Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 129

**KACIA**

I scramble to Oz’s side. His glamour is gone, he’s in full demonic form, skin darkened like smouldering ash, horns curving from his head, tail twitching with tension. He squeezes his eyes shut the moment he feels me near.

“Look away.” He says in a rush. With a frustrated groan, I twist my back to Oz and glare at the greater problem, my grandfather. Every nerve in me screams to check on Oz, to see if he’s breathing properly, to make sure he’s not broken where he landed. But I can’t. If I turn and catch even a glimpse of those eyes, I’ll be done for.

“I’m fine.” Oz rasps behind me, obviously knowing that I’m worried. He’s not fine. I know he’s not. But if he says he’s fine, then that has to be enough, for now. Vidar moves before I can. Of course he does. Protecting is carved into him as deeply as his stone skin. His transformation is quick, skin darkening from tan to storm-cloud granite, white-silver hair flaring bright, wings snapping open before folding close again like blades tucked away. His sheer size fills the room, claws gleaming, jaw set hard. He looks like a warrior ripped from a cathedral wall and shoved into motion, all strength and inevitability. And damn, I’m glad he’s on our side. Vidar charges, the ground quaking under his steps, claws slashing for my grandfather’s chest. Lord Alhwin barely tilts his head. A flick of his fingers, a blinding flash, and Vidar is hurled backwards into a shelf with a crash that showers dust and loose parchment. Vidar doesn’t stay down. He never does. He rolls his shoulders, straightens, and barrels forward again, claws scraping sparks as they grind against a shimmer of protective magic. Stone grinding on spellwork, brute force straining against immortal calm. Then Tracey moves. I blink, almost startled. I’m so used to him being ridiculous, dramatic, flamboyant, quick with a smirk or some sarcastic remark, that it jars me to see him serious. All that flashiness is gone in an instant. He blurs across the floor, fast enough that my eyes struggle to keep up. His body twists, dodging the bursts of light that sear through the air, each movement precise, efficient. He lands light on his feet, fangs bared, expression sharp and cold. It’s almost unsettling. For the first time, Tracey doesn’t look like comic relief. He looks like what he really is, a predator.

“Careful, Tracey!” I shout, but he ignores me, circling, darting in and out, testing my grandfather’s reflexes. Clarence adds his strength then, his cane striking the ground with two sharp cracks. Words I don’t understand spill from his lips, and runes flare across the floor, bright and twisting, threads of binding magic spiderwebbing outward. The air grows heavy as the spell closes, pulling tight around my grandfather’s ankles. It holds, barely. For a heartbeat, it looks like they’ve actually caught him. My grandfather glances down, bored. He raises one hand and snaps the bindings apart like threads of silk. The recoil slams back through Clarence, who staggers, face creasing with pain. But he doesn’t break. His grip on the cane is iron, his glare carved from granite. Together, they should feel like a shield, Vidar’s raw strength, Tracey’s speed, Clarence’s magic. But facing my grandfather, it’s obvious. He isn’t winded. He isn’t even working hard. And that terrifies me. 

I hate this. Hate standing here with my hands empty, my chest aching, watching everyone else fight while I do nothing. I didn’t bring a single weapon. No knives, no steel tucked into my boots. And even if I had, what good would it do? Blades are meaningless against someone like him. My fae magic? That tiny spark that only half-listens when I call it? Pointless. Even if it did answer, even if it came blazing to my fingertips right now, it would never be enough. Not against him. What am I going to do? Create an illusion of my old hairclip. The uselessness claws at me worse than the fear. I can do nothing but watch. Vidar hurls himself at my grandfather again, wings snapping wide as claws of stone screech against invisible wards. Sparks fly as though he’s trying to dig into the world itself. Tracey darts in and out like a streak of shadow, moving so fast it makes me dizzy. He weaves through blasts of light, fangs flashing when he thinks he’s found an opening, only to be forced back again. Clarence’s cane slams against the floor, each strike sending another ripple of power outward, runes crawling like vines across the tiles, trying to bind, to restrain, to contain. But my grandfather isn’t slowing. He looks like a man brushing away gnats, faint irritation flickering across his face but never true effort. He bats Vidar aside with a flick of his wrist, sends Tracey spinning back with a flash of gold, snaps Clarence’s magic with a careless twist of his fingers. He is untouchable. And then Oz moves. He rises from the ground behind me dragging himself upright. Step by step, he stalks forward. Around me. Past me. His gaze never leaves my grandfather. His tail is lashing behind him like a whip that wants blood. His chest heaves, his hands curl and I can feel the fury radiating off him in waves, hot, electric, sharp enough to cut the air itself. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. I don’t stop him. I don’t even try. For a long, terrible moment, nothing happens. My grandfather parries Vidar’s claws, shoves Tracey back with a flare of light, breaks through Clarence’s latest spell like it’s nothing but smoke. His attention doesn’t flicker. And then, suddenly, he looks. His gaze collides with Oz’s. The nightmare effect slams into him like a tidal wave. I see it, the faint paling of his face, the tiny stutter in his movement. His lips part on a sharp inhale, his composure faltering. For the first time, the perfect mask cracks. Hope jolts in my chest like a spark. But he doesn’t collapse. He doesn’t flee or scream. Instead, he fights harder. He straightens, his hand trembling as he lifts it again. And then the panic hits. His attacks grow sharper, faster, more desperate. His magic lashes out wild, uncontrolled. Bolts of light soar through the air, scorching stone, scorching shelves. Sparks scatter everywhere. One blast ricochets off Vidar’s shoulder and slams into a bookshelf. The wood shudders, groans, then bursts into flame. The fire is instant. Books ignite like dry tinder, parchment curling black, ink hissing as it melts into bubbling streaks. The flames lick upward, greedy, bright, catching onto the shelves beside them.

“No!” Clarence’s voice cracks like thunder as he slams his cane into the ground, trying to smother the flames with magic. For a moment, the flames shudder. Dim. But then they roar back, brighter than before. The fire spreads. Slowly at first, then hungrily, like it has been waiting centuries for this chance. The library groans under the strain, smoke curling into the air, filling my lungs with ash and heat. I can only stare, horror locking me in place. This place, the library, their sanctuary, my one haven of knowledge, it’s burning, piece by piece, because of him. Because of us. Because of me… And my grandfather? His violet eyes gleam cruelly through the haze.

My grandfather laughs, harsh, jagged, almost maniacal. The sound echoes off the stone like it belongs to something less than human. I can hear the panic buried beneath it, though, Oz’s nightmare magic is still clawing at him, shaking the edges of his perfect mask. His gaze sweeps the room, over the flames devouring shelves, over Clarence’s frantic wards and Vidar’s stone form braced against the heat. Then his eyes land on me. Cold. Sharp. Cruel.

“You really think you’ll escape me, half-breed?” He says, his voice cutting like glass. 

“I will make sure you die. And soon. Don’t fool yourself into believing these creatures at your side can protect you.” He practically hisses the words at me. They slice straight through me, sharper than any blade. He tilts his head, a mockery of casual thought, then adds with a chilling ease. 

“I killed my son to stop that wretched prophecy from ever coming true. Do you think I’d hesitate for you?” He says, his voice cold. The bottom drops out of my stomach. He’s dead. My father... Dead because of him. Because of me. Because of a future I never asked for. Because of a threat that I somehow became just by being born. Then, as if the whole moment is beneath him, he smooths his sleeve, smirks faintly, and steps backward into the shadows. In a blink, he’s gone. No ceremony. No grand farewell. Just absence, and the echo of his promise hanging heavy in the smoke. And we’re left in the ruin he made.

We throw ourselves at the fire. Clarence bellows incantations, cane striking the floor again and again as wards crawl up the walls, trying to choke the flames. Vidar beats his vast wings, gusts of wind knocking loose papers and embers into whirlwinds as he tries to smother sections of the blaze. Tracey darts through the smoke, arms full of books one moment, hauling a toppled chair out of the way the next. His face is stripped of its usual mischief, sharp with a focus that unsettles me. For the first time, Tracey isn’t joking. He looks… Determined. Even Oz, still unsteady, pushes himself upright and staggers toward the fire. He throws himself bodily into the collapsing shelves, wrenching them down before the fire can leap higher, crushing the worst of the flames under splintered wood. He does it over and over, silent but furious, teeth bared, until the smoke claws at his lungs and forces him back. But it’s no use. The fire is alive, magical, hungry. Every book it eats just feeds it further. Every strike against it only makes it leap higher, brighter. The heat grows unbearable. Smoke presses down, choking, black and stinging. My lungs seize with each breath, my eyes streaming tears from the ash in the air. One by one the shelves fall, beams above us splintering with sharp cracks like snapping bones. Sparks rain down, bursting into new flames wherever they land. The library groans and shudders like a dying creature. And me? I just stand there. Frozen. Useless. I want this all to be a dream. Like in those bad movies where suddenly the character wakes up and everything that just happened was imagined. If I close my eyes, maybe I’ll wake up in my bed. Maybe I’ll find this was some awful nightmare twist, a story my mind invented, and in reality everything is still safe. The books. The shelves. The people. But there’s no cop out. I don’t wake. The fire is real and the library is dying.