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Chapter Three

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Once Azima tended to Chey's leg the best she could, wrapping the material as tightly and thickly as possible, she finished by tying the makeshift bandage in a knot and leaned back on her heels. Though the bleeding slowed, it hadn't stopped, and the once-white material quickly darkened to a deep red. He would need to leave, and soon, to ensure he arrived at the Parish before it was too late.

And she...

Picking up her discarded blade and returning it to the scabbard on her back, she helped hoist Chey up to a standing position, supporting him as they slowly left the bedroom. The cottage, as she suspected, appeared untouched as if the fire never occurred, but the tang of demonic magic wafted through her nostrils. The place would have been better to burn down.

She couldn't stay now, not with this taint. The magic of the wards no longer seemed to work, the essence of the demonic magic already having infiltrated their once secure sanctuary, and she wouldn't chance another unprepared encounter. Especially not alone, but she would never admit that to Chey.

Especially not as he continued to admonish her while she packed the rest of their belongings into two identical satchels. Most of the non-perishable food was split between them, though she opted to give him the larger half. He'd need it, traveling alone and injured.

"You don't know where you're going!" he said as he leaned against the exterior of the house while she assessed their weapons, and which would fit best in what bag given their unique, final destinations.

"Sure I do," she murmured thoughtfully. "You heard it as well as I... the forest. The seas. I'm going to cut through the Silve woods until I reach the Eanu."

"And then what?"

"The dawn. The dusk—it should only take a day's travel from there." She stood once she had secured the last knife into Chey's satchel and passed his travel pack to him. "I'll find this Prince Malecoda, ruin him for his threats, and return to the Parish before you'll even miss me."

Begrudgingly, Chey took the pack from her, but didn't move to shoulder it. "You should be coming to the Parish with me—to find your own Imerman."

"Chey."

"Azima."

There was something in his gaze she didn't care for—something paternal that he wasn't supposed to display, and that she wasn't supposed to allow to bother her. So instead she turned away, picking up her own bag to distract her from the tug on her heart.

"Fine—I'll make you a deal." She sighed, resigned and still unable to face him. "I'll complete this mission, and when I return, I'll come to the Parish and pick the best Imerman I can find."

His silence insinuated he was not amused, and when she turned to face him, she saw her assumption was correct. He stood against the cottage, his arms folded across his chest, and the fire in his eyes matched that of the inferno that blazed only an hour ago.

"I mean it," she insisted.

"Someone should go with you."

"No. This is something I need to do by myself."

"Why? Because it was in your dream to go alone?"

She didn't respond.

Chey didn't press the subject any further. Not as he slowly made his way to the awaiting horse. They only had one—it was his to begin with, and hunters preferred to move on foot, anyway. She held the reins so he could climb up with his good leg and watched as he painfully draped the injured one on the other side.

"You will come to the Parish as soon as you're done," he said as he gathered the reins in his hands. "Or so help me, I will track you down myself.

"You'll never catch me on that leg," she reminded him, but her tone was sincere. "As soon as I'm done, I will find you. I promise."

With that he nodded, and brought a hand to his chest, fist over his heart. "Godspeed, Venandi."

Azima's hand went to her own chest, above the scar of the brand that marked her for who she was. Venandi. The demon hunters sworn to protect their world.

"Farewell, Imerai," she said in response, cursing herself for allowing her voice to waver with the slightest bit of emotion.

Chey had been thereever since she was born—for her and her mother. Never as a fatherly figure, forsuch bonds were not allowed between hunters and Imermen, but as close as onecould be, she supposed. She watched him ride away, noticing the sun descendover the horizon, how it illuminated the land in its dying light. As it shoneupon his back and caressed his neck, she swore she saw his tattoo shimmer in itsblaze.

 As it shoneupon his back and caressed his neck, she swore she saw his tattoo shimmer in itsblaze

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Azima had to admit to herself that it felt strange to be alone.

She had been on missions in the past, odd jobs from the Parish that sent her out into the world, but Chey always came with her if she was going to be gone overnight. Sometimes he would force his way in on her missions even if she would be gone but a day. As obnoxious and controlling it seemed at the time, now... now she understood.

Maybe he didn't want to be alone either.

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