Tall, dark skin, slightly curly hair in a stylish short cut, double stripes on her collar. She was casually spinning a trinket in her fingers, looking amused.

Another demon?

Didn't seem like Nur's hitchhiker was expecting her. Nur's face, or his face, looked just as surprised.

"I'm your backup," the girl said, giving me a look. I didn't get it right away, so she rolled her eyes theatrically and added, "Lesbian porn."

"Ahhh," I exhaled in understanding. "No names," she warned. Then gave the room a once-over, her gaze sliding over Nur before curling into a sly half-smile. "Nice to finally speak face to face, Vrakzun."

"Vrhakzun," I corrected automatically. I hadn't mangled my tongue for hours learning to pronounce it right for nothing.

The demon in Nur's body didn't respond. But I saw the finger light up again — that same greenish silver shimmer — and start rising toward her eye.

I lunged.

This time, I made it in time and grabbed her wrist. The projection burst off her fingertip, grazing Nur's head. A second shot flicked out, even weaker, barely doing anything.

"Stop damaging the body," Lina said calmly. "It doesn't belong to you. And you won't be leaving it anytime soon."

She raised the trinket and aimed it like a remote before pressing a button.

Nur's body instantly went limp, collapsing like a shut-off puppet. I caught her just in time, lowering her gently to the floor.

"What did you do?!" I stared at Lina, not even sure what I was feeling.

Top of the list – annoyance. Novak and Bullsara had clearly played me. Let me think I had way more control than I really did.

"Relax," Lina said. "She's not dead. Not hurt. Just… not in the driver's seat right now. Technically, the demon's there," she spun the keychain again, "but the wheel's locked. It's just a message: you're completely in our hands."

She stepped closer and leaned over Nur's body. Her smirk turned wicked.

"The earrings were just bait — a trigger to time your little arrival."

"So they didn't burn out?" I asked.

"No. Bullsara just sent them a self-destruct signal." Then Lina straightened, her expression turning practical. "Come on, hero. The lady's down. Time to carry her to the medbay."

I lifted Nur into my arms. Her body was warm, almost limp — if not for the eyes still blazing with hatred. I gauged the distance to the medbay and decided this wasn't the time to play the prince — especially since Nur was no featherweight. I hoisted her over my shoulder instead.

"Pfft," Lina snorted. "So much for romance. Come on."

She led the way, pointing out the route.

We passed through the girls' wing — cadets paused, stared. Some stepped aside, letting us through. Others lingered, curious to see more. A few pairs of eyes met mine, but no one said anything. Not to me, anyway — the whispers behind my back were plentiful. This wasn't the first time Nur had been taken to the infirmary in dramatic fashion.

At the medical wing — room thirteen — Bullsara was waiting. He stepped aside and gestured to the metal table.

"Put him there."

He said him. It made my skin crawl.

"I'll take it from here. You're dismissed," he said, pulling a wheeled device up to the table.

"I could stay… help..."

"You already have," he cut in, handing me a small tube of burn ointment. Then, softening slightly, he added, "She'll be fine. He, on the other hand... might not be."

He hadn't raised his voice — but it sounded like a door slamming shut. Final. A boundary drawn.

I gave Nur one last look and stepped out.

Lina stayed behind.

Now what?

The corridor was quiet. Those doors had excellent soundproofing. I hovered a little longer, then trudged off, mind swarming with uneasy thoughts.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Would Nur come back to her body? Would they even let her?

Bullsara was a bastard — driven by results, not cost. Novak was a politician. He'd preach morality for as long as it was convenient. But if the demon inside Nur turned out to be more useful, more effective, more productive — would anyone truly choose her?

All their talk, all their 'culture matters' and 'protecting the weakest...' How would those words hold up when the choice came down to Nur's life or humanity's survival?

I imagined her trapped — locked inside her own body, present, aware, unable to scream, or move, or beg.

Just… a prisoner.

That hadn't bothered me when it was the demon. But now... everything had changed.

Part of me screamed that it was wrong. Another whispered that it was logical. That this was war — and in war, the stakes were survival. And in war, morality doesn't always win.

The thought made me sick, bitter, and I felt nausea creeping up my throat. I'd have given half my life for a bottle of that bourbon Novak's always sipping.

Speaking of Novak — he didn't let me drown in my thoughts for too long. The call came maybe fifteen minutes after I'd dropped Nur off at the medbay.

Incoming call: V. Novak

Accept / Decline

"I'm listening," I answered, far less eager than usual.

"Come to me. Now."

And so I went. What else was I supposed to do?

The metro platform was completely deserted — except for Novak. This time, he met me in person.

Did anyone else even live in that damned building? I'd been riding there for weeks, and still hadn't seen anyone besides him and his students.

"Sir," I greeted.

"Teren," he nodded.

My old callsign hit me in the gut like a lie. Like this whole thing was a setup.

We entered the lift without another word, and rode in silence all the way up. The ascent felt uncomfortably long.

His apartment greeted us with dim lighting and the scent of bourbon — oak and caramel. On the tea table stood a black bottle with a black label, embossed in gold. Two golden lions reared against a large letter A.

Beyond the panoramic window stretched the grand evening of Verdis.

The sky hadn't quite darkened yet. Twilight hovered in limbo — not day, not night. The upper layer was a soft turquoise; near the horizon, it melted into warm ochre and the golden hue of aged bourbon. Training halls, parade fields, gardens — all bathed in muted light, like something from a dream, sprinkled with hundreds of artificial lights flickering to life below. Some of those lights moved. Too small to identify, but too alive to be illusions.

In the sky, two moons glowed at once. This time, I could name both.

Surmail — the one where the demons hid their ship — hung just above and to the right, blazing bright, almost aggressively so. Its surface seemed crusted with crystals — each glint stabbing the eye, forcing a squint. It wasn't natural light. It looked like light off a blade, polished to a mirror finish.

Lower down, to the left — Tarassa. Her glow was soft, cool, tinged with blue. Dark patches stretched across her surface like ocean trenches, criss-crossed by long, jagged fractures.

"Sit," Novak's voice brought me back into the room.

He stood by the table with a fresh glass in his hand. Considering one glass was already sitting next to the bottle…

Looks like Daddy might finally let me have a sip tonight.

"Refusing?" he asked, in response to my raised eyebrow and skeptical look.

"Hell no," I shook my head.

He poured and handed me a glass. The glass was heavy, solid — pleasant to hold. I took a generous sip — nearly half of what he'd poured. Oak and caramel, something nutty, smoky — like the scent of a long-extinguished campfire. But underneath it all — fire. It burned, throat down to chest, like one of Adam's bolt-shots. No — more like one of Kate's electrobolts, when it hit too close to the heart.

I almost choked.

I looked toward the table, hoping to find something to chase it down, to cut the fire—

"You know," I said, "I've never been a fan of tasting alcohol. I've always thought a drink should come with something solid to chew on."

Novak sat across from me and took a neat sip. Not a twitch on his face.

"Alcohol is meant to be tasted," he said.

"That works for you. Me — I'm just a mortal. I'd rather not burn my taste buds out forever."

"People chase when they drink more than they should. It's part of the process. The clean stuff — that's like truth. And truth," he said, "needs to be measured."

"Like you measured it when you told me about Nur and her demon?" I laughed.

Reflexively. Not honestly. Not loudly.

Something about it all just felt absurdly fitting. The man holding Nur's life, and maybe mine, having a philosophical moment over alcohol.

"It was a necessary measure," he agreed.

He set the glass down and leaned forward, elbows on knees. His gaze, which until now had drifted lazily, locked onto mine — steady, calm, deep.

"Nur will be fine."

I didn't answer. I just stared, unable to squeeze out even a nod. The phrase landed too softly. Too casually.

"But first, she'll have to die."

The glass in my hand froze. I didn't drop it — but my fingers twitched. The burn in my throat was gone. The drink now tasted like ash.

"Clinically," Novak clarified. "It's a technical process. Two, three minutes at most. All vital functions controlled, brain protected. Bullsara knows what he's doing."

I nodded, but something inside twisted.

"And what does that get us?"

Novak leaned back and sighed but not out of weariness. There was satisfaction in it. Like he'd been waiting for this moment to lay down his cards.

"Thyzreth ended her life the moment she got a message from Vrakzun. Bullsara recorded her response. It took barely a pulse — and she was gone. Left the body. We used to think they were fanatics, ready to die. But everything we've observed — and all we've learned about demon culture — suggests they're far too pragmatic for suicide."

"So they don't die," I said more to myself than to him.

"They're not body. Not brain. They're soul — if you want to call it that."

I stared at him.

"You're really just going to let him go? Just... let him walk?" My voice was dripping with irony and disbelief.

Novak laughed.

Lightly. Dryly. Almost playfully — not like him at all. He was pleased.

He took the glass again, sipped — more this time — and only then replied:

"Who said I was going to let him go?"

I gripped my glass a bit tighter than I should have.

Novak watched me calmly, with that predator's patience more fitting of a strategist than a field commander. His smile was almost gentle. But his eyes were cold.

"This is war, Teren. And in war, you don't release your enemies until you've squeezed every last thing out of them. He still has a lot to tell us. And he'll be staying in a very secure cell."

His cheerful tone was disarming.

Sure, he'd played me in the dark — but maybe, just maybe... he knew what he was doing.

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