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
For half a heartbeat, Damien thought he’d done it—thought he’d found the key to wrestling a bear. Then the sound came.
The growl was deep enough to crawl inside his chest and stay there, vibrating through his bones like an earthquake aiming just for him. He felt the shift under him before he even registered it—muscle bunching, air moving, the world turning.
The bear twisted.
Everything went white and violent.
Teeth flashed near his leg—too close, too fast—and something inside screamed to move. He didn’t try to think, didn’t aim. He let go. Dropped his grip, let the turn do half the work, his weight sliding off the bear’s flank just as those jaws snapped shut where his thigh had been. He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, rolled through it in a mess of snow and pain and breath that didn’t want to come.
When he stopped, he was on one knee, breath ragged. He could still feel the rush of air from those jaws that could’ve torn him apart. Aria’s sharp yowl cut through the ringing in his ears, but he didn’t look her way. His eyes stayed on the bear.
And then—because instinct was one thing, but pride another—he laughed. A short, rough sound, broken halfway by the cold.
“Alright,” he rasped, dragging in air that stung all the way down. “Lesson learned.”
He pushed to his feet, slow, steady, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You win, Sentinel.”
The growl was deep enough to crawl inside his chest and stay there, vibrating through his bones like an earthquake aiming just for him. He felt the shift under him before he even registered it—muscle bunching, air moving, the world turning.
The bear twisted.
Everything went white and violent.
Teeth flashed near his leg—too close, too fast—and something inside screamed to move. He didn’t try to think, didn’t aim. He let go. Dropped his grip, let the turn do half the work, his weight sliding off the bear’s flank just as those jaws snapped shut where his thigh had been. He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, rolled through it in a mess of snow and pain and breath that didn’t want to come.
When he stopped, he was on one knee, breath ragged. He could still feel the rush of air from those jaws that could’ve torn him apart. Aria’s sharp yowl cut through the ringing in his ears, but he didn’t look her way. His eyes stayed on the bear.
And then—because instinct was one thing, but pride another—he laughed. A short, rough sound, broken halfway by the cold.
“Alright,” he rasped, dragging in air that stung all the way down. “Lesson learned.”
He pushed to his feet, slow, steady, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You win, Sentinel.”
(Training 4/4)
