The Dragon King's Hated Bride
Chapter 115: Another Type

Chapter 115: Another Type

>>Ariston (Past)

What he said hung in the air like mist.

’I didn’t think I’d meet a kid like me here.’

My breathing slowed. My fingers curled into the frayed hem of my sleeve as a strange, foreign warmth filled my chest—a feeling I hadn’t known in a long time.

Hope.

Before I could even think, I stepped forward and grabbed his arm. "What do you mean?" I demanded. My voice cracked. "What are you talking about—’like you’?"

The man turned, surprised at first. He looked down at my hand clutching his arm, then back at my face. "Easy, kid." But there wasn’t anger in his voice—just curiosity, and maybe something gentler underneath.

"Tell me what you mean!" I said again

He scratched the corner of his eyelid as he watched me for a few seconds,"Do you live with your parents?" he asked after a moment.

I hesitated, then shook my head. "My father died when I was small. My mother... she died a few months ago. Demon attack."

His expression darkened a little, but he didn’t say he was sorry. He only asked, "And since then?"

"Since then what?"

"Where have you been living since your mother died?"

"Orphanage," I said, and my voice turned bitter, despite myself. "The kind where the kids know you’re different. And they don’t like it."

He let out a breath—half a scoff, half a sigh. "An orphanage? That’s one of the worst places you can toss a hermo."

That word.

I blinked. "A what?"

He looked back at me, eyes narrowing slightly. "A hermo. That’s what you are." He tilted his head. "Didn’t your mother tell you anything?"

I shook my head slowly. "No. She never... She never explained anything about it. Just told me to stay quiet. To hide it."

He scratched the back of his neck, like he didn’t know where to start. "What about her? Did your mother have red eyes?"

I shook my head again. "No. My dad. He had red eyes. She said I got them from him."

"Then it makes sense," he muttered. "She probably couldn’t take you to our homeland. They don’t allow outsiders in—not unless they’re bonded or blood."

"Our... homeland?" I echoed. The words didn’t sound real. "So I’m not—" My breath hitched. "I’m not human?"

"You’re not ’just’ human," he said, eyes meeting mine. "You’re hermo. And if what you say about your father is true... probably full-blooded."

I didn’t even know what that meant yet, but the words felt like keys, unlocking something buried in my ribs. I looked down at my hand still gripping his arm, but I couldn’t let go. Not now. Not when someone—anyone—finally knew what I was.

"Tell me everything," I said, my voice hoarse. "Please."

He clicked his tongue in irritation—but not at me. "I can’t just stand here delivering history lessons in a wild monster-ridden forest."

"Then take me with you." I demanded, "Please?" Then begged

He paused, then looked at me. Something shifted in his face.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for, kid."

"I don’t care," I said, louder now.

"I live a very strange life," He said, "And I’m experimenting on other things people aren’t even aware of."

"I said I don’t care," My voice was clear, "I’ve been alone for a while now. If you know something about me—about what I am—I want to know too. I need to."

Silence stretched between us. I could hear the wind now, the quiet rustle of the trees, and the distant howls of something less kind.

Finally, he sighed.

"Alright, alright," he said, running a hand down his face. "Guess I can’t just leave a kid from our kind behind."

Then he nodded at the path behind him. "Come on, Aris. Let’s get out of here."

Aris?

Is he giving me a nickname?

***

The fire crackled softly in front of us, casting dancing shadows on the tree trunks. The thick scent of roasted meat filled the clearing—a mix of char, woodsmoke, and something faintly metallic from the creature he’d slain.

I sat on a half-rotted log, my knees pulled to my chest, arms locked around them. Across from me, the man knelt by the fire, turning the stick slowly. A slab of meat from the lizard-like monster rotated over the flame, its dark green skin curling away as the heat cooked the muscle underneath.

"You never told me your name," I said after a long pause.

He looked up, just briefly. "You can call me Rael."

Rael. The name lingered on my tongue.

Silence fell again, broken only by the snapping of firewood. I watched the way his hands moved—steady, sure, like this wasn’t the first night he’d spent in a forest. Maybe not even the hundredth.

Finally, I found my voice again.

"So... what am I? Really?" I asked. "You said I’m one of you. A... hermo."

Rael turned the stick again. "You are."

"Is that a species? A race?" I pressed. "Because a lot of demons have red eyes. What makes it special? In the end, we’re just grouped in with them. Demon spawn. Mutts."

He chuckled, low and unbothered. "You’ve been called worse, huh?"

I didn’t answer that. He already knew.

He leaned back on his heels. "We’re not demons, Aris"

I rolled my eyes. "Right. Try telling that to the villagers who threw me out the moment my mother died. Or the nuns who threw salt on my bed and on me every morning to ’cleanse’ me." The disturbing image of that time came back to me.

Of how I used to defend myself with my arms as they threw salt on me and watched as the other kids laughed.

Rael smiled at the fire, a quiet kind of knowing in his expression. "Yeah. Most people don’t care for the difference. But there is one. A big one."

I turned toward him, suspicious now. "Like what?"

He stopped turning the stick.

"You already know," he said.

The fire seemed to crack louder in that moment. I swallowed, the heat suddenly crawling up my neck—not from the flames, but from memory. From my body remembering things I didn’t understand. From feelings I had tried to push away in the orphanage, where even a strange look could get you beaten.

"You mean..." I hesitated, then glanced away. "That?"

Rael said nothing, but he peeled a sliver of meat from the edge of the roast with the tip of his blade and inspected it for doneness. He smiled slightly.

I frowned deeper. "So you are talking about that?"

He looked up at me finally, red eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Yes."

I stared at him, unsure what emotion to feel first—relief? Embarrassment? Confusion?

He let the moment sit before he spoke again.

"Our people, the red-eyed humans—we’re the only kind of humans who get to choose."

I blinked. "Choose? Choose what?" I asked, the words barely past my lips before the man’s hand shot toward the fire.

He tore a chunk of meat from the skewer with a violent tug and hurled it at me. I caught it—barely—fingers scrambling to grip the greasy, steaming flesh. The heat bit into my palms. My reflexes betrayed me, and the meat slipped through my fingers, landing in the dirt with a soft, wet thud.

Ah...

I stared at it in disappointment.

Smoke and silence clung to the space between us. My hands hovered stupidly in the air, still remembering the burn. I glanced at the fallen meat, then back up.

"You’re asking questions you already know the answer to," the man said.

I didn’t answer. My gaze dropped, slowly, to my own body—my bare, foreign limbs, the shape that still didn’t feel like mine.

I clenched my jaw, feeling the weight of it, heavier than it used to be.

Then I looked back at him.

"Is it true?" I asked, "How?"

He looked at me, "We’re hermaphrodites," He said, "Born with both reproductive parts, and the only beings that are allowed to choose what they wish to be," He smirked, "A man," He pointed at himself, "Or a woman." He shrugged, "Depends entirely on us."

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