Paris threw her head under her arms, sensing the shadow fall over her. A sharp, metallic clang streaked in the air. Something hot and sticky rained on Paris. Then, her body began burning.

A masculine voice cursed. "Get up, idiot! Xath'drahg blood is acid!"

Her eyes flew open just in time to see a flash of silver arcing against a white disc. What—

"Scram!" the voice shouted again, jolting Paris's mind into working once more. She registered a lithe figure of a man wielding a sharp sword straining against the monster's disc-head, grunting as his feet made trenches against the soil. He must have been the one who drove the monster away from her. "If you don't want to get flattened, hide behind a tree. Or something!"

Paris scrambled in response, squirming like a worm towards the nearest trunk to her left. She pressed her aching body against it, digging her teeth against her lips upon hauling herself up. Stupid ropes. If her hands had been free, she'd be able to help the man.

She stole a peek from her trunk. Up ahead, the man swung his sword once more, connecting with the demon's head. Bright green blood sprayed from the gash the blade made. The man dove, spinning away from its trajectory. Something about blood being acidic?

Glancing at the angry splotches blossoming in her skin and the ones that had burned through the fabric of her dress, she resigned. Well, that's enough proof. That demons existed. That their blood was acid. That there was someone equipped to fight these things.

The man, himself, was dressed in a mixture of dark pelts and woven fabric made from spun wool. Chains dangled from the pockets of his trousers, clinking with every movement he executed. His dark, leather boots were slotted with multiple knives, their hilts glinting with what meager light they caught. He wasn't wearing a cape, the furry overcoat falling to half his torso and covering his neck enough to ward off the forest's cold. A belt was slung around his waist, an empty sheath swinging back and forth as the man twisted, leaped, kicked, and swung his sword.

Only, as Paris realized now, he didn't look like a man. Not yet. Straight, silky, light brown hair bounced atop his head, its uneven strands told her he sheared it himself. He had no facial hair and a certain youthful sheen glistened from his warm beige skin. His eyes darted around with trained accuracy but not with the expertise of a veteran. This boy could not be older than Paris.

And yet, he was a whirlwind of slashes and thrusts, his blows forcing the demon to retreat. Away from Paris. Towards elsewhere. Where had he even come from and how had he known Paris needed help? She pursed her lips and straightened her skirts. Numerous tears and holes marred the once-pure-white landscape.

It's fine. Paris hated this dress anyway.

A cry distracted her from her reverie. The boy had fallen to the ground, clutching his sword arm. His blade lay a few meters from him. The demon's disc-head twitched, its rkk-rkk-rkk clicking ringing in the air once more. Then, it planted its claws on the ground and lunged.

No!

Paris snatched the first thing she could find, which was a lonely slab of rock by her bare feet. Without thinking, she drew her arm back, jumped from her hiding place, and let the rock fly. "Hey, disc-head!" she screamed as loud as her parched throat could allow her. "Come and catch me!"

The rock thunked against the monster's head with a muffled thud. Paris stepped backward when the patterned head turned to her. Okay. That might not be the best idea. She winced when another shot of pain traveled higher from her leg. Run. She'd run when it lunges.

Then, it did.

Her heart rose to her throat as she scrambled to the side, pushing away from the trunk. A sharp, cracking sound echoed through the forest's silence. She didn't dare look back. Focus on running. One step at a time. Faster. That boy could figure things out.

She swerved past another tree. The demon barreled straight through, snapping the trunk in two. The taller half groaned and edged closer to Paris. Its huge shadow hurtled towards her. Oh, no.

A yelp scratched her throat dry as she ducked her head under her arms and switched directions blindly. The trunk slammed into the ground with a loud crack. Splinters flew in the air. That might have been her spine if she had been unlucky. What a way to meet Idis, certainly.

The demon shrieked. It was different from its growls and its clicks. This one was louder, shriller. It hungered for her soul.

She made the mistake of turning back and what slapped her eyeballs sent her thoughts careening. The disc had drawn back to reveal a void inside its head. Gullet. It's the closest word Paris could think of. Rows upon rows of sharp teeth lined it from the rim towards the abyss of the demon's throat. What's worse? Those teeth spun. Like revengeful, little scythes, they spun in endless circles. Muscle crunched. Claws extended. The demon pushed off the ground and jumped.

Straight at Paris.

No matter how fast she ran, one of those clawed legs would sink into her flesh.

That's it. She's done for.

A line of silver whizzed past Paris's cheek and slammed against the rotating teeth. She didn't fight the scream ripping from her lips. Due to the motion of the teeth, the knife clanged against the sharp bones and bounced off, almost impaling Paris's foot when it sailed to the ground. She screamed again.

The demon joined her, its shrieks more in annoyance than of terror. It reared its disc-head shut and focused those neon headlights at Paris. Oh, gods. Somebody kill this demon. She's not going to survive this.

"Watch out!" the boy yelled as his frame dropped from the sky, sword clutched in both hands. Paris burst forward just as the boy's blade sliced the air and stabbed down. A sickening squelch reached her ears. She halted and turned.

Only to find the boy yanking his sword from the demon's carcass. Its disc-head had clattered open as it plopped at the boy's feet, giving Paris a view of its gullet. The teeth have stopped spinning. Instead, the neon patterns dimmed a fraction. The legs slumped into the ground, the claws falling motionless. Then, the boy gripped the head by the mane, positioned his blade by the creature's neck, and swung.

Paris's eyes shut, her hands flying to her ears to shield the growing shriek emanating from the creature. It's alive. It's still alive. It's going to eat her. It's—

"When you're done screaming her head off, help me lug this huge kill back to camp," a voice speared through the ringing. She what?

She wrenched her eyelids open, taking in the scene before her. It seemed like the shrieks were from her. Oh.

"Are you the latest appeasement?" the boy asked as he moved around the carcass and dumped the head a few meters from the body. The disc fluttered with the whistling wind.

Paris blinked. "Wha..."

The boy exhaled through his nostrils as he wiped the smoking green blood off his sword against the carcass' fur. He sheathed it with a clink before turning to face Paris fully. "I asked if you're the latest appeasement," he said with a clipped tone. When Paris failed to form concrete, understandable sentences, he waved his hand in the air and mussed his hair. "Of course, you are. Nobody roams the Woods alone, especially this part."

She opened her mouth but no words formed at the tip of her tongue.

"It's fine," the boy said with a brief nod. "It isn't easy on my first time, either. You'd get used to these things sooner than later."

Before Paris could formulate an answer to that, he smiled at her. Up close, she saw that he had brilliant gray eyes. They sparkled with an unknown malice but at the back of the facade, lay a sheet of sadness she couldn't place.

"Let's take it slow, okay?" the boy said. "How about a nice pour of ale?"

A smile spread from Paris's lips at the familiar timbre of her language. Even in her disheveled and shaken state, she could never say no to that.