Armin woke the next day to the dull light of the morning bleeding into the cell through narrow windows and cracks above. The air was dry, motionless, almost reverent in its stillness—like the world itself held its breath in anticipation of something unknown.
He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light. The heat was long gone, replaced by the faint chill of dawn brushing against his skin. Around him, bodies still slept, twisted in uncomfortable bundles of rags and worn-out fabric. The children's breathing was slow, calm, their tiny bodies curled like cats, tucked against one another for warmth and safety.
Jubak was already up.
The blue-skinned troll sat cross-legged by the embers, unmoving, his eyes closed in a deep meditative trance. His muscles were relaxed, yet he exuded an energy that made Armin feel like any sudden movement would break something sacred. The intricate patterns of tattoos across Jubak's arms and shoulders pulsed faintly, like veins of magic humming beneath the skin.
Armin remained still for a while, watching him, wondering what kind of strength or trauma was required to find peace in a place like this.
His thoughts drifted back to the Goddess.
Her voice, her presence, still echoed in the recesses of his mind. Not a memory—no, it was more than that. It was like a warm chain wrapped around his thoughts, tugging gently every so often, reminding him of what was spoken.
"I can protect them... by keeping them close."
His jaw clenched. There was a strange weight in those words, like a crown too heavy for a child's head.
He sighed and rose to his feet, brushing off the dusty threads of sleep. There wasn't much to do in this place—no morning routine, no chores, no preparation for a day of meaning. Just... waiting. Existing. Surviving.
And they were all here for the same reason, weren't they?
The other demons had already begun to stir, murmuring quietly among themselves or shifting their positions in their makeshift beds. Most of them didn't look broken—not the kind of broken you'd expect from people imprisoned, enslaved, ripped from everything they knew. They were hardened, yes. Scarred, certainly. But not hollow. Not empty. It fascinated Armin.
And so, driven by a mixture of boredom and curiosity, he decided to ask.
"Why is everybody here?" he said aloud, loud enough for the group to hear but casual enough to feel like conversation, not interrogation.
At first, there was silence. Then a dwarf with olive skin and amber eyes grunted from his corner of the room. His beard was matted, but his eyes were sharp, not dulled by defeat.
"Taken from home," he said simply.
A few heads turned. Nods followed.
"Same," another voice muttered.
"Captured," someone else said.
"Stole... demon... money..." a goblin choked out. He looked ancient, with sunken cheeks and gnarled fingers like roots twisted in the dirt. The others beside him nodded solemnly, a collective affirmation of their shared shame or misfortune.
Then, all eyes shifted, almost as if on cue.
To the blonde man with streaks of black in his hair.
He'd just woken up, yawning, muscles stretching with feline grace as he bent over to retrieve his shirt. The firelight caught the edges of his frame—tall, lean, built like a soldier. His skin was tan but littered with scars, some fresh, some old. His arms told stories of countless fights. Not all were won, but all were survived.
Armin observed quietly, eyes narrowing.
'Battle scars.' he thought.
The man didn't speak immediately. He slid the shirt over his head, the fabric dragging across healing wounds. Then, finally, as if weighing the question in his mind, he gave his answer.
"Sold."
His voice was low, flat, without shame or emotion. Just a fact.
He sat down again, the bedroll beneath him barely cushioning the stone floor. Armin watched him for a moment longer, unsure what to make of this man.
"What's your name?" Armin asked, his voice softer now. There was something different about this one. He felt it.
The man looked at him then, dark eyes finally acknowledging him. He tilted his head, considering the question.
"Ciro," he said. "My name is Ciro."
"I'm Armin."
Ciro smirked, brushing back a lock of messy hair before sitting upright, hands resting on his knees.
"You," he said, nodding toward Armin. "What's your special Veil Art?"
Armin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "That's... kind of rude to ask, isn't it?"
Ciro chuckled and raised both hands in mock surrender. "Heh! Fine, fine... don't tell me. Be mysterious, if that's your thing."
'You are the mysterious one here,pal.'
He laid back onto his bedroll, arms tucked behind his head, the smirk still lingering on his lips.
'That guy sleeps a lot.' Armin thought.
Then the peace shattered.
Brask charged in.
The ground seemed to tremble beneath his weight, the thick stone floor barely muffling his thunderous steps. His presence was disgusting—an aura of rot and wealth and indulgence. His skin had turned a violent shade of pink, flush with fury. His yellowed teeth, long and sharp like a shark's, twisted into a vile sneer as he locked eyes with Armin.
"YOU!" he bellowed, voice echoing off the stone walls, "YOU WILL PERISH...I PROMISE YOU....YOU WILL DIE BY MY HANDS!"
Spittle flew from his mouth. His nails clawed the air as if he wished to tear Armin apart with words alone.
Armin stood unmoved. Something within him was already cracking, and Brask's threat barely nudged the edges.
"Cool it down, Shark Teeth," he said, tone dry, almost amused.
Brask's eyes bulged.
"You EMBARRASSED ME!" he roared. "So I'll get my payback!"
He spun on his heels and stormed out, robes flailing behind him, each step echoing like a drumbeat of his rage.
The room was still again, silence settling once more like dust. All eyes shifted back to Armin.
Jubak rose from his meditation and walked over, placing a tattooed blue hand on Armin's shoulder. His touch was steady, grounding.
"Don't worry," he said, voice as deep and calming as ocean tides. "He's just a pig with too much money."
Armin shrugged. "Yeah, whatever."
His eyes moved toward the children.
They were curled up together on their sleeping mats, wrapped in a thin blanket that had more holes than warmth. Armin took a deep breath, then stepped closer.
"WAKE UP!" he shouted, loud and sudden like a crack of thunder.
The two siblings jumped with a loud "Eeeek!" rubbing their eyes with small fists. Their brownish-black hair was all messy, sticking out in every direction. They both looked tired and a little annoyed.
The girl,Eirene,pouted, her cheeks puffed out. The boy blinked slowly, still half-asleep. They looked up at Armin with the kind of faces only kids could make—confused, grumpy, and full of questions.
Armin couldn't help it. He laughed. It started as a chuckle and turned into a short, hearty laugh that made the girl frown deeper and the boy hide behind her shoulder.
"You two are hopeless," Armin said with a grin. "What if I wasn't me, huh? What if I was something scary?"
"You are scary," the girl muttered. "You yell too much."
"And you tease us." the boy,Dike, added with a small yawn.
"Fair enough," Armin replied, scratching the back of his neck. "Come on. Day's starting."
The kids slowly stood up, stretching their arms. Their small feet padded softly against the ground as they looked around the cell and then just walked around.
'Peace is good...peace is good.'
Far away, across the red desert—
Azaran moved quickly through the blowing sands.
His head and face were wrapped in cloth to keep the wind and grit away. He squinted through the storm, his steps steady. Around him, the people of the Ruber clan hurried to follow his lead. There were old ones, young ones.
Their red eyes shined through the sand filled wind.
His blue hair was not moving all around the place thanks to the scarf.
Azaran's mother had stayed behind in the main camp to care for his sick father. That left him in charge, at least for now.
He didn't complain.
The desert wind rushed past his face. The edge of his scarf whipped against his cheek, brushing lightly against the thick mark that ran across his eye. It wasn't really a scar. It was a mark to help him see.
He didn't hate Armin. Not truly. Things had happened. Painful things. But not all pain becomes hate. Some just fades into memory.
He had hurt Armin as well of course.
"Move faster!" he called out, turning to check on the others. "We need to find shelter before the worst of the storm hits."
His voice was calm but strong. The people obeyed, leaning into the wind, eyes squinted, heads down.
Suddenly, Azaran stopped walking.
He felt something.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the sand.
The ground beneath his feet… shifted.
Not much at first. Just a small tremble. But enough for him to notice. He raised a hand, signaling for everyone to stop.
The people around him froze. Even the camels paused, their legs tense and stiff. Sand swirled around them, the storm growing louder, but the earth's shake was deeper—slower. Like something was moving underground.
Azaran turned in a slow circle, scanning the desert with narrowed eyes.
Another tremble.
Then another.
Closer.
His breath caught in his chest.
"Something's coming," he said quietly, mostly to himself.
End of Chapter-018