Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Pain shot up Damien’s arm, sharp and biting where the snow leopard’s jaws clamped around him. He gritted his teeth, the hiss of leather and piercing teeth mingling with the raw ache of impact. Every breath was ragged, every pulse a hammer in his skull, but he didn’t let the pain dictate his movement. He could feel it radiating down, hot, white-hot pain, and for a heartbeat the world contracted into teeth, claws, and the cold bite of the snow beneath him.
The arrow struck, and the cat barely flinched. It shook him like a ragdoll instead, and the knife at his hip, so close a second ago, was now just a sliver of hope buried beneath the weight of muscle and fur. Damien’s teeth clenched, and a low, guttural snarl tore from him—a mix of pain, anger, and sheer defiance. The Fangs had thrown him, the predator had dared, and he wasn’t about to surrender without blood in return.
Through the haze of white-hot pain and adrenaline, he caught Theea moving. Crossbow in hand, stepping into the space behind the beast. He saw the flicker of intention in her motion and the shift in the leopard’s focus. Then the corrupted beast lunged, claws raking across her ribs. Pain flashed across her face in the split second after the predator’s attention snapped toward her.
“NO!” the denial burst out of him, voice raw, carrying over the roar of his own heartbeat. The shout wasn’t just a warning, it was a promise. Every muscle screamed in protest from the shake of the initial impact, his arm burning where the jaws clamped, but he didn’t hesitate.
One hand yanked the hunting knife free, the slick leather sheath tearing with the motion.
With a grim twist of his body and a surge of desperation, he drove the blade into the snow leopard’s chest. The angle, brutal and precise from his position on the snow, gave him leverage; the steel sank deep, puncturing through muscle, ribs, and heart alike. The beast convulsed violently, claws raking across the hard-packed snow, its growl morphing into a strangled hiss before weight went slack against his chest.
Crimson spread across the white like fire blooming in frost. “Theea,” he rasped, voice ragged and tight.
He shoved the lifeless predator off him and grabbed her before he was fully on his feet, instinct pushing him forward. He pressed close enough that the warmth of his body steadied her against the biting cold and the uneven snow. Not giving her a chance to wobble, he shifted his weight to hold her steady, almost crowding her, but it was necessary. His eyes darted over her, scanning quickly, assessing—but everything had been a blur, every second a blur of claws, teeth, and snow. “It’s okay. I got you. It’s over… I'm so sorry, Theea.” The words slipped out before he could think them, an automatic apology, sharp with the weight of guilt for leading her into the Fangs.
Emotion had no place yet; there were worse things than bruised pride waiting for them. Both of them were bleeding—his arm bore the deepest of his injuries, the bite and shake of the leopard pressing dark red beneath his sleeve. Pain flared, hot and throbbing, but he forced it aside, letting years of tracking, fighting, and surviving guide his movements. Fear pressed at the edges of his mind, but it was sharpened, channeled; cold, precise, and relentless. He needed to stabilize, to survive. She needed shelter. And he needed the supplies he carried in that old, reliable kit he never left behind. He wasn’t a healer, but he could damn well make sure they lived long enough to see the morning.
Step one: find shelter.
His gaze swept the immediate terrain, almost in a panicked haze, but the Fangs offered little. Only one option: the hollow den. Not ideal, not safe, but it would do for now. He jerked his chin toward the cave. “There. We stay there for the night. I’ll patch you up. Can you walk?”
He didn’t wait for her answer. She was small, light enough for him to move her himself. Without hesitation, he bent, scooped her into his arms, and carried her toward the hollow, each step deliberate against the uneven snow and broken stone. Pain flared with every movement, ribs aching, arm throbbing, but he gritted his teeth and forced it down.
The arrow struck, and the cat barely flinched. It shook him like a ragdoll instead, and the knife at his hip, so close a second ago, was now just a sliver of hope buried beneath the weight of muscle and fur. Damien’s teeth clenched, and a low, guttural snarl tore from him—a mix of pain, anger, and sheer defiance. The Fangs had thrown him, the predator had dared, and he wasn’t about to surrender without blood in return.
Through the haze of white-hot pain and adrenaline, he caught Theea moving. Crossbow in hand, stepping into the space behind the beast. He saw the flicker of intention in her motion and the shift in the leopard’s focus. Then the corrupted beast lunged, claws raking across her ribs. Pain flashed across her face in the split second after the predator’s attention snapped toward her.
“NO!” the denial burst out of him, voice raw, carrying over the roar of his own heartbeat. The shout wasn’t just a warning, it was a promise. Every muscle screamed in protest from the shake of the initial impact, his arm burning where the jaws clamped, but he didn’t hesitate.
One hand yanked the hunting knife free, the slick leather sheath tearing with the motion.
With a grim twist of his body and a surge of desperation, he drove the blade into the snow leopard’s chest. The angle, brutal and precise from his position on the snow, gave him leverage; the steel sank deep, puncturing through muscle, ribs, and heart alike. The beast convulsed violently, claws raking across the hard-packed snow, its growl morphing into a strangled hiss before weight went slack against his chest.
Crimson spread across the white like fire blooming in frost. “Theea,” he rasped, voice ragged and tight.
He shoved the lifeless predator off him and grabbed her before he was fully on his feet, instinct pushing him forward. He pressed close enough that the warmth of his body steadied her against the biting cold and the uneven snow. Not giving her a chance to wobble, he shifted his weight to hold her steady, almost crowding her, but it was necessary. His eyes darted over her, scanning quickly, assessing—but everything had been a blur, every second a blur of claws, teeth, and snow. “It’s okay. I got you. It’s over… I'm so sorry, Theea.” The words slipped out before he could think them, an automatic apology, sharp with the weight of guilt for leading her into the Fangs.
Emotion had no place yet; there were worse things than bruised pride waiting for them. Both of them were bleeding—his arm bore the deepest of his injuries, the bite and shake of the leopard pressing dark red beneath his sleeve. Pain flared, hot and throbbing, but he forced it aside, letting years of tracking, fighting, and surviving guide his movements. Fear pressed at the edges of his mind, but it was sharpened, channeled; cold, precise, and relentless. He needed to stabilize, to survive. She needed shelter. And he needed the supplies he carried in that old, reliable kit he never left behind. He wasn’t a healer, but he could damn well make sure they lived long enough to see the morning.
Step one: find shelter.
His gaze swept the immediate terrain, almost in a panicked haze, but the Fangs offered little. Only one option: the hollow den. Not ideal, not safe, but it would do for now. He jerked his chin toward the cave. “There. We stay there for the night. I’ll patch you up. Can you walk?”
He didn’t wait for her answer. She was small, light enough for him to move her himself. Without hesitation, he bent, scooped her into his arms, and carried her toward the hollow, each step deliberate against the uneven snow and broken stone. Pain flared with every movement, ribs aching, arm throbbing, but he gritted his teeth and forced it down.
