The Devil you know

The Devil you know
Chapter 120:

The storm rolled low across the mountains, rumbling loudly like a beast too restless to sleep. Rain fell in heavy, slanted sheets, beating against the cliffs, and soaking through the soil until it turned to mud. The air reeked of iron and moss, and something else beneath it. Blood.

But on this night, a rider and their horse were galloping through the night, furiously.

They smiled. They were close.

The trail they’d followed wasn’t one most wolves dared to take— The deadwoods wound through remains of old territories, where the scent of death lingered even centuries later. A total of three whole days was needed to get there, and each step marked with the scent of decay and ash.

Even their horse, a sleek gray mare, was uneasy, ears flicking back, nostrils flaring. But they had always been comfortable in places the living feared to tread.

At this exact moment, their cloak was soaked from the rain, but they didn’t care. Their focus never wavered. Every hoofbeat brought them closer to what they wanted most — power.

They dismounted, their boots squelching softly in the mud as they made their way through the ruins of what had once been a stronghold. Once, they might have been part of a fortress; now they were only crumbling stone, half-consumed by vines.

The torches along the walls still burned, dim yet flickering even through the rain. So they knew he was here.

And so were his guards.

The first one appeared from behind a broken pillar, fangs bared, blade drawn before his snarl even finished leaving his throat. They sidestepped the first lunge easily, fingers twisting, a glint of steel flashing between them. His body dropped before he realized they’d slit his throat.

“Pathetic,” they murmured, wiping the blood off their dagger with his cloak.

Another came from their left, heavier and much faster, but they were already moving. Their knee caught his ribs, their elbow cracked across his jaw, and by the time he hit the ground, they were stepping over him like discarded trash.

A third lunged. They caught his wrist, twisted, and sent his blade into the air before driving their boot into his chest. He hit the stone wall hard, slumping.

The fourth didn’t even have time to draw.

“Enough.”

The voice cut through the chaos like a sharp blade.

Damian stepped into the open from the far end of the hall, his gray eyes catching the flicker of the torches. He didn’t look surprised, rather, if anything, he looked… mildly irritated. The power in his stride filled the space easily, his expression calm and unreadable.

His gaze swept over the bodies sprawled across the floor. “You’ve made a mess of my guards.” He remarked, ever so carelessly.

They smirked. “If these are your guards, then you’ve gone soft, Damian.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, his tone even. “And since you’ve come here uninvited, you must have gone mad.”

He moved before they could find a suitable reply, a fast blur of motion, his blade whistling through the air. They twisted aside just in time, the edge grazing their sleeve. He was fast. A bit too fast.

They ducked low, pivoting with practiced ease, and drove a kick toward his ribs. He caught their ankle, yanked, but they spun instead, aiming for his throat with a dagger they’d drawn mid-motion. He blocked it with the back of his arm, steel clashing against skin that didn’t even bleed.

“Not bad,” Damian said, voice almost bored. “For someone who bleeds as easily as she talks.”

They grinned. “Oh, I’m far from bleeding yet.”

Their blades met again. Sparks jumped between them, brief flashes of light in the dark hall. They pressed forward; he parried, and when they struck again, his counter sent her stumbling a step back.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his tone a low growl beneath the clash of stell upo steel.

They bared their teeth. “Because someone has to end the bitch ‘Aria’ once and for all.”

That stopped him cold.

Damian’s blade halted an inch from their throat. His eyes, sharp and storm-colored, fixed on them. “Careful,” he said softly. “Only I get to call Aria that.”

Their smirk only widened. “Touchy subject, is she?”

He didn’t answer, only stepped back, lowering his sword slightly. The air between them was charged with tension. They circled each other like predators sizing up the other’s weakness.

Then Damian tilted his head, his mouth curving into a faint, dangerous smile. “Why?” he asked. “Why come to me?”

They sheathed their dagger slowly. “Isn’t it obvious?” they asked. “I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

He chuckled low, the sound rough and humorless. “Enlighten me! What possibly… could an old bitch like you offer me?”

The jab landed, a deliberate shade of their own insult towards Aria, but they only rolled her eyes, brushing dirt from their sleeve, his words rolling right off their back. 

“I can offer you what you’ve been too patient to take,” they said. “You’ve been hiding out here, waiting for them to miraculously into your lap. Waiting for fate, for opportunity…for her. But while you sit in your shadows, she’s building loyalty, sympathy, and strength. And I’m not one for waiting, Damian. I make bold choices. I act.”

His eyes narrowed, interest flickering behind them. “Bold choices,” he repeated. “Like breaking into my stronghold?”

“Like ensuring she doesn’t live to see the next moonrise,” they countered. “I’ve already begun.”

He studied them for a moment, then began to pace, slow, measured steps echoing against the stone. “You know,” he said softly, “I’ve heard the rumors. Someone’s been moving through the border packs. Offering coin. Building an army from scraps and traitors.” He stopped, looking back at her. “That wouldn’t be you, would it? Elder ilyra. ”

Ilyra's expression didn’t change, but her silence was answer enough.

And Damian laughed.

It started low, just a chuckle, then it grew, rising until it filled the whole hall with the sound.