Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 121

**KACIA**

My heart jolts. I’ve been dying to ask, but hearing him offer makes me sit up straighter on instinct, my notebook forgotten on the blanket. I was really excited to learn earlier before getting sidetracked by Oz getting spelled. I had kind of forgotten my excitement but now it is back in full force.

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.” I blurt out, a little too fast. Tarish inclines his head and gives a small smile, like that answer was expected, then folds his long fingers together as though preparing to give a lecture. He looks every inch the fae lord in that moment. Composed, patient, and just a little intimidating.

“The magic I gave you is simple in nature but demanding in practice. It is an illusion, an imitation of what is real. Nothing solid, nothing you can touch, but convincing nonetheless.” He says slowly. I nod quickly, trying to mask the way my stomach flutters with nerves. 

“So… How do I do it? Is there, like, a spell word? Or hand movements?” I ask. Tarish’s lips twitch as though he’s suppressing a laugh. 

“No. No words. No gestures. Only focus. You essentially have to focus like hell.” He explains. I blink, then give a short, startled laugh, until I realise he isn’t joking. His face is utterly serious.

“You must picture the object you wish to imitate with absolute clarity.” He continues. 

“Not just the outline, but every detail. Size, weight, texture, how it would feel beneath your fingers. The exact shade of its color. The way light glances across it, where shadows fall, how it reflects, how opaque or translucent it might be. The closer you come to perfecting the image in your mind, the longer and more convincing the illusion will be.” He explains. I glance down at my hands, flexing my fingers. My palms are clammy. Focus like hell. That sounds… More than a little daunting.

“And if I mess it up?” I ask cautiously.

“Then the flaws will show.” Tarish says matter of factly. 

“It will look incomplete. Or it will fall apart the moment your focus slips.” He adds. I nod slowly, my chest tightening. 

“And if I lose concentration entirely?” I prompt. 

“It vanishes.” He says with a flick of his hand. 

“Like smoke in the wind. The spell exists only as long as you can hold it steady in your mind. That is why this particular magic is often given to children, it teaches discipline. It forces them to hold their attention, to practice control. It builds the foundation for stronger work later.” He points out. Well, I suppose that does make sense. I let out a low breath, both impressed and terrified. 

“So basically… No pressure.” I joke awkwardly. His pale eyes glitter faintly. 

“On the contrary. All pressure.” Then, after a heartbeat, he leans back just slightly, his voice dropping into something that almost sounds like approval. 

“But I believe you’ll manage.” He adds. Oddly enough, I think he actually means it.

Tarish doesn’t raise a hand or whisper anything dramatic. Instead, he stands, crosses to my bedside table, and picks up a mug. He doesn’t just glance, he studies. He turns it slowly under the lamp, letting the light skim the glaze so the faint hairline scratches show. He traces the little chip on the handle with his thumb, checks the thickness of the rim, squints at the unevenness where the glaze pooled near the base. He even tilts it, listening to the soft clink as what’s left of the tea touches ceramic, gauging weight and balance. Then he holds it at arm’s length, viewing it from above, below, and profile, as if he’s memorising not just the mug, but the idea of it.

Only when he’s satisfied does he set it back exactly where it was. He steps away, exhales, and his posture changes, looser, intent settling over him. At first there’s nothing. Then the air in front of him wavers, a shimmer like heat over stone. The shimmer thickens, edges sharpening until an identical mug appears out of nothing, every detail perfect. The chip, the faint lipstick stain at the rim, the way the glaze reflects the lamp. It looks so real my fingers twitch to grab it.

“That’s… Incredible.” I breathe.

“This is a simple object.” He says, eyes still on the illusion. 

“Single form, consistent texture. Easy to hold in the mind.” He clarifies.

“It looks real. Can you move it?” I ask. 

“A fair question.” He concludes. His focus tightens. The duplicate mug slides a cautious half inch across the bedside table. Inside, the illusion of tea gives a convincing ripple… And the whole thing flickers and snuffs out like a blown candle.

“What happened?” I ask, startled.

“Movement is far more difficult.” Tarish replies, calm again. 

“To move an illusion, you must keep the object perfect in your mind and accurately predict the new information motion reveals, how the light changes on the glaze, what the rim looks like from a shifted angle, how shadows crawl, how liquid behaves inside, even the tiny distortions along the curve.” He glances at the real mug. 

“Every changed angle is another set of truths to maintain. Miss one, and the image collapses.” He says with a grim smile. 

“So it’s not impossible.” I say, eyeing the mug like it’s a final exam.

“Just… Really hard.” I summarise. 

“Exactly. If you can manage movement, it’s a sign your concentration and imagination are exceptional. But do not expect it quickly. Most fae require years before they can manage more than the simplest motion.” His mouth twitches, almost a smile. 

“Start small. And then, like I said before, focus like hell.”

Tarish’s eyes linger on me, then soften slightly. 

“You’ve seen what I mean.” He says, nodding toward where the duplicate mug had vanished. 

“Now… It’s your turn.” He declares. My stomach flips. 

“Mine?” I echo. 

“Of course. Magic is useless unless you practice. Start with something simple. Something small, something you’ve had for a long time. An object you know better than your own face.” His voice is calm, deliberate. 

“The familiarity will help.” He adds. I look around my room, my eyes landing on my battered leather jacket draped over the back of a chair. I’ve worn it on hunts, late night stakeouts, grocery runs, it’s practically another layer of skin. But even that feels too complicated for a first try. Instead, I pick up the little silver hair clip lying on my desk, the one I’ve had since I was a teenager. I know every scratch on its surface, every place where the metal has dulled.

“Alright, focus like hell.” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I close my eyes, clutching the clip in one hand. I picture it in my mind. It’s small, curved, cool to the touch. I trace the memory of its weight, the way light flashes off the edge. My pulse quickens as I try to hold every detail at once. size, shape, reflection, the tiny dent near the clasp. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve got it. The air stirs faintly, a shimmer just beyond my fingertips. But then it slips away. Gone in an instant, like a soap bubble popping. I exhale hard, opening my eyes. My palm is sweaty, the little silver clip digging into my skin. On the desk in front of me, there’s nothing. Just empty space. Tarish watches me silently for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then he gives a single, measured nod. 

“A flicker. That’s better than most on their first try. You managed to catch the thread, even if you couldn’t hold it.” He says. I scowl at the empty air, my frustration simmering. 

“It doesn’t feel like ‘better than most.’ It feels like failing.” I grumble. 

“Failure is a good teacher.” He replies evenly, not unkind, but firm. 

“You expected to succeed immediately?” He asks. I bite down on my lip, heat creeping up the back of my neck. I don’t want to admit it, but… Yeah, maybe I did.

Tarish sighs, the faintest sound of exasperation in it. 

“The difficult part of this is that I can’t tell you HOW to focus. That part belongs to you. Everyone does it differently. Some picture objects in their minds as though sketching them. Others whisper words to themselves, building the details with language. Some require silence. Others can find focus even in a storm of distractions. Some thrive under guidance, while others must be left completely alone.” He continues. 

“You must discover your own way. That is the true task here, finding the method that anchors your concentration. Without that, the magic will never obey you.” He says seriously. I glance down at the clip, rolling it in my palm. The tiny scratches catch the light, familiar and imperfect. Focus like hell, he’d said. Right now, it feels more like fumbling in the dark. Tarish studies me with that unsettling calm of his. Then he nods once, as if making a decision.

“Alright, now for homework. Your first task is simple. Create the clip. Nothing more, nothing less. Every night, practice until you can hold it steady. Until it no longer flickers.” He explains. I frown. 

“That’s it? Just the clip?” I ask. I was kind of hoping for something a little more interesting. But i guess I couldn’t even manage that… His eyes sharpen. 

“Just the clip. If you can’t master one object, you cannot master ten. Patience, Kacia. Foundation before architecture.” He lectures. I bite the inside of my cheek, but nod. 

“Alright. Every night.” I promise. Tarish leans back, folding his hands. 

“When you can hold that with consistency, then you may move on.” He decides. He picks up my notebook and begins writing a list. As he writes, he reads them out. 

“Second task, a coin or medallion. Flat, reflective. The challenge will be capturing the way light gleams across metal, how it shifts with the slightest angle. Reflection is the enemy of a lazy mind…” He continues writing.

“Third task, a small fruit. An apple, perhaps. Something with texture, irregularities, gradients of colour. Smooth skin, dimples, bruises. Organic things test your ability to imagine imperfection.” He adds. 

“Your fourth task will be a transparent object. A glass of water, half full. The glass, the water line, the way light bends through both. Illusions of clarity are among the hardest, because you are imitating not only a shape, but the absence of it.” He says thoughtfully. 

“Aaand… Your fifth task… A piece of jewelry. A ring, bracelet, or pendant. Something with multiple materials, metal, stone, polish. The smooth band, the cut of the gem, the way light refracts through facets. It will force you to manage multiple textures and colours at once.” He concludes. Then he lowers his hand, his voice softening slightly.

 “Master those, and you will have the beginnings of control.” He says, putting the notebook down. Then his tone shifts, quieter but heavier. 

“But be careful. If you overreach too soon, and you risk disaster. Illusions unravel violently when the mind falters. Try to conjure something too complex before you are ready, and the backlash will leave you sick, drained, or worse. Some young fae have even temporarily lost their vision from overtaxing their focus.” He warns. I swallow hard, the clip suddenly heavy in my hand. Tarish inclines his head. 

“Do not treat this as a parlour trick, Kacia. It might seem simple, boring even. But it is training. Discipline. If you cannot respect it, you will fail.” He says firmly. I nod, tightening my grip, determination steeling in my chest. 

“Alright. The clip first. Then I’ll work my way up.” I say, determined. I glance down at the little silver clip in my hand, suddenly feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds. Still, I tighten my grip and nod. 

“Guess I’d better get started.” I say with a half smile. Tarish gives the faintest of smiles as he summons a portal to take himself home. 

“Yes. And don’t forget, focus like hell.”