The Demon Lord And His Hero

"An eye for an eye. A soul for a soul. Summon the dead for the war of life! Rally the corpses to lay siege to your King's enemies, for the dead outlast the living."

- Lane Wheatfield

-----------

Syryn's dreams had been getting out of hand. Three nights in a row he had been awakened by Rowan when the anti mage had noticed magical flux being emitted by the mage. Syryn would have set their room on fire had Rowan not roused him from a restless dream.

This was now the fourth time he found himself on the boat. Syryn was used to the whistling. The mage sat on the boat staring at his bare feet. There was nothing to be afraid of, he reasoned. The whistle could haunt him all it liked but it was sound, and sound, at least this one, couldn't hurt him.

"Overturn the boat and drown me for all I care," he told the creature that was rocking his little boat. "Go on, do it."

And as if summoned by Syryn's challenge, pale fingers appeared on the upper edge of the boat. The nails were black and sharpened to points. Slowly, like it was taunting him, the hands rocked the boat.

"What are you? What do you want from me?" He asked it.

The boat lurched with great force and Syryn was nearly thrown into the ocean. His hands grasped at the edges of the boat, holding on till the lurching steadied. The mage stared at the spot where the fingernails had clung to the wood. The hands were no longer on the boat.

"Where did you go?" He spoke to the air. It seemed like every time he came into the world of dreams, his presence solidified more. It was dreamlike but also real.

Like a slithering snake, a chill descended and settled in Syryn's spine. At least his sense of danger hadn't abandoned him, he thought. But stuck on such a small boat without his magic, where could he run to? Where would he hide? Syryn felt the alarms in his mind blare their warnings. The mage looked around and saw nothing. Then he felt a presence behind him.

Syryn had barely a second to take a deep breath when he was yanked out of the boat by hands that crushed his windpipe from behind him. He was bodily dragged into the salty murky waters of the ocean.

Underwater, the mage desperately pulled at the fingers that were squeezing his throat but they felt like ropes tightened around his fragile human neck. From behind him, long black hair floated in the water surrounding them. They were slowly sinking towards the bottom of the ocean as Syryn ran out of air. Bubbles escaped his mouth and rushed towards the surface, taunting Syryn for being unable to do the same.

The mage felt his lungs burn when he gasped and sucked in salty seawater. He was reliving death again but in a worse way. How long did one struggle before dying? Why wasn't the bitch killing him by simply breaking his neck since she was so freakishly strong? If he survived this, Syryn vowed to do the same to her and worse.

Syryn prayed for help from any deity that was willing to hear out a demon. And something strange happened at that moment. He felt a sensation like a cold hand entering his chest. Then he was pulled out of his body.

Violet eyes snapped open even as Syryn gulped in air like a fish out of water. His eyes were wide open looking between a white cat on his chest and the blond anti mage hovering behind the cat.

Milky's blue eyes were a shade lighter than Rowan's, a detail that his confused mind made note of.

Milky blinked at Syryn. He had a longsuffering look on his feline face and looked like he wanted to scratch Syryn across his face. Having given him a death stare, the cat then jumped off the mage's chest and elegantly exited the room.

"Ryn, I almost lost you," Rowan said to the mage. On the surface, the blond appeared calm but Syryn had spent enough time around him to know that he was anything but. Rowan's sights were fixed on Syryn with an intensity that shook the mage. It was as though the anti mage believed that if he looked away from Syryn, the mage would disappear forever.

"It was just a dream," he said to Rowan. But When the words came out, his voice sounded hoarse. It hurt to speak. And that was when Syryn realised that he had escaped the clutches of death, that he wasn't just having normal dreams. Dreams did not kill the dreamer.

At hearing the hoarse voice, Rowan's expression hardened. The blond's hand drifted to Syryn's neck and he caressed the purplish fingerprints on the pale skin with a delicateness that was at odds with the violence in his gaze.

"No more," Rowan said in a low voice. His eyes were flint. "Syryn, do not fall asleep. Wait for me and I promise I'll be back in an hour. Two at most."

"Where are you going?" Syryn rasped.

"To Silent."

The mage was perplexed. "Why?"

"To blow a hole in it. I've given them enough time." The anti mage stood on his feet. "I'll have Salem watch over you but you also need to ensure there's someone by your side at all times."

"I won't fall asleep," Syryn replied. "I'm not so careless."

"I know," Rowan answered. "But a little caution never hurt anyone."

Syryn wasn't sure what silent market had to do with his dreams but he had an hour to think about it.

"Are you leaving in your sleepwear?" He asked the exiting blond. Rowan was wearing dark grey comfortable cotton pyjama pants and an open night robe that ended at his calves.

"Yes," the anti mage replied and he was gone.

Syryn clasped his hands behind his head and rested on a pillow thinking about how convenient it was to have Rowan around. All he had to do was laze in bed while the anti mage did the leg work and solved his problems. His thoughts then meandered off to Silent market. The whistling was cancelled when he was inside the walls of the market. It was one of those links that Syryn hadn't paid attention to because of its tenuousness. The silent market blocked every sound in existence. With such a flimsy connection between the event and the castle, Syryn hadn't given much thought to it. But it seemed that Rowan had.

"Syryn, how are you feeling?" Salem asked as he breezed into the room.

The half-elf sat by his bed and stared at the hideous prints marked over the mage's skin.

"I'm not dead," Syryn lightly remarked. He glanced at the blond alchemist and wiggled his brows. "Do you want to play truth or dare?"

"No."