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The air turns stifling, tension coiling like a spring ready to snap. In this moment, it hits me how dangerous he truly is. I might be physically free of ropes, but his presence forms a different sort of cage. The knowledge sends a sick lurch through my stomach.

Still, I can’t quell the rebellious spark flickering in my chest. “Why me?” I demand. “Why not pick some other unfortunate soul to keep around?”

His eyes darken. A swirl of black seeps into the crimson, a reminder that chaos magic runs deep in his veins. “Because your blood disrupts the contract that binds me,” he mutters. “Because you dared to stand against me when every other sacrifice begged for mercy. Because everything about you says you shouldn’t survive—and yet you still do.”

I bristle, torn between indignation and a bizarre sense of pride. He sees in me something more than victimhood. Or maybe I’m just an experiment to him, a curiosity he refuses to discard until he gets answers.

He takes one measured step forward, forcing me to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. “I’ll make it simple,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Kneel, vow yourself to me, and I’ll shield you from the elves’ wrath. I’ll feed you, clothe you, keep you from rotting in a dungeon. I may even help you discover what your bloodline conceals. But the moment you defy me, I’ll tear your world apart. Because I refuse to be weakened by sentiment.”

The vow rattles me to my core. Each word carries the weight of centuries of violence. My instincts scream to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I clench my fists so tight, my knuckles burn. Is this truly my best option—trading one captor for another? Yet the alternative is a swift execution at the elves’ hands.

Silence hangs between us. I think of Lowtown, of the shack that reeked of hopelessness. I see Mirena’s fevered eyes, the child cowering in an alley, the endless cycle of brutality. If I return to that, I’ll either be recaptured or forced into the gladiatorial pits. Or worse, sacrificed again. Perhaps a demon’s protection—no matter how twisted—offers a sliver of hope.

He watches me, tension inscribe in every line of his towering frame. “Choose,” he says, an undercurrent of impatience throbbing in his tone.

My chest tightens. Memories flash through me—the ritual circle, my wrists bound, the swirl of dark magic. My entire life has been defined by subjugation to the elves, but there was never a choice. Now, Malphas presents a different kind of cage—one that might come with the faint possibility of changing my fate.

I clench my fists, summoning that spark of defiance I’ve relied on for so long. My voice trembles, but I force it out. “Fine. I accept your protection…on your terms.”

Malphas exhales, a slow, rumbling sound. His shoulders ease fractionally, though tension still radiates from him. “Good.” His lips quirk into something that could almost be a twisted smile. “I promise you, I won’t be gentle. But I will make certain you remain alive.”

A shiver races down my spine. I suspect he enjoys the power dynamic. Before I can reconsider, he extends a hand, claws tipped in obsidian. “Swear it, human. Swear that your life belongs to me now, or walk out that door and face the elves.”

My throat constricts. Kneeling feels like capitulation, but I catch the predatory glint in his eyes—a challenge. If I refuse, he might kill me here and now. If I do it, I seal my future under his dominion. Gritting my teeth, I slowly lower myself, biting back every ounce of pride, until one knee touches the creaking floor.

My hands shake as I bow my head. The position sends a stab of old shame through my chest, recalling countless times I was forced to kneel before dark elf overseers. However, I sense this is different. Malphas demanded this as a demon does—direct, uncompromising.

“I vow,” I whisper, voice cracking, “that my life is yours. I will serve you…until I’m strong enough to stand on my own.”The last words slip out before I can stop them—an echo of my defiance, even as I yield.

He tenses, probably noting my slight rebellion. “Fair enough,” he growls. Then he places a large hand on the crown of my head, his claw tips gently pricking my scalp. The heat of his touch makes my ears ring. It’s no arcane brand, but I can feel the weight of this moment, a tether snapping into place between us.

It takes all my willpower not to flinch or jerk away. Finally, he lifts his hand, allowing me to rise. My pulse gallops, and I brace my legs to keep from trembling. Malphas stands with an aura of grim satisfaction, though a hint of calculation darkens his gaze.

“So we have an accord,” he says, stepping back.

I exhale, releasing tension I wasn’t aware I’d been holding. My knees are stiff from kneeling on broken tiles, but I manage to keep my chin high. If I show him how shaken I am, he’ll exploit it.

Silence stretches, thick with unspoken truths. “We can’t remain here. The elves won’t relent until they find us. We need to move and secure resources—clothes, food, healing supplies. Then we’ll find a lead on your lineage.”

He glances at my battered clothing. My shirt is a rag, stained with blood and grime, and the trousers I wore in the kitchens of the Northern Estate are tattered at the knees. My hair, in desperate need of a wash, hangs in ragged strands over my shoulders. But what stands out most are the bruises that ring my arms, the fresh cuts from the scuffle in the ritual chamber. An ache throbs in my ribs.

I square my shoulders. “Let’s get on with it then.”

He opens the door a crack, scanning the alley for movement. Rays of early morning light pierce the gloom, revealing a deserted stretch of cobblestone. We slip out, hearts pounding. The street is narrow, hemmed in by half-collapsed buildings.Somewhere in the distance, I hear a cart’s wheels bumping over uneven ground.

Malphas motions for me to keep behind him. His stance is poised, every muscle coiled for a fight. Even at a casual glance, he’s an imposing figure—eight feet tall, with ridged horns, black skin traced by molten veins, and a tattered wing membrane that drapes behind him like a cloak. The faint glow beneath his flesh intensifies when he’s on edge, and right now, it pulses in a near-constant rhythm.

We glide through a maze of back alleys, skirting the mid-tier marketplace. I spy glimpses of the city stirring for the day—a merchant setting out a stall of dried fish, a pair of humans scrubbing stoops under the watchful glare of an elf overseer, a donkey cart hauling crates of produce. None of them notice us, hidden as we are among half-toppled walls and thick shadows.

Eventually, we reach a narrow canal. Dank water flows sluggishly beneath a series of arched bridges. Malphas halts, scanning the row of shabby structures. “We need to find something decent for you to wear,” he mutters. “And bandages. Possibly a coat to hide those bruises.”

I rub a hand over one sore bicep. “Sure you don’t want me to keep them visible for intimidation?” My tone drips sarcasm, even though I immediately regret it. His fierce gaze flicks over me, but he lets the remark pass.

“This quarter used to house a black-market trade,” he says instead. “With luck, someone still operates here, selling contraband the elves haven’t taxed into oblivion.”

I glance doubtfully at the sagging doorways. “I see no shops.”

He gestures to a partially boarded-up doorway, the faint swirl of arcane script visible on a wooden beam. “That sign means a hidden market is inside. The elves don’t trouble themselves unless something openly threatens their power.”