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“She belongs to me,” he repeats, voice silky. “Learn it well.”

A prickle of humiliation—or perhaps defiance—coils in my belly. I want to bite out a retort that I’m no one’s pet. But considering the audience, I remain silent, jaw clenched. The Trolvor and Zonaks scuttle away, satisfied or cowed. Their footsteps fade.

Malphas releases my chin. I scowl, rubbing the spot where his claw grazed. “Was that really necessary?”

His lips twist in a faint smirk. “I prefer not having to kill every lesser demon that challenges your presence. Public displays of dominance go a long way here.”

I can’t argue with that logic, though it sets my teeth on edge. Together, we leave the cavern, stepping into the corridor that leads back toward the fortress’s main halls. My legs still wobble from the illusions, but I hide the tremors, not wanting to appear weak.

As we walk, a hiss of steam emanates from a side arch, followed by flickers of pale green light. I slow, peering within. It looks like a large, open room with multiple channels of scalding vapor rising from vents in the floor. Shimmering crystals line the walls, casting reflections across shallow pools of glowing liquid.

“What’s that?” I ask, curiosity piqued despite my fatigue.

Malphas glances in, sniffing the air. “A subchamber for the fortress’s power conduits. Pockets of chaos energy well up there, regulated by wards.” He narrows his eyes. “It’s extremely hot inside, enough to boil a human’s flesh if you’re not careful.”

I take a hesitant step forward, intrigued by the dancing lights. The illusions tested my mind; maybe these conduits test my body? But Malphas rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. This area serves little purpose for you.”

Annoyance flares. “Just because you say so?”

He huffs a laugh. “Yes, precisely.” Then, with a firm tug, he steers me onward. “There are safer ways to explore if you intend to keep your limbs intact.”

I huff, letting him guide me away from the conduit room. Another wave of exhaustion swamps me, the adrenaline from earlier wearing off. My legs feel weighted. Despite my desire to remain defiant, I can’t deny I need rest. Malphas seems to sense it.

He leads me up a curving staircase that opens onto a balcony overlooking the fortress courtyard. The vantage offers a glimpseof the twisted spires and swirling illusions in the sky beyond the wards. Dark shapes flit among the towers—other demons or shadows cast by the fortress itself. A chill breeze ruffles my coat.

Malphas stands at the balustrade, wings partially unfurled. The basalt merges seamlessly with the organic shapes of his body. In the faint light, he looks equal parts regal and monstrous: broad chest, powerful arms, horns casting jagged silhouettes. The scars across his shoulders gleam with faint highlights from the swirling energies overhead.

He glances at me, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “You’re tired.”

I clench my fists, hating that he reads me so easily. “I’ll manage.”

A corner of his mouth quirks. “I’ve no doubt, but a depleted mortal is of little use.” He pivots toward the corridor. “Let’s return to your chamber. You can rest. Then we’ll plan our next move—meeting the archivist, investigating your bloodline…or possibly more training.”

I stiffen. “Or illusions?”

He offers a sardonic shrug. “If you’re feeling masochistic.” Then he nods at the bandages peeking beneath my coat. “First, see to your wounds. The illusions took their toll.”

I glance at the tattered cloth, which is damp with sweat and slightly spotted with blood from where I tore a scab. “Right,” I mutter, swallowing a surge of weariness. The day’s trials have left me drained in more ways than one.

We navigate the winding corridors back to the room he assigned me. Along the way, lesser demons pause in doorways or slink behind pillars, watching with glowing eyes. Malphas pays them no mind, striding confidently, daring any to challenge him. None do.

At last, we reach my door. I step inside, exhaling in relief at the sight of the familiar brazier and the basalt slab. The coarsefur still lies crumpled on the makeshift bed. Malphas remains in the threshold, overshadowing the space. He rakes a clawed hand through midnight-blue hair, dislodging a strand that falls across one eye.

“Rest,” he instructs, voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll have a Zonak deliver fresh water and more salve soon. If it tries anything foolish, remind it you’re mine to protect.”

His gaze flicks across my face, then down to the dagger sheathed at my belt. Something unreadable crosses his features. Perhaps he’s remembering how I brandished it at illusions. Or maybe he’s just assessing my worth. Finally, he turns to go.

Before he can, I gather what remains of my courage. “Malphas,” I say, halting him. When he glances back, I swallow hard. “I didn’t say thanks for stepping in when those Trolvors cornered me. And for…not letting me drown in illusions.”

His molten eyes narrow, as if suspicious of gratitude. “You said you can handle yourself.”

“I can,” I retort, “but I still appreciate the backup.”

For a heartbeat, we stare at each other. The fortress wards hum in my ears like a distant heartbeat. Then he inclines his head, once, in a gesture that isn’t quite gracious. “Don’t read too much into it. Survival suits my interests.”

With that final jab, he leaves. The door thuds shut. I exhale, exhaustion pounding at my temples. My body sags, the adrenaline wearing off completely. Yet a faint sense of accomplishment warms me. I faced his illusions—and survived.

I slip off the coat, gingerly unwrapping my bandages. My ribs ache, but I see no fresh injuries beyond a few reopened scabs. The illusions were mostly mental torment, leaving only psychic bruises. I rummage for the salve he left me earlier, applying a dab to the worst spot. It stings, then cools.