Naros guided his stallion alongside Kael's, adjusting the reins with exaggerated importance.
"So, shall we hit the road?"
Kael nodded, but didn't even manage a single step forward before Naros let out a theatrical sigh and pressed a hand to his stomach.
"Listen… what if, before we go, we… you know…"
Kael squinted.
"What?"
"Eat something!"
Kael exhaled, long-suffering.
"Naros…"
"Kael! We've been running all over the place, hunting for horses, bargaining with that ogre of a stable master, I almost bonded with a serial killer, mind you—and you're telling me I don't deserve a hot bowl of stew?!"
Kael turned away, prepared to pretend he hadn't heard anything—
but at that exact moment, his own stomach let out a traitorous growl.
Naros snapped his finger into the air like he'd just received a divine revelation.
"Aha! You heard that, right? A sign from the gods! We're getting food!"
Kael muttered something under his breath, but resistance was futile.
"Fine. But make it quick."
Naros clapped his hands with the joy of a man who'd just won a war.
"I knew there was still hope buried deep inside you!"
Without waiting for a reply, he wheeled his horse toward the nearest tavern.
Kael shook his head and tugged at the reins.
"If you order three dishes and two jugs of wine, I'm strangling you."
Naros burst out laughing, already trotting down the street.
"Kael, come on. You know I'm ordering four."
They rode off into the heart of the city—
finally heading toward the one place they'd both been craving all morning: good food.
The tavern greeted them with the rich aroma of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and spiced wine. The air was alive with laughter, voices, and the clinking of mugs, but Naros didn't hesitate for a second. He dropped into the nearest empty seat like it belonged to him and waved to the innkeeper with all the familiarity of an old drinking buddy.
"Bring us everything delicious! And wine!" he declared grandly, while Kael quietly sat across from him, sighing in resignation.
Within minutes, a feast appeared before them: roast duck with apples, stewed meat, warm bread, vegetables, cheese, and—of course—a jug of deep red wine.
Naros attacked the food with such enthusiasm that Kael barely had time to pour himself a drink before his plate was already being piled high.
"You have to try this!" Naros said, mouth full, flinging a spoon in the air. "By the gods, this is the best thing I've eaten in two days!"
"We had roast pheasant yesterday."
"Did we? Oh. Well, this is better!"
Kael closed his eyes, took a sip of wine, and wisely decided not to argue.
Naros kept talking without pause—telling some ridiculous story one moment, then complaining the next about how slowly Kael was eating.
Kael chewed slowly, silently accepting his fate at this point.
At least Naros was enjoying himself.
He reached for another bite—but froze. The spoon hovered in the air, but the meat on it suddenly seemed irrelevant.
"Naros," Kael said quietly, "shut your mouth and don't move."
His voice was low, calm, but firm enough that Naros immediately straightened, his hand with the food halting midair.
"Why? What's going on?"
He began to turn his head, slowly, cautiously, but Kael didn't even blink, his gaze locked straight ahead.
"Don't move," he repeated, barely moving his lips.
Four figures were standing in the doorway.
The four figures stood still, cloaked in black. Their robes clung tightly to their bodies, and deep hoods cast shadows over their faces. They didn't move, didn't speak, but their presence made something twist painfully inside Kael's chest.
Unable to resist, Naros slowly turned his head to glance at them—then just as slowly turned it back, his face several shades paler.
"Demons?" he whispered.
Kael didn't look up. He stared at his plate like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Worse. Demon hounds."
Naros swallowed hard. His eyes twitched nervously.
"What do we do? Summon the blades?"
"No," Kael said firmly. "There are mortals here. We get out—quietly. Through the kitchen."
Naros nodded without a word.
They stood up from the table slowly, as if they'd simply finished dinner. No panic. No sudden moves.
Naros cast a cautious glance over his shoulder.
The four demons were still at the entrance.
But now, they were starting to move.
One of them slowly turned his head, scanning the tavern.
And then—he looked straight at Kael.
A single heartbeat.
He raised his hand.
In the next moment, the other three turned with him, their hoods twitching slightly—but their faces remained hidden in shadow.
Kael felt the pressure in the air spike.
Without hesitation, Naros shoved him toward the kitchen door with all his strength.
"RUN!!!"
They bolted, bursting through the doors.
The kitchen turned into a battlefield.
Kael moved like a shadow between the tables, dodging skillets, pots, and panicked cooks. He leapt over flour sacks, ducked under a tray-carrying maid, and narrowly avoided a knife hurled into a chopping board.
Naros, on the other hand…
Naros burst in at full speed—and slammed straight into a massive pot of porridge.
A tidal wave of hot mush exploded in every direction.
"ARE YOU THE SON OF THE INFERNAL ABYSS?!" roared the chef, drenched in boiling oatmeal.
"MY CLEAN STOVE!" shrieked the cook, launching a wooden spoon at Naros's head.
Naros tried to speed up, but tripped over a sack of onions, crashed into a basin of vegetables, and in the next instant, dozens of carrots, cabbages, and lemons rolled across the floor.
One of the cooks slipped on a rogue peach, flailing his arms like a fish thrown ashore before landing with a loud splash into a barrel of water.
"WHERE IN THE NINE HELLS DID YOU COME FROM?!" another bellowed, as a chicken leg rolled across his table like a cursed omen.
Kael, already near the exit, turned back to shove Naros forward—only to see him vaulting over a prep table, catching the edge of a tablecloth.
"NOOOO!" wailed a cook in horror.
Plates, meat, knives, and glasses crashed to the floor in a deafening clatter.
"FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING?!" screamed the head chef, clutching his head like a man on the edge of madness.
"IT WASN'T ME!" Naros yelled back, scrambling for the door.
And just then, with a hideous crack, the tavern's front door was ripped off its hinges.
The demons entered.
Kael grabbed Naros by the collar, yanked him toward the back exit, and shoved him outside.
"To the horses—now!"
Behind them, the tavern erupted in chaos. Plates shattered, cooks cursed like sailors, and the icy pressure of the hounds of hell pressed down on the world.
Kael and Naros burst out into the open air and, in one fluid motion, leapt into their saddles.
Behind them, hell broke loose.
Voices roared from the kitchen:
"WHAT IN THE GODS' NAMES ARE YOU?!"
"CURSE YOU TO THE UNDERWORLD, YOU MONGREL!"
"WHO'S GOING TO CLEAN THIS MESS?!"
But that wasn't the real nightmare.
Behind them, in the courtyard, the demons had arrived.
Four shadowed figures turned to face them, and one, spotting the escaping riders, let out a guttural snarl:
"GET THEM!"
Kael didn't wait for a second invitation.
"RIDE!" he shouted, and his horse surged forward, kicking up dirt with every hoofbeat.
Naros whipped his reins and bolted after him, slapping his stallion's flanks as if to remind it that this was very much a life-or-death situation.
The chase exploded into a blur of hooves and chaos.
Their horses thundered down the cobblestones, striking sparks with every step, while behind them, Kael could feel the cold shadows of the demon hounds spreading through the city like poison.
They were fast—unnaturally fast—but they didn't know these streets.
Kael did.
He tore through alleys like a storm, weaving between merchant stalls and backstreets, each turn tighter than the last.
Naros followed at full gallop, barely a breath behind him.
And then—they hit the crowded market district.
"HEY! YOU HOOF-BRAINED MANIACS!" a fishmonger screamed, diving out of the way.
"DO YOU HAVE NO SENSE LEFT IN THOSE NOBLE SKULLS?!" an old woman shrieked, hurling a basket of fruit after them.
Apples and pears exploded into the air, raining down behind the fleeing riders.
Kael steered his horse straight through the market, shoving carts and stalls aside to sow confusion.
Naros glanced over his shoulder, dodging a furious vendor waving a cleaver.
The demons tore through the crowd—but now the crowd tore back.
Vegetables, crates, and even a flying boot rained down upon them from furious townsfolk.
"HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, YOU BASTARDS?!" a butcher roared, hurling a ham at the nearest demon with the strength of the gods.
Kael swerved his horse onto the main road, his cloak snapping behind him in the wind.
Naros galloped beside him, barely holding onto the reins as he yelled,
"I always knew you were gifted at ruining people's day!"
"SHUT UP AND HOLD ON!"
The city fell behind them.
Now there was only one priority — ride. Ride far, ride fast, before the hounds found a way to catch up.
Kael leaned forward, pushing his horse toward the dense forest ahead. They needed cover. Any cover.
Behind him, Naros glanced back.
In the distance, through the wreckage of shattered stalls and howling chaos, four dark riders were still coming.
They hadn't given up.
Kael pressed low into the saddle, dimming his aura until it was barely a flicker.
If the demons had sensed them… then they knew exactly who they were chasing.
Which meant only two options: outrun them — or fight.
"Why the hell are they after us?!" Naros growled, gripping his reins tighter as he galloped behind Kael.
"They sensed us," Kael replied, eyes locked on the shadowed treeline ahead.
Naros exhaled sharply, guiding his horse onto the narrow forest trail.
"They can sense all they want! What did we ever do to them?!"
Kael didn't answer.
But he knew: if the demon-hounds had their scent, they wouldn't stop.
The thick trees closed in above, swallowing them in darkness. The sun vanished behind the canopy, and the forest devoured the sound of hoofbeats.
Kael urged his horse faster. Magic wouldn't come easily to the hounds in the woods. Not here.
Branches whipped against their faces, hooves tore through moss and fallen leaves, and clumps of earth flew in every direction.
Naros zigzagged beside Kael, barely avoiding tree trunks by inches.
"DAMN IT, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS PICK THE MOST DANGEROUS ROUTE?!" he shouted, as a gnarled root nearly yanked him out of the saddle.
Kael ignored the complaints. He could feel it — the pressure of demonic auras behind them was fading.
The forest was working in their favor.
The hounds couldn't follow scents so easily here, not with a thousand others muddling the air: moss, bark, animals.
Soon, everything fell quiet.
Kael slowed his horse to a walk.
Naros exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"So? Did we lose them?"
Kael listened.
Silence.
No hoofbeats. No dark presence.
"We lost them," he finally said.
Naros leaned back in his saddle, letting out a breath of relief.
"Well. At least now we know they're hunting us. That's… comforting?"
Kael frowned.
This was only the beginning.
Kael adjusted the reins, guiding his horse forward.
"All right. Let's move. We'll reach a village by nightfall—we'll rest there."
Naros let out a long sigh, stroking the neck of his horse.
"What a terrible day…"
Kael didn't argue.
It truly had been one hell of a day.
A kitchen disaster, a mad chase through the city, a close brush with demons…
And to think, the morning had started so peacefully.
But now they had finally shaken off their pursuers. The most important thing was to stay hidden—and not attract any more attention.
They rode on through the thick forest, leaving behind the silence of the woods and the fear that had hunted them.
********************
POST-CHAPTER BONUS SCENE: "GROUP THERAPY FOR DEMON TRACKERS"
Interior: A cozy room. A fireplace crackles softly. There's a couch, some pillows, and a plaque on the wall:
"Demonic Counseling. Anonymous. No Judgment."
Therapist (an exhausted demon in glasses, holding a mug of tea):
"Welcome, brothers. Today, we are here to process… the trauma. Who wants to begin?"
Demon #1 (hoarsely, voice trembling):
"I was hit with a frying pan…"
Silence. Someone exhales shakily.
"In the eye. I tried to cast a curse, and instead…"
He sniffles.
"…I squeaked."
Therapist:
"That's okay. You are allowed to squeak. Next?"
Demon #2 (voice cracking):
"They poured porridge on me. I slid across onions. I'm an ancient entity! And then someone…"
He looks up, haunted.
"…someone called me 'porridge with eyeballs.'"
Demon #3 (sitting wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing):
"They said, 'let's quietly go through the kitchen.' Quietly. Through. The. Kitchen."
He slowly turns to the therapist.
"I stepped in roasted beets. I still smell like salad."
Therapist:
"Let's all do our breathing exercise together: 'I am not a loser. I am the darkness. I am eternity.'
Inhale… exhale… Good."
Jots something in his notebook.
"We're making progress."
Demon #4 (soft, kettle-whistle voice):
"I was hit with bread."
Silence falls across the room.
"A loaf."
Therapist (raising a brow):
"White or rye?"
Demon #4 (whispers):
"With bran."
Therapist:
"That was deliberate."
The fireplace crackles. The atmosphere is painfully tense and dramatically pitiful.
Therapist (sighing):
"Alright, that's all for today. Homework: draw where the pain lives inside you."
A beat.
"And please… avoid taverns. And chicken legs."
ALL DEMONS (in deadpan unison):
"Avoid chicken legs…"
[Curtain closes.]