I finally am fully resuscitated, to the vibrant, human-shaped Daemon that I like to be. I mostly stayed asleep as they worked relentlessly. Living as a being that can only sustain life efficiently from absorbing the energy of others is an actual drag. I sometimes wish that I had the body toughness of a Nymph---

“Im’pe,” Mana corrected me. “The proper name for us is Im’pe, Kimbat.” She stopped the healing for a moment to caress my cheek. “Lith U'thar and many other Kin’ra like Them may take to calling us that, but it isn’t the word we gave ourselves: that word is attached to sexual desire. I tell you this because I know you would understand. I see much change in you, Kimbat.”

--- of an Imp, rather.

During the times that I was awake, whenever Father was not in my room chastising my own foolishness, Mana would talk to me about our world. We may use the term Daemon to describe ourselves generally, but we are different races, and interpret the world a bit differently.

My kind are said to be the most direct descendents to ancestral Daemon, next to Imps. Legends have it that there were two siblings of same birth, but different morals. One wanted to take to the Sky and claim it for themselves, whereas the other wanted to take root to the Soil in order to help it manifest into a safe home. The Soil-Tiller became the Im’pe, and the Sky-Flyer became the Kin’ra, a magickal apothecary and a dazzling shapeshifter.

There are other peoples besides us, however: the distant Si’rin, with their bird-like faces and humanoid jaws, their taloned fingers and broad, feathered wings, are an off-shoot of the Kin’ra: whereas the Kin’ra took to the trees for food, the Si’rin took to the sea. They were known for their beautiful voices and deadly talons, and have, like us, history in the ancient texts from humans, as monsters--- devils.

I rise from my bed, abdomen wrapped in bandages-- a measure to help prevent my body from unfurling my wings as I heal. Pain thrums from my head as I take a look at my phone. Still no messages: I wonder why that is the case.

I get up on my feet, and everything feels heavier for a brief moment. I try to bring up the map on my phone, and nothing-- I have to ask someone about this.

Mana told me about some other being, when I mentioned to her the Kim’s that I saw a week prior: “They call themselves the Cambion,” she said, clutching my hand. “A borrowed word from the humans, meaning the child of a Daemon and a human. Many of them are the mixed-race children of Daemon, however. As such, they typically do not look like us, so we call them human. Many do not like the Old World name for human-- Veremon-- though.

“Cambion have their own special niche in Daemon society, being a fairly modern race. Some can change their skin to look like humans, and so many disguise themselves, integrate into society, and inform us of any new developments in the Old World.”

But that was severed a long time ago, I remember reading. There is an overbearing, violent xenophobia over the mere thought of “new” sentient beings in human societies, fueled even further with the advent of layman technologies. If we could possibly use their new technologies back at home, we could develop just as fast as them.

Or maybe even faster.

I leave my room, and almost run into another Daemon-- the child of Lith Omlar Vad Katni: the Lith Father constantly keeps correspondence with, for the strength of both Folgra and Kimeno Dospi. She is like me: a child of a Lith with human-like skin, and an interest in the human world.

Unlike me, though, she holds little interest in human morality systems.

“Hail, Kimmel!” she says. Her body is draped in regal, red fabric, capped in golden ornaments. Her hair is brown and cut short, and fans out at the bottoms. The ochre skin of her arms is covered in red tattoos-- instead of the wings that I have, hers are of serpents, scales, and flames, from what I can make out of the tribal markings. Her deep brown, fuzzy wings are on full display. She gazes up at me with her twinkling grey eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the human world,” I say, “I have to figure out something.”

“Not without human clothes you don’t!” she responds, pushing me back into my room. As I stand in front of all my clothing, she sits on my bed, legs crossed. “Mother wants me to watch on you as you heal, so I can’t let you leave Kimeno Dospi without a nice change of clothes.”

“I was just going to clean up in the washroom first.” She inaudibly mouths out an ‘oh’, and I shake my head with a smirk. “Shouldn’t you change into civilian clothes then, Satcha?”

“You don’t mind me borrowing from you, do you?” The succubus flips onto her back and looks at me upside down. “All of my clothes make me look like a princess from the late 1800s, your clothes are at least current-fashion. Plus, I really like your way around clothes.”

“Well, thank you.” I grab a comfortable looking pair of sweats, and a loose-fitting tee. “Have you ever been out before, besides Feeding of course?”

Satcha pouts, then rolls herself upright. “Hmmm… I dunno, I’ve only been doing it for five years, to your, what… 11?” Sheathing her wings, she hops up onto her feet, then onto the ground next to me. “Have you been out there?”

“All the time.” I slip on the soft sweatpants. I give Satcha full eye contact, her eyes wide with awe. “Once I actually lived there for a bit, in one of their homes, and coexisted with their people.” I grab a black undershirt, and gesture at my shoulders. “Could you…?”

The succubus nods and starts to unwrap the bandages across my body. “Is it not dangerous to be out there with them? They could very well find you and do unspeakable things to you. I know it’s common enough for us Daemon to become empathetic to them, but…”

As the wraps come undone, my battle scars show in full display to Satcha, her stern face twisting into an expression that is remorseful. Her fingers lightly glide on a set of them atop my shoulders, and she jumps when cerulean energy zaps her fingers, akin to static electricity.

“I am tired of living on this small island, Satcha.” I help her unravel the rest of me. “There is not a lot to do here, compared to the kinds of things that some of the humans have invented since our exiliation. You may see it as empathy, but I see it as a desire to spread my wings and discover. And that’s what I’m going to do once I get back.”

With the wrappings fully off, I slip upon my black undershirt, and then atop of it the baggy tee. I assess the look in the mirror: decent enough. “I am going to fix up a bit more in the washroom,” I say while tossing the tee at her. “Get you some clothes and put them in a bag; I’ll meet you out in the main hall when I am ready to go.”

Satcha nods, pulling the shirt off her face. “Where are we going?”