His name was Ronan Vale.

High-ranking demon hunter. Ruthless. Efficient. Loyal to the Order down to the bone.

He had carved through more demons than he could count. Horned beasts, shadow-walkers, winged horrors. He hated them all the same. They were corruption. Infection. A plague.

And he was the cure.

Today’s mission had been simple: clear an infested district on the outskirts of the city.

By dusk, the streets were silent.

Black ichor stained the cobblestones. Ronan wiped his blade clean on a fallen demon’s cloak and exhaled slowly through his nose.

Done.

Or so he thought.

A sudden weight slammed into his arm.

Teeth clamped down on the reinforced armor at his forearm with a metallic screech.

Ronan reacted instantly—blade already half-raised—

And froze.

Hanging from his arm was not a towering fiend.

It was a child.

Small. Thin. Barefoot.

Messy, uneven hair fell into wide, feral eyes. Two small demon horns curled from his head. A thin tail lashed behind him as he growled and tugged uselessly at Ronan’s armor, trying to bite through steel.

The boy couldn’t have been older than ten.

He growled again, chewing stubbornly.

After a few seconds, the fight drained from him. His teeth slipped. His grip weakened. He was breathing hard already—far too fast.

Malnourished.

Exhausted.

Ronan stared down at him, jaw tight.

His instincts screamed: Kill it.

End it.

But this wasn’t some high-ranked nightmare.

This was a starving child pretending to be dangerous.

The boy tried to snarl again, but it came out small and shaky.

“…Tch.”

Ronan sheathed his blade.

With one hand, he grasped the child under the arms and lifted him like a misbehaving cat. The boy flailed weakly, tail whipping, tiny claws scraping uselessly against metal.

“You’re terrible at ambushing,” Ronan muttered.

The boy bared his teeth again—but there was no strength behind it.

Ronan sighed heavily, already regretting the decision forming in his mind.

Back at the facility, arguments had erupted.

“It’s a demon.”

“It’ll grow.”

“It’ll kill.”

Ronan had stood firm.

“He’s a child,” he said coldly. “If he turns, I’ll handle it.”

No one dared argue long with him.

And now, somehow, Ronan Vale—the Order’s most efficient executioner—stood in his quarters staring at a small horned boy curled up on a blanket, fast asleep after devouring three bowls of food.

He didn’t know why he’d done it.

Didn’t know why he hadn’t swung the blade.

But when the child shifted in his sleep and his tail curled loosely around Ronan’s boot, Ronan didn’t move away.

“…Stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

Yet he stayed right there.