I’m sorely regretting my decision to struggle as much as I did when Malice came to visit me. Though it’s not like I had much of a choice. When he’s around me, it’s like I can’t think. All I know, all I am is fire and rage. And it burns, but it also feels good. It feels right.

And now, I’m suffering the consequences of that brief high. Every inch of my body throbs, and whenever I make a small adjustment, black spots line my vision and threaten to take my consciousness from me.

The other concerning aspect is my hunger—and though I haven’t eaten since I’ve been in Slaine’s dungeon, it’s not from lack of available food. I’ve been able to take a few small ice cubes from the bucket Malice left me, but whenever he offers me human food, my stomach flips, and I can’t even swallow the tiniest mouthful. It's like my body rejects it—needing me to consume something else.

A shiver runs the length of my body as I consider just what that else might be. Souls. The thing that demons eat. At that moment, my stomach rumbles, seeming to confirm my worst fear. I’m no longer human.

But I’m not a full demon. According to Kaebl, I’m something in between. A halfling—supposedly one with great powers, though I’ve yet to see any evidence of them. There was just that one time when Slaine attacked—that burst of power that exploded from me, carving a massive cavern into the ice as far as the eye could see.

And then, of course, there are the wings. The first time they appeared, I wanted to deny them, but now, I know they’re real. I have true wings—feathered wings—which I’ve yet to see any of the demons in The Far Place possess.

I slide my palm over my skin, still sensitive despite the lack of silver luminescence it held earlier. Strange…

The creak of the cell door draws my attention to the opposite end of the room, and my eyes narrow in hatred as bright light spills across the stone floor, followed by a pair of all-too-familiar clawed feet. The fourth and fifth toes are missing on the left foot, the healed flesh jagged and heavily scarred, leading me to believe it was done crudely and with force.

That foot belongs to one demon, and one alone—Slaine’s torture master, Zairn. A sickly sweet smell follows him into the room, laced with something disgustingly metallic. Blood. One more sniff, and that awful tug in my chest lets me know whose it is. Kaebl.