Page 4 of Fated to the Demon Lord

Idragged the paddle through the bubbling stew, then moved to the next pot, my jaw tight, arms burning. My palms grew slick against the handle—whether from the heat or my nerves, I couldn’t tell anymore.

Venison and smoke choked the air. Steam rolled upward into the bruised gray sky, then twisted east toward the black teeth of the trees beyond camp. Ten pots simmered over massive firepits in a crooked line beside me. Nine iron vats big enough to drown in, and one slightly smaller for carrying.

And every single one was my responsibility—ample stew to feed an army.

I searched my pockets for what seemed like the hundredth time. The leaves were still there.

Ten pots. Ten ways this might go wrong.

And if it did… I swallowed hard. Death would be the merciful outcome.

Brushing off my threadbare skirt, I took a moment to check on Mira. She was propped up next to a boulder, her eyelids fluttering with fatigue and her skin a bit too peaked.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Ugh, I could be better.” She coughed and then moaned. “Are you sure you don’t need help with the stew?” She shot me a concerned glance. Not because of me—because every other cook was sick, and a delay in meal preparation meant repercussions for us all. I didn’t blame her. I’d be equally worried if our situations were reversed.

“Nah, I've got it.” My voice gave a slight waver, and I offered a smile that conveyed more assurance than I possessed. “You and the others rest.”

She wiped at her sweaty brow. “I can’t believe we all became ill at the same time. It had to be something we ate. I just… don’t know what. You eat the same food we do, and you’re fine.”

“I know. It’s a mystery.” That wasn’t exactly true. Normally I ate the same food as them, but I’d slipped an extra substance into their food last night. My stomach twisted with guilt. I’d made sure they couldn’t help me.

But Mira would recover. Each of them would.

I couldn’t say the same for the army I was about to feed.

I reached up and touched the light bruise on her lip and saw her flinch, as my chest swirled with darkness. “Who was it this time?”

“Does it matter? Another demon having his fun.” A vacant quality in her gaze caused me to shudder. “You’re lucky you have your condition,” she muttered. “Nobody dares to lay a hand on you.”

I looked away. Every time I met Mira's eyes, I heard John's anguished voice and remembered the way he spoke of his wife before he died. Now we were here together, bound by the same nightmare. We had no choice but to watch as the demons sold off our family and friends. When they were done, they kept us for themselves—as slaves. Cooks when they were hungry. Objects of pleasure when they weren’t.

And yet, they didn’t dare touch me. Eating a little eran root each day produced a rash on my midsection and private areas, serving as a sufficient deterrent for demons worried about catching something. It felt itchy, and I disliked it, but I could completely reverse the effect. Word had spread of my ‘contamination.’ It had ensured that the members of the army hadn’t touched me.

The other human slaves weren’t as lucky. I’d tried to share it with Mira when we first got taken captive, but she’d reacted poorly to the root, getting so sick she almost died. Uncertain if it was caused by an allergic reaction, I didn’t possess the fortitude to experiment with medicating anyone else thereafter.

“This won’t last much longer,” I promised her.

“How do you know?” she asked weakly. “Do you have some grand plan to escape?”

A wariness moved through me. “It’s more a hope than a plan,” I hedged. I’d poisoned her and the others for a reason. A few months ago, another human woman had tried to lead the slaves in an escape attempt, but someone had ratted her out. At night in my dreams, I still heard her screams of agony as they tortured her body into an inevitable death. The demons had staked her head, skinned raw, to a post outside the kitchen tent for a month, her jaw hanging at a twisted angle.

A wave of cold washed over me. I couldn’t trust any of them. Not even Mira.

“Even if you did, we wouldn’t make it far before they caught us,” she added.

Unless they aren’t alive to chase us, I thought.

She must have read my expression because she frowned. “Denara… don’t do anything reckless.”

I patted her hand and rose. “You just rest. I need to get back to the stew.”

I pulled my long chestnut hair into a ponytail and hurried to the pots. After slipping my fingers into my pocket again, I fingered the venenum resting there. I passed the smaller first pot, leaving it untouched, and then slid a green leaf into each following pot down the line, giving a gentle stir before moving on to the next. Unlike the plentiful eran root, venenum was rare, and it took me months of foraging to find a patch hidden beneath a shaded boulder beside a stream. Of all the plants, only one had bloomed early, its leaves infused with the right potency of poison to do what I wished.

At least I prayed the potency was enough.

As I stirred each pot, I closed my eyes, recalling the cries of my town when the demons attacked, their enormous bodies ransacking our houses with swords and snarls and claws—the charred smell of burning homes, the sight of men’s blood running rivers. How Gerand had kicked and cried, helpless. I’d fought futilely to get to him as Raxus dragged me through the dirt by my hair, smoke clogging my lungs. And now, my brother was sold off. Gone like everyone else in my life.