I Raised the Demon Queen (Now She Won't Leave Me Alone)

When I entered the Adventurer's Guild that morning, all I wanted was to pick up a simple herb-gathering quest, maybe grab a cinnamon roll from the baker's stall outside, and not talk to anyone.

Naturally, the first thing I walked into was a heated argument.

"She burned the whole tree hollow, I swear on my beard!"

"You've never even seen a real fire mage, Rugar. You fainted when that alchemist lit a candle."

"That candle leaped at me, Joss. I have trauma."

Guild bickering. Classic.

I tried to slip past them, quietly heading for the job board. But I'd barely made it three steps when the words hit my ears like a brick:

"—they say it was a little girl. A child. Cursed blood. Dangerous aura. Lives near the woods."

I froze.

No.

No, no, no.

Don't be paranoid, Elias. They could be talking about anyone. There are tons of creepy kids in this town. Right?

...Right?

I approached the board and grabbed a random quest with shaky hands—"Moss Collection for Retired Frog Trainer," thrilling—and tried not to look like someone whose demonic ward might have been spotted using shadow fire in the backyard last Tuesday.

I almost made it to the door.

Almost.

Then a hand clapped on my shoulder.

"Elias."

Oh no.

It was Garron.

Tall. Grim. Perpetually covered in monster blood even when he hadn't gone on a quest in days. He was the kind of guy who drank black coffee out of a horn and once won a staring contest with a basilisk.

"I hear strange things," he said. "Whispers about a cursed child."

My mouth went dry. "Weird. That sounds... not like my problem."

He narrowed his eyes. "Lives in the edge-woods. By the abandoned shrine."

"That's crazy. Nobody lives there."

"You live there."

"...Do I?"

He didn't blink.

My soul began sweating.

"She's just a kid," I said before I could stop myself.

Garron's eyes sharpened. "So it is true."

"No! I mean yes—but not the way you think!"

He crossed his arms, brow furrowed. "You're hiding something, Elias. Protecting something unnatural."

I tried to laugh. It came out like a dying goat. "Unnatural? She eats glue. Yesterday she bit a mushroom because it looked 'rude.' She's as natural as it gets."

Garron stared at me.

I stared back, praying he couldn't see the guilt pouring out of my every pore.

He leaned in close.

"You'd better pray she stays harmless."

Then he walked off, cape billowing like he was auditioning for an angsty play.

I made it home in record time, heart pounding in my ears.

The second I opened the door, a paper snowball hit me in the face.

"DEFEND YOURSELF!" Rhea yelled.

I staggered back. "What?!"

She leapt off a chair wearing a soup pot as a helmet and brandishing a rolled-up map. "YOU SHALL NOT PASS."

"I live here!"

"Oh. Then you may pass."

She stepped aside with regal grace.

After regaining my vision and dignity, I sat her down.

"Rhea," I said slowly, "have you been... setting anything on fire in public?"

She looked around shiftily.

"Rhea."

"Define public."

"Anywhere that isn't inside this house."

"...Does a squirrel count as a witness?"

My soul left my body.

I explained the rumors. The suspicions. Garron's warning.

She got quiet.

Uncomfortably quiet.

Then she whispered, "Are they going to take me away?"

"No," I said instantly. "Never."

"But they think I'm cursed."

"People think a lot of dumb things," I said. "Like how eating carrots makes you see in the dark. Or that chickens are flightless."

"Chickens are flightless."

"Tell that to the one that jumped on my head last week."

She didn't smile.

I sighed and knelt down in front of her. "Listen. You are not a curse. You're just a little... spicy. Okay? A bit of a magical chili pepper."

She blinked. "I'm food now?"

"I mean—you've got a kick. Some heat. A danger rating of mild-to-concerning."

She gave me a Look.

I corrected myself. "But you're mine to worry about. No one else."

"...Even if I make weird things happen sometimes?"

"Especially then."

"...Even if I call lightning on the neighbor's goose?"

"You what—"

"Nothing."

Later that evening, I caught her standing by the window, staring out into the dark woods.

"Thinking about chicken flight again?" I asked gently.

She didn't turn. "Why are they afraid of me?"

I paused.

"They don't understand you," I said. "And people fear what they don't understand."

She nodded slowly. "So... if I make them understand, they won't be scared?"

"Well, in theory—"

"I shall prepare a PowerPoint presentation."

I blinked. "What?"

"Slide one: 'Why I Am Not Evil (Yet).' Slide two: 'The Ethics of Glue Consumption.'"

I choked. "Rhea—"

"Slide three: 'Don't Fear the Fire (Unless I'm Angry).'"

"Okay, stop."

She turned around, grinning just a little. "I made you laugh."

I rolled my eyes. "Barely."

"You're worried."

"Of course I am."

"...I don't want to leave," she whispered.

"You're not going anywhere."

She stepped forward and hugged me around the waist. "Even if I'm scary sometimes?"

I hesitated.

Then rested my hand on her head.

"You scare me less than most adventurers. And they've seen me try to cook."

That night, I set a magical barrier around the house. Just in case.

Rhea fell asleep beside a stack of hand-drawn "pro-Rhea propaganda" posters.

One had a crayon drawing of her hugging a bunny. The bunny was on fire. The caption read: "I didn't mean to!"

Another one read: "Just because I explode stuff doesn't mean I'm evil!"

They were awful.

They were perfect.

To be continued...