just waited. Still as ever.
"I had no choice," she went on, like this was some court deposition. "Devils bound to a summoning contract must follow orders. In exchange…" She clicked her tongue, scowling. "He was supposed to offer his soul. Fair trade."
She swung her legs off the cot, lip curled like the ground itself offended her.
"But he found a loophole. Because of course he did." Her lip curled. "Mortal trash."
Arden tilted his head slightly. "What kind?"
"He offered half his soul," she spat. "Split it using some cursed relic, binding the other half elsewhere."
Sora winced. "That's... allowed?"
"Apparently," Lysandra growled. "Technically fulfilled the contract without dying. But in doing so, he severed the tether between us. And vanished like a coward."
"So you're stuck here," I said, connecting the obvious dots. "And you can't go back."
Her eyes locked onto mine. Cool. Sharp. Precise. "Correct."
She rose to her full height, brushed invisible dust off her sleeves with all the subtlety of a stage actress on opening night. "His little stunt isn't isolated. It's part of a larger plot. They're trying to bring back the Demon Lord. Which means devils like me will be summoned again… As fodder. Slaves thrown into battle for a cause that spits in our faces."
She looked away. "I watched them drag my uncle from his summoning circle. A warlock burned him alive to fuel a siege spell. Said he was honored to die for the bloodline."
Her laugh was like broken glass. "We don't get honor. We get used."
Her voice tightened, face twisting into something cold and bitter and way too honest. "I won't let that happen again."
Silence followed. Not the chill kind. More like the "yep, something big's about to drop" kind.
Sora looked like she was holding her breath, hands clasped like she wasn't sure if she should pray or panic.
Then Arden stood up.
"Then our goals align."
Lysandra blinked. Maybe she wasn't expecting him to just roll with it. Or maybe she thought he'd argue first.
"If you want revenge on the cult and to stop the Demon Lord's return," Arden said, calm as ever, "we can help each other."
She crossed her arms, giving him a once-over like she was trying to decide whether he was serious or just stupid. "And what do you want out of it?"
"I want to stop the cult too," he said. "And you're useful."
That got a look out of her.
A small smirk tugged at her mouth—equal parts amused and smug. "Fine. But I'm not taking orders."
"Neither am I."
She held his gaze. Just for a moment, something behind her eyes shifted—still sharp, still proud, but no longer combative.
"Then we have a deal."
And just like that—somewhere between the food, the grudges, and the whole demon resurrection nonsense—we'd picked up a devil princess.
Because of course we had.
It wasn't even that late when everything settled. Lysandra insisted she was fine—well, more like declared it with the kind of pride that dared anyone to challenge her—and Arden agreed we shouldn't linger in the abandoned house if we didn't have to. So, after a brief detour to check on a few supplies stashed nearby, we ventured out into the city proper.
By the time the sky had dipped into burnt orange and shadows stretched long over the crooked rooftops, Arden had dragged her into a little marketplace tucked between two crumbling watchtowers. She kept trying to pull her cloak tighter around her shoulders, clearly conscious of the little horns poking out like "please notice me" signs. And judging by the sidelong stares we were already getting, people had noticed.
"This won't work," Arden muttered. "We need something less conspicuous."
He bought her a hat. A ridiculous, wide-brimmed thing that looked like it belonged on a traveling bard or a drunk noble's second cousin. But it had a thick lining and a tall, poofy top that completely hid her horns.
Lysandra looked at it like it personally insulted her bloodline.
"Absolutely not."
"It hides your horns."
"It hides my dignity."
Arden didn't flinch. Just kept holding the hat out like it was non-negotiable.
Eventually, she snatched it out of his hand with a growl and stuffed it onto her head. It slouched slightly to one side.
"If anyone laughs," she muttered, "I will peel the humor from their marrow."
The rest of the day was a blur of chaos, awkward stares, and one soul-deep sense of embarrassment after another.
Lysandra tried to assert dominance at a produce stall and somehow ended up bartering with a chicken. Not the seller. The chicken itself. Arden watched in complete silence, arms crossed, not bothering to intervene.
At one point, during a minor spat over directions, Lysandra dramatically tore the hat off her head and threw it to the ground, horns glinting in the sun like divine judgment. Sora shrieked and darted forward, scooping it up and shoving it back onto her head with both hands, mumbling apologies to anyone who might've been glancing their way.
A passing merchant complimented Lysandra's "fashion-forward bravery," clearly mistaking the ensemble for a deliberate statement. She stood frozen, caught between snarling and combusting. Her eventual reply was a strangled "Thank you," delivered through clenched teeth and murder in her eyes.
Arden, in the least surprising move of the day, bought a second identical hat and tucked it into the bag without a word. Just in case.
And me? I followed in a daze—half amused, half horrified—like an understudy dropped into a play with a script written in crayon. We didn't leave the city that night—too much attention, too many eyes, and no real reason to rush out when we could lay low until morning. So we camped in the abandoned house, huddled beneath half a roof and using rolled cloaks as makeshift bedding. Lysandra refused to sleep on the ground, so Arden found an old crate, brushed it off, and stacked it with rags until it vaguely resembled a throne. She sat on it like a warlord mid-siege and promptly fell asleep.
The next morning, we set out early. The city was just waking up—smoke curling from chimneys, sleepy vendors shouting about fresh bread like it was the cure to all life's problems. Sora clung to Arden's arm, half-hiding behind him every time someone walked by a little too close for comfort. Arden, of course, marched ahead like he had a personal map embedded in his brain—silent, steady, and looking like he knew exactly where we were going... even if the rest of us hadn't gotten the memo.
As it turned out, he did.
Radames might've been the Emperor, but even he didn't just let random strays stroll into his fancy mansion. Arden had apparently set things up the night before—left some kind of sigil etched in blood and sealed with his mana, scribbled onto a hidden marker stone near the market. Some ancient agreement, old enough that even the guards checking it looked a little pale around the edges. They let us through without a word, though one of them kept eyeing Lysandra like she was about to sprout a second head.
We were escorted in with surprisingly little ceremony. A pair of guards flanked us down a long, sun-dappled corridor that smelled faintly of incense and old paper. Everything here was excessive—the walls gleamed with polished stone veined in gold, and the vaulted ceilings soared so high I half expected angels to be perched up there judging my posture.
And then we passed Seraphina.
She breezed by like a walking contradiction—arms full of random, clearly unnecessary gizmos. One hand clutched what looked like a spinning compass with far too many needles. The other cradled a box that made faint gurgling noises, and strapped to her back was something long and cylindrical that let out a low hum every few seconds. She nodded in passing, completely unbothered by the sheer chaos she carried, and muttered something about "testing the mana filtration alignment" before vanishing around a corner in a blur of white coat and muttered equations.
We didn't ask. Arden didn't even blink.
Eventually, we made our way back to the quarters Radames had assigned us—familiar by now, with their not-too-fancy, not-too-ugly furniture and the blessed luxury of real beds and windows that didn't open out to some rotting alleyway. The real surprise came when one of the guards hesitated in the doorway, cleared his throat awkwardly, and said, "Ah—His Grace has decreed that the guest will be sharing your quarters."
I blinked. "Wait. Lysandra?"
He nodded, clearly uncomfortable. "His exact words were something like... 'If it's Arden, it'll be fine. He collects these types.'"
I stared at him. He stared at the floor.
Lysandra, who'd been standing behind us the whole time with her arms crossed, raised a single brow and muttered, "Collects?"
She said it with the kind of tone that could strip paint.
Arden didn't respond. Just walked inside like none of it mattered. And maybe to him, it didn't. But judging by the look on Lysandra's face, someone was going to pay for the implication.
Probably not today. But someday.
And just like that, we'd allied with a devil princess. Pride sharp as her horns. Hat slouched sideways like the world owed her fashion advice.
(Arden still had the spare. Just in case.)