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I exit, leaving the orb floating near the brazier to cast steady light in her makeshift quarters. The corridor outside feels colder without her presence, though I shake off the odd sensation. My fortress resonates with me, each ward pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I can’t sense any direct intrusions, but the presence of a mortal complicates matters.

I ascend a winding staircase leading to one of the fortress’s spires. Once at the top, I push open a heavy iron door that leadsonto a parapet. The night sky stretches overhead—an eerie swirl of starless black shot with faint red streaks from the fortress’s illusions. The real sky lies behind my wards, but the illusions create an isolated pocket of reality.

At the tip of the parapet, I place my claws on the rough stone railing, inhaling the crisp air. Relief ebbs through me, as though stepping onto these battlements reaffirms my dominion. My wings ache to spread, but I keep them tucked. I peer into the swirling darkness beyond the fortress boundary. No sign of elven soldiers or watchers. Likely they’re still clueless about how to breach my wards.

Yet the contract remains a silent weight, coiled around my essence. The King can’t physically drag me back to Vhoig from here, but if he exerts enough force, he can make me suffer. I run my talons over my broken horn, recalling how I earned that wound in a desperate struggle against one of his High Sorcerers. The memory sparks rage. I exhale, letting the cool air temper the anger.

Valentina’s presence stirs new possibilities. Her blood might disrupt the contract. Or her lineage might hide a key to sever it entirely. If so, perhaps we can turn the tide. Or maybe I’m chasing a phantom. Either way, I’ve staked a great deal on this mortal. My pride chafes at the notion, yet I can’t ignore the reality.

I hear a soft rustle behind me and turn to see another demon approach—a Dazoneth, or twisted beast, once a forest creature mutated by demon magic. It crawls on six spindly legs, each covered in bony spikes. Its face is elongated, eyes shining with dull crimson. The creature halts at the top of the stairs, sensing my aura. Then it lowers its body in a sign of deference.

I wave it off, and it scuttles away, leaving me alone again. Satisfied that no intruders lurk here, I stride back inside. My tail flicks in short arcs as I descend the spiral staircase, passing runicetchings that glow in my presence. Each marking resonates with my Soz’garoth blood. I arrive at the chamber I set aside for Valentina. She’s seated on the basalt slab, arms wrapped around her knees, gazing into the chaotic flames dancing in the brazier.

I pause in the doorway, studying her expression. There’s a hardness to her features—proof of years spent surviving under the elves. Yet I spot a glimmer of vulnerability. She’s in a fortress full of demons, reliant on the most dangerous one of them all.

Her head lifts when she senses my approach. She straightens, tension pulling at her shoulders. “Everything all right?”

I nod, stepping inside. “The wards are stable. No sign of intruders. How are your wounds?”

She touches her side, wincing slightly. “Better, though they still sting. The salve helps.”

I cross the room, halting near the brazier’s flickering light. “You’ll heal faster if you rest properly. Do so. I’ll provide food soon.”

She looks up, disbelieving. “Food?”

A faint smirk crosses my lips. “Did you think I’d let you starve? What use is a half-dead human if I’m trying to unravel her secrets?”

She huffs, apparently torn between gratitude and irritation. Then she nods once, face tightening. “Thank you,” she says quietly, as if the words cost her.

I dip my head in acknowledgment, though I don’t voice a response. For an instant, the hush between us feels weighted with unspoken questions. Perhaps she wonders if we’ll share a meal. Demons don’t typically indulge in such human customs, but I suspect she’s used to communal scraps among slaves. She’ll have to adjust to the idea that I feed my minions in different ways—often raw flesh from hunts or conjured demon fare that might turn a mortal’s stomach.

A crackle from the brazier draws my attention. The flames intensify, swirling with dark undertones. The fortress wards sense the friction between us, or maybe my own chaotic aura stirs them. I rake a claw across the basalt floor, leaving a faint scratch.

Valentina’s eyes flick to that mark. “You’re restless,” she observes.

I straighten, ignoring the prickle of annoyance her observation triggers. “I always am,” I state curtly. “If you want a peaceful caretaker, you swore yourself to the wrong demon.”

She shrugs, somehow summoning a wry half-smile. “I never asked for peaceful. Only survival.”

A silence drifts between us, thick with unresolved tension. The fortress walls seem to breathe around us, runes pulsing in a steady cadence. My gaze flicks over her bruised features, lingering on the silver gleam in her eyes. That glint unsettles me more than I care to admit.

I turn away abruptly. “Stay here. I’ll gather a few supplies.” Without further explanation, I stride from the chamber, my wings slicing the air behind me.

I navigate deeper into the fortress, descending rough-hewn steps to a subterranean vault. Thorny vines of black crystal drape the walls. Another lesser demon—a squat Zonak—lurks among crates, rummaging for scraps. At my approach, it scampers away with a squeal.

I open a battered trunk, retrieving a handful of dried provisions stored for travel. Demons in my domain prefer fresh kills, but I keep some mortal-friendly supplies for rare occasions. Next, I find a jug of stale water purified by runes. Then I locate a small pot of thick, herbal ointment distilled from demonic flora. It aids in healing flesh wounds. Might be gentler than the salve from that black-market vendor.

Tucking these items under one arm, I close the trunk and ascend again, ignoring the curious stares of a Trolvor prowling near the vault entrance. The creature hisses, baring a ridge of sharpened teeth, but retreats when I flare my aura. My fortress is a menagerie of monstrous shapes, but each knows better than to challenge me openly.

Upon returning to Valentina’s chamber, I find her lying on the slab, eyes closed. Her breathing is slow, though I sense she’s not fully asleep—likely a light doze. She jerks up at the sound of my footsteps, wariness flaring for a moment until she recognizes me.

“You left quickly,” she mutters, propping herself on one elbow.

“I brought these.” I drop the provisions onto a stone ledge. The small pouch of dried jerky and a canteen clatter, followed by the pot of ointment. Her brow furrows in surprise.

“Is it edible?” she asks, glancing at the jerky.

“For humans, yes. Not the best quality, but it’ll suffice.” I uncork the canteen, sniffing the contents. “The water isn’t fresh, but it’s purified. Drink slowly.”