Warmth brushed over Micah's face. It settled a thin blanket over him, wrapping him in soft heat that melted away the cold still aching in his muscles. With a contented sigh, he huddled into it, his lips pulled upwards as he felt it thaw the last of the ice.

A strange, lingering panic seeped from the cracks, squirming in his veins. His smile faded into a slight frown. What was there to be scared of? He was warm and comfortable, waking from a delightfully soothing nap. Perhaps he'd lay here a little longer, pretending to doze, then jump out on whoever next entered the room. Or maybe he'd simply go back to sleep.

He shifted, tugging himself out of it. Trouble didn't allow for laziness. Besides, wasn't he supposed to do something important today?

The realisation hit him a moment before he opened his eyes.

The pistol. The noise. The blue light, the figure it illuminated.

Duine.

His gasp lodged in his jaw as he snapped upright, then regretted it instantly, squeezing his eyes shut again as a dizzy wave crashed over him. The more consciousness injected energy into his veins, the more the heat clashed oddly with his skin, less a gentle caress than a prickling burn that tore at him as it ripped through the chills. It was better than being cold, but it hurt. He collapsed, counted a couple of seconds, then let his eyes tease open again.

Less than a pace from where he lay, a fire flickered in a grate, flames burning low but embers throbbing with scarlet heat. The rest of the room slotted in around it: dents in the blue-grey walls highlighted by flaring shadows, matted beige carpet cutting a wide berth around the fireplace, a low-hung ceiling that looked more grey than white for the shaded dirt that marked it. And, of course, the bed he lay in, large enough to take up most of the space.

The figure. She must have brought him here. Lifting his head, he made a hurried attempt to search for the door, spotting it wedged closed just beyond the foot of the bed. Now the fear felt warranted, twisting uncomfortably in his stomach. Was she saving him? He couldn't help but feel confined in the small space, the walls closing in, eerily reminiscent of a cage.

Even in Elysia, they didn't lock him in rooms this tiny, but a small room still translated to a cell. This could easily be a trap. And this time, he had no idea how to escape.

The pistol. He felt for his neck, a shiver washing over him despite the warmth. He'd nearly been killed. He could die here.

"Besides, it's about time Micah learned the consequences of his actions."

He laughed, the sound fading a little too quickly, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "I think I learned my lesson, Ghidor," he whispered into the fire. "Can I go home now?" His voice hitched. He sucked in a breath, moving his hand to wipe over his face. Now certainly wasn't the time to cry.

Gathering his strength, he rose again, slowly, shifting until he sat upright. Thankfully, the pounding in his head had subsided. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed, flinching as the soles of his feet brushed the blanket beneath him. Several stinging lines dug into his skin, and his heels were rubbed raw from scraping over so much gravel. He didn't like how restricting shoes felt, preferring the freedom and edge of rebellion that came with travelling barefoot, but he was beginning to wish he'd grabbed some that morning. And some warmer clothes. He felt horribly exposed in only his tunic and underwear.

A pang rippled through his chest, mirroring the ache in his throat. Elysia never got cold, not properly. Everything about Duine seemed designed to make him suffer.

The Heart. He felt for his wings, relief trickling through when they responded by twitching, creasing the blanket where they draped over the bed's opposite side. As soon as I find the Heart, I can go home.

"Oh. You're awake."

Micah jumped, his wings flying out as alarm struck him with a similar crack to that noise in the dark. A shattering crash followed. Hastily, he twisted around, wincing when he spotted the ruby-coloured glass shards scattered on the floor beside a now-empty table. With a little more care, he pulled his wings back in, gathering them as close to him as he could, and turned back to face the door.

Sure enough, the same woman from before had entered, the door already nudged closed behind her. Her coat was absent, revealing the black shirt tucked into her navy trousers. Her eyes flicked to the broken glass, and he mustered an awkward laugh. "Whoops. Sorry."

She didn't look amused. "You're a little scruffy for an angel."

He ducked his head, aware of how true that probably was. He lifted a hand, combing his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to smooth out its tangles. It was unruly at the best of times, and falling through a storm before being forced to run for his life hadn't particularly helped matters. And that was without even looking at his wings.

Her gaze scanned him up and down. Fidgeting, he tugged at his tunic, stretching it to his knees. Even that had collected a few dirty stains. "Well, maybe you're scruffy for a human."

"Less scruffy than you." She moved away from the door, pacing around the end of the bed. He adjusted his position so that it was easier to track her. "Is what you told those snake-biters true? Did you fall from the sky?"

He curled his fingers over the edge of his tunic. "Yes. It wasn't much fun." The questions itched at him, a disturbing echo of the mens' interrogation. At least she wasn't pointing a pistol at him as she asked. His gaze flitted to the door.

She halted before the table and bent down, cupping her hand to sweep the shards towards her. "And why are you here?"

Micah opened his mouth, scrabbling for some kind of plausible lie, but the thread of words fell away as he fully took her in. As she crouched, he noticed the leather strap slung over her head and shoulder, the object attached to it that slid down her back. A mahogany handle curved inwards to a slim barrel, a hook leaping from one to the other. Similar to the pistol, but different, longer, yet shaped with far more familiarity.

It was identical to the weapons in Ghidor's keep.

This woman was a demon blood.

Stiff, he looked to the door again. Could he run fast enough? Would she kill him if he tried? His stomach knotted, balling tighter as if to cage in his racing heart.

Movement shifted at the edge of his vision, and he jolted back towards her, but the weapon hadn't moved position. All she did was stand, spilling the bits of glass onto the table. One larger piece caught between her fingers, and she studied it for a moment, the firelight catching on its scarlet surface, before she slid it into a pocket in her trousers and turned towards him. "Have you lost your voice all of a sudden?"

Micah realised his jaw still hung open. He closed it, swallowing hard. "No."

"Then please, do grace me with an answer. I would like to sleep tonight."

His nails bit into his skin. Despite the use it might have provided, lying wasn't one of his skills. There'd never been any use in trying. It was always his fault, and everyone knew it. "I... I'm looking for something," he managed, wishing his voice would stop shaking.

"Oh?" She folded her arms, leaning against the wall. "What kind of thing?"

Perhaps it was her casual demeanour, or simply the fact that her body now hid the weapon from sight, but he found the courage to straighten, fully meeting her gaze for the first time. Her eyes weren't black as he'd first assumed. The flames at his side sparked on flecks of hazel, blending into a dark umber. He pulled his legs back onto the bed, folding his knees, his wings warming as they spun closer to the fire. "And why should I tell you?"

She fixed him with a stare twice as hard. "Because if you don't, I guarantee those snake-biters will find it first."

"Aren't you on their side?" It came out without thought. He drew back as her eyes narrowed, slits of fire-splashed night.

"No," she said, her voice dropping low, steeled by near-anger. "No, I'm not."

"Oh." He glanced down at his hands, tapping some tuneless rhythm over his knuckles. It didn't help loosen the fear clutching at his chest. "I just... saw the, um, pistol on your back and assumed..."

She snorted. His head jolted up, surprise flickering through them at that beginning of a laugh, although her lips were no less firmly set. Reaching behind her back, she drew out the weapon, the strap sliding over her shoulder. "First of all, this is a rifle." Her thumb traced the edge of its handle. "And second, I'd be stupid not to carry some kind of gun. Anyone would at the moment."

Micah looked down again. Perhaps he'd been right, on some level. The demon bloods were gone, but their influence remained, the lack of guidance leaving Duine to fall to violence and ruin. It certainly hadn't appeared the picture of peace from above, although that could simply be the newly dark night shadowing his view.

Did that mean all the humans were to be feared? Or could he trust this one? He rubbed at his temples, wondering whether he should just curl up and go back to sleep. He couldn't remember thinking this much in his life. It hurt.

"Who..." He ran his tongue over his teeth, struggling to shape the question. "Who are those people, then? The... snake-biters?"

She drummed her fingers over the rifle's handle. "That's a term I coined myself. They've no name, really, but they all work for the same boss."

"Mistress Rajan?" The echoed memory of the man's voice struck him like a blade, sharp as it scraped his tongue.

Her gaze pierced with the same edge as it snapped up. He tensed, watching her finger slide down, flicking at the trigger. "That's the one."

Fortunately, she seemed to notice, and curled the finger in, her eyes flicking downward. They had softened by the time they rose again, although that may simply have been a brighter flare of fire painting them in a false chestnut shade. "All you need to know is that they're dangerous," she said, the venom in her voice hardening into smooth stone. "If they don't kill you, they'll take you to her so she can carve you up her own way." She cocked her head. "Think you'll answer me now, scruffy?"

Micah's wings fluttered, betraying the spiked fear that rippled through him. His fingers moved to tap over his wrist as he drew his hands closer to his chest. He shouldn't tell her. That thing in her hands proved that she couldn't be trusted, not if history was anything to go by, and yet he couldn't help but study her again. Her dark eyes, her fair skin. The freckles dappling her face. The soft warmth her room held.

She could have killed him, but she hadn't. She'd saved him instead. That had to be worth something.

And he didn't want to die.

"It's an angel's heart," he started. "The Heart of Asariel."

Her eyes lit, tiny flames of their own crackling with curiosity. "Asariel," she echoed, tasting the word. Unease trickled down his spine, the prickling wonder that he'd chosen wrong, but her tone wasn't laced with suspicion or any sinister kind of fascination. This was a bright interest. Almost hopeful. For a brief moment, an openness took over her expression, as if something childish had broken through.

She quickly hid it, her flat mask returning. "I've heard a few tales of your kind. Isn't Asariel your boss?"

"He used to be." The words felt raw, ripped from his core, but he pressed on regardless. "He's been dead a long time, but his Heart still lives."

Spinning, she started in a swift stride across the room. "Good. I can help you find it. Come with me."

Micah didn't move. "We're leaving already?"

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Don't you want to find your Heart?"

"Well, yes, but..." He cast a longing glance at the fire, at the crumpled blankets beneath him. "Can't it wait until morning?"

She folded her arms. "You're the one who got to sleep."

"I passed out," he countered, pulling his knees in.

"And I had to carry you. I'm not doing it again, so get up and follow me."

She was already nudging open the door and slipping through. For a moment, Micah simply watched her go. A thousand insects swarmed over his skin, each digging tiny fangs in until every bit of him tingled. Up in the sky, he'd felt impossibly small, a plaything for the winds to devour, and now that sensation returned in a sweeping wave. Duine was so big. What was to stop it from engulfing him in the same way, tangling him in its squirming tendrils without lending him any hope of navigating through? He already felt trapped. His wings twitched, desperate to flee, but there was nowhere to run to. He was lost in the dark, in the silence, feeling blindly for a path forward.

The only light he had was this rifle-wielding human. Perhaps it didn't matter if he could trust her or not. All he had to do was take the help she could provide, use her knowledge of this city to find the Heart, and then he could escape home. None of this would be his problem anymore.

He just needed to get home.

With a final glance at the fire, Micah dragged himself off the bed and followed.

⋄┈┈┈⋄⋄✧♡✧⋄⋄┈┈┈⋄

Wordcount: 2358

Total Wordcount: 12679

Micah has a new friend! Or, you know, dubious acquaintance who chose not to kill him, but it's basically the same thing. I am having fun with their interactions.

Also if you can't tell I did very minimal gun research and am just hoping I can scrape by. Micah isn't helping by being clueless. But hey, at least we're clueless together.

- Pup