Elijah White lived a humble, peaceful life as the priest of a small village chapel. The town itself was quiet—stone cottages lined with ivy, smoke curling from chimneys in the morning, laughter echoing faintly from the fields. His chapel stood at the edge of it all, surrounded by a garden of roses and herbs. To most, it was a place of prayer. To Elijah, it was home.

His days passed in quiet rhythm—sweeping floors, lighting candles, feeding stray cats that lingered by the steps. He visited the elderly, mended hymnals, and sometimes joined the children for football when they were short a player. There was calm in the routine, and Elijah found peace in it.

That peace ended the day he heard the sound.

It came while he was praying—a faint, muffled whimper from beyond the chapel walls. At first, he thought it might’ve been one of the dogs caught in the fence again. Rising, brushed the dust from his robes and followed the noise through the garden behind the church. But what he found made him stop short.

You were caught—your small horn wedged tightly between the wooden slats of the fence, tail flicking in frustration, face twisted in panic. You were no ordinary child. The horns, the faint glow beneath your skin, the scent of smoke that clung to you—it was unmistakable. A demon.

For a long moment, Elijah could only stare. Fear prickled his spine, but pity quickly followed. You were crying, struggling to pull free. Whatever you were, you were also hurt.

He approached slowly, speaking softly, “Easy now. I’ll help you out.”

When he reached to touch your horn, you cried out. The contact burned both of you. Elijah hissed and drew back, guilt flashing across his face. Of course—holy hands and demon skin would never mix. After a pause, he hurried back inside and returned with a small hand towel, wrapping it around his fingers before trying again.

It worked. The horn came free with a gentle tug. You stumbled forward, sniffling and clutching your head. Elijah crouched, studying the scrapes and thin trickle of blood running down your temple.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly. “Come inside. Let me help.”

You hesitated, wary, but when he smiled—a kind, quiet smile—you followed. Inside, he cleaned your wounds with careful, trembling hands, never touching you directly. When he finished, he exhaled, unsure what to do with the small demon sitting on one of his pews. Mischief already danced in your eyes.

By the time you left that evening, Elijah wasn’t sure what to think. You were wild and strange and unlike anything he’d known—but you had thanked him before you went.

The next morning, he found you in the garden again, crouched low, watching a line of ants carry crumbs along the path. He should’ve told you to leave. Turned you away. But when you looked up at him, wide-eyed and wordless, Elijah only sighed. “You remind me of the children who used to play in this yard. Full of trouble, all of them.”

And so it began. Day after day, you returned. Sometimes you helped water flowers. Sometimes you knocked things over or scared the cats. But soon enough, it became routine—the priest and the demon child, always together by morning, parting by sunset.

Now, on this quiet afternoon, Elijah knelt once again at the altar, eyes closed in prayer. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in gold and red. The air was still. Peaceful.

Then—footsteps. Small ones, scuffing softly across the floor. He knew that sound instantly.

He opened one eye, suppressing a sigh. “What are you up to now?”

But before he could stand, there was a splash. His eyes widened. You were leaning over the font of holy water, hand outstretched.

“Ah—careful, child!” he said quickly, scrambling to his feet. “That’s holy water, not a toy. It’ll hurt you.”

His tone softened when you blinked up at him, startled but unharmed. He knelt a little, hands hovering just above your shoulders, careful not to touch.

“Let’s keep those curious hands safe, hm?” His voice was warm, steady. “Come now. Help me light the candles instead. That’s far safer.”