Page 1 of Fated to the Demon Lord

Prologue

Iwas taught that death comes for us all someday.

And though it was unavoidable, an army of demons seemed a particularly horrible way to go.

I clawed deeper into the ground, searching for the wild turnip’s root, as dirt slid under my fingernails. A small pile sat next to me, and once the turnip came out, I dropped it onto my collection. I brushed my hair back from my face and rubbed my hands on my skirt as I looked off into the trees. I was not five miles from the border between the human realm and the demon kingdom, Terra Monstrum.

Word had gone around the town and outlier homes that a host of mercenary demons approached. A thin, needle-like chill stitched its way down my spine. The human king had sent a small army to defend the border from the approaching horde. Many feared our soldiers were too few, too young, and too inexperienced. The nerves inside me shouted to run, to leave this place and seek safety.

I rubbed my arms, smearing dirt across my skin, and looked at my small pile of turnips. Regardless of the demons coming, my brother Gerand and I still needed to eat.

After gathering my meager bounty, I headed for our cabin. I put on a pot of water to boil, then began washing and cutting up our meal.

The small cabin held little more than a bed, a kitchen table, and a simple stone fireplace. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, while pots and pans were tacked to the walls. Beside the bed stood a small, crooked table that held only a few tattered books—books I had read so many times I knew every page by heart.

I had spent most of my life within this cramped space. My only option was to hope that our meager human contingent would be enough.

Gerand and I had nowhere else to go.

Steam drifted up from the pot hanging over the fire. I mixed the stew. The herbs I peddled in the town market hadn’t sold well this month, and money had run low. It was moments like these that I felt a surge of gratitude for my mother’s lessons on foraging before she ran off and abandoned us. The plants had sustained us on multiple occasions.

I couldn’t say the same for my mother.

I clenched my teeth and tried to push the memories of her away, but like thorns piercing skin, they pushed their way in. How she had left that morning five years ago, promising to return at nightfall—how my brother and I had waited for her late into the night as darkness came on, growing darker, our hope becoming more futile—how we’d discovered from the neighbor the following morning that she had killed a man and fled.

How we’d waited for her to return, to explain, to come and get us.

She never returned, leaving a seventeen-year-old girl struggling each day to keep herself and a seven-year-old Gerand alive amid a town that treated us as outcasts due to her murderous actions.

Time had passed since then. I was older, and yet the fight for survival remained. It always remained.

The door to the cabin burst open, and I jumped. In walked my now twelve-year-old brother, Gerand. A bright smile crossed his face, and he stepped toward me. “Denara, look what I caught.” He clutched a dead hare by the ears.

“Where did you get that?”

He puffed out his chest and smiled. “Trapped it myself. Now we can add flavor to your stews.” A grimace shook him as he shut the cabin door.

I gave a small pout. “You don’t enjoy my stew?”

“It’s… good.” He grimaced again, and I laughed. I didn’t blame him. With better ingredients, I could prepare better stew. Getting up, I approached and relieved him of the hare. “I’ll prepare it tonight, and tomorrow I’ll cook it in a stew.” I ruffled his hair. “You’re becoming quite the provider.”

He beamed at me, then eyed the bubbling pot. “Are you sure we can’t stick it in tonight?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late. The stew is ready and needs to be eaten. Wash up.” I nodded toward the basin by the bed. Gerand sighed in disappointment and headed over to it.

He stuck his hands into the water and scrubbed. “I used my father’s old traps. Do you think he’d approve of me?”

I walked over and pulled him into a tight hug. “Your father would be so proud.”

My father had run off when I was only six. For a while after he left, I thought I’d found a new father in Gerand’s Pa. But he died half a year before my mother abandoned us. I knew death wasn’t the same as someone choosing to leave, but in my heart, the ache felt damn near identical.

“All right, all right,” Gerand said, pushing away. “I didn’t mean for you to get huggy about it.”

I feigned offense, not allowing his attitude to deter me. “Ah, what do you mean? You don’t want a little hug from your big sister?” I moved closer, my arms wide.

“Denara, stop!” But he smiled as I chased him around the small cabin. He got stuck trying to duck under the table, and my heart warmed at his peals of laughter.

We made do as we were.