The ropes binding him snap. He staggers to his feet, his full height eclipsing the men around him. In one leap, he’s across the street and grabbing the sword from Laris.

“You will not hurt him!” Charun roars, his leathery wings flapping open to their full breadth, nearly the entire width of the alleyway.

He casts Laris to the ground and throws the sword aside.

“Leave!” Charun commands, fire in his eyes, death on his breath, “Leave now and never return!”

“A demon,” Laris whimpers, “The demon slayer is in love with a demon!”

He leaps to his feet, hands outstretched, fire sparking on his fingertips, aimed straight at Charun’s heart, if a demon could possess one.

“Look upon this monster, good people of Beggar’s Hole!”

His strong voice carries throughout the ramshackle street, though there’s a faint quaver in his voice that he can’t quite mask.

“Look what the demon slayer threatens you with. Look upon me and be grateful that I’ll rid the town of this beast.”

A volley of fire streaks Charun’s way, but it fizzles before it can even reach him. Laris looks at his hands, sparks refusing to ignite, and then grabs a sword from a nearby man.

“The demon slayer first then!”

Charun claims his prey. A cold mist suddenly pours out of Laris: the essence of his soul. Charun pulls his spirit from his body strand by strand, and then hurtles it straight to the underworld. Laris’s body sags to the ground, lifeless.

After Laris’s screaming fades away, there’s nothing but silence.

“The Demon of the Lost Valley,” someone finally whispers.

It is Therios.

Vanth staggers back, the bloodlust of Charun draining from him; he’s suddenly aware of the stare of the city dwellers, the weight of their whispers, the hostility in their gasps and frantic prayers. He can’t bear to meet Therios’s eyes, can’t stand to see the shock, the distrust. He’d been an idiot to think Therios could return his love. He’s a monster, something not to fit to be kissed and given affection, to be cuddled in bed at night, to be made love to.

But it’s too late, he’s revealed himself, left his sanctuary and now he has what he’s always expected and maybe what he deserves: rejection.

So he does the only thing he can think to do. He runs.

He doesn’t need a scroll or a torch to help guide his path, he tears through the night as a shadow darker than death, soaring over forest and hills, back to the only place he had ever been safe. He barrels through one of the stone walls, collapsing in the garden.

“Knight!” he cries, “Knight!”

He tears at the ground with his claws, ripping up beds and carefully planted rows of vegetables. It was all for nothing, all for nothing. And now he has only eternity alone to look forward to.

“Knight!” he calls again.

But there is no answer. Mud drips from his hands. Sweat streaks into his eyes glazed with fire. Only his labored breathing disturbs the quiet.

“Knight?” his voice cracks.

But there is no Knight. In fact, there’s barely a castle. Abandoning his destruction, he crawls forward like the beast he is, trembling with fear. The castle is in ruins, decaying as if Vanth hadn’t kept it well-preserved with careful stasis and maintenance spells. He storms through the doors, the great wooden beams rotting, and stumbles into a Greeting Hall that is cold and drafty, glass panes long since shattered.

“Knight!” he screams, though he knows that there will be no answer.

The kitchen is filled with the shattered remains of dusty pottery. The parlor is molding, furniture shabby and mothballed. He pushes open the door to his study, which is abandoned save for the six books he had brought with him all those years ago.

And there’s Knight, standing in the corner, just as he had originally found him so long ago, drooping on a stand, his armor rusted and pieces of him strewn about carelessly.

“Oh, my friend,” he whispers.

He staggers and hugs the empty shell of armor; it collapses under the weight of his demon form. He stares at the shiny metallic remnants of his only confidant and feels like he’s trespassing on a grave.

He doesn’t remember going back to the garden, doesn’t remember sagging into the dirt of the flower beds. The gardens are completely overgrown, filled with weeds and brambles, nothing of his garden and friends recognizable in the tangled mess. Like once he was gone, the spells failed completely, and the castle is finally feeling the erosion of time. There’s no trace of his stasis spell, it is night in Castle Garden now, the castle finally turning with the rest of the world.

He curls up and cries. He cries for company, for comfort, for deliverance from this wretched form and pitiful existence.

A soft leaf touches his cheek. He freezes. Stares. It’s a Friendly Freesia. He leans into the touch. The flower doesn’t seem to mind his demonic visage. Then again, it is a magical flower. Perhaps it’s not smart enough to realize it’s cradling a demon’s cheek.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he croaks.

Alone in the garden, the demon weeps and waits for the night to pass.