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The fortress’s quiet settles around me. Distantly, I hear demons scurrying in the corridors—no doubt gossiping aboutthe mortal who walked the Gauntlet. My eyes drift to the flicker of violet flame in the brazier. I recall the nightmares conjured by the magic: the robed elves, the childlike figures melting away, the moment I nearly fell into a bottomless void.All illusions,I remind myself, but that doesn’t fully quell the tremor in my hands.

Kneeling by the brazier, I let the heat chase away lingering chills. My gaze roams the sparse chamber: the basalt bed, the rough bench, the single door that leads to a labyrinth of corridors. Everything is bleak and harsh, like the demon who rules here. Yet there’s a strange sense of liberation in facing these horrors on my own terms, unlike the forced servitude under the elves.

Wrapping the coarse fur around my shoulders, I sink onto the slab, fatigue wrapping me in a tight embrace. My thoughts drift with thoughts ofMalphas calling me his… A fortress of illusions… My vow to stay alive and discover if my blood might shatter his contract.

Despite the swirl of questions, my eyelids droop. Sleep pulls me under. The last flicker of consciousness wonders how I, a Lowtown slave, ended up in a demon’s fortress, tested by illusions and claimed as a warlord’s so-called pet. The notion should terrify me, but a part of me refuses to be caged by fear anymore.

Tomorrow, I’ll face whatever monstrous game Malphas conjures next. I’ll refuse to cower, just like I did today. If that’s the cost of carving out a place here—until I can find answers about my lineage and possibly free us both—then so be it.

Breathing slows, tension slides away, and darkness embraces me without illusions this time. And in that quiet moment, drifting on the cusp of dreams, I feel the faint ember of determination glow inside my chest. I survived the Gauntlet. I’ll survive him—and everything else his world demands.

8

MALPHAS

I’m perched on the highest parapet of my fortress, wings half unfurled against the stale wind that howls across these cursed spires. Dawn in my realm comes in a muted gray, filtered through illusions that twist the sky into something nightmarish. I watch the swirling clouds overhead, catching faint glimmers of arcane lightning that flickers through the barrier. Beyond the wards, Protheka lies in all its mortal frailty, yet here—within my domain—I am king.

Or so I’ve always believed.

A dull ache lingers beneath my ribcage, that constant echo of the binding contract. It thrums louder since Valentina arrived. Every moment she’s near, I sense flickers of instability in my forced oath to the dark elves. My entire existence has revolved around the notion that I can never break these chains—only endure. But the past few days suggest otherwise.

I grit my teeth, recalling her trial in the Gauntlet. She emerged shaken but unbowed, a testament to her grit. Against all logic, part of me admires her resolve. If she were any other mortal, I’d find her defiance irritating at best, punishable atworst. Yet I can’t crush it. Something about her challenges me in a way the elves never have.

An aggravating hum resonates at the base of my skull. The fortress wards sense my tension, swirling with faint pulses of black flame along the ramparts. This place is an extension of my chaos magic, so it mirrors my emotions in subtle ways. Sometimes it’s a comfort, reminding me I command more than just a blade. Lately, however, it feels like the fortress questions me as well—sensing the cracks in my absolute authority.

I shift my weight, scanning the courtyard far below. Lesser demons skulk among the twisted columns, occasionally glancing toward the parapet. Zonaks, Trolvors, even a spindly Dazoneth slithers past the statue at the courtyard’s center. Their movements carry an undercurrent of speculation—ever since I brought a human here, they’ve grown restless. They sense a shift in power, or perhaps they’re just hungry for drama.

Valentina is not visible from this vantage, though I know she’s somewhere in these halls, presumably resting after her illusions test. The memory of her face in that moment when she nearly broke, only to push through, sends a slow coil of heat through my veins. Mortals typically wilt under the Gauntlet’s nightmares. She refused.

My wings snap taut in annoyance at the direction of my thoughts.Focus, Malphas. I have more pressing concerns than dwelling on a mortal’s stubborn courage. The archivist in Vhoig’s mid-tier remains our best lead for deciphering the secrets in her bloodline. But I can’t waltz back into the city with the contract half-unraveling. The King might sense an opening to drag me to the palace by force. I need a plan.

With a growl, I swing off the parapet, landing heavily on the adjacent walkway. The basalt groans beneath my impact. I head for the stairwell that spirals down inside the fortress, each step echoing in the gloom. My horns scrape the low ceiling more thanonce, a reminder this place was shaped for my convenience, not for comfort.

At the bottom of the stairs, I push open a heavy iron door leading into a passage flanked by bizarre carvings—demons locked in combat, or so it appears. My illusions froze them in an eternal clash, a testament to the warlike nature of my realm. Arcane torches flicker with pale lavender flames, throwing shifting shadows on the walls. I see a Zonak scuttle off around the corner, frightened squeaks betraying its presence. Perhaps it was eavesdropping. I let it flee.

Eventually, I reach the corridor near Valentina’s chamber. I sense her heartbeat from a distance—rapid, uneven. When I step closer, her scent, tinged with sweat and the herbal salve I gave her, drifts to my nostrils. Instinct flares, an almost predatory interest that irritates me. She’s only a mortal, Malphas, I remind myself. But my body doesn’t care.

I make no effort to mask my footsteps. After last night’s illusions, she deserves a sliver of warning that I’m approaching. The heavy door stands slightly ajar, a faint wedge of light spilling into the corridor. That’s unexpected. I push it open the rest of the way, stepping inside to find her awake, standing by the brazier, tension coiled in every part of her body.

Her eyes snap to me, silver irises meeting my gaze. There’s surprise there, but also a flicker of defiance. She’s dressed in the patched coat, bandages partially hidden, hair rumpled from sleep. The bruises along her neck and arms look a tad less severe, thanks to the salve. But her face remains drawn with exhaustion.

She doesn’t bow. Instead, her chin lifts. “You’re back.”

I narrow my eyes. “I never left. This fortress is mine. I was on the parapet.”

A faint flush colors her cheeks. “I meant… You weren’t here when I woke.”

I cross my arms, exhaling a low breath. “You expected me to stand guard at your bedside?”

She shrugs, tension rippling in her lean frame. “No. But after the illusions, I didn’t know if you’d expect me to do something else.”

My wings twitch. “Not at the moment.” An impulse to needle her arises, but I clamp down on it. Instead, I tilt my head, scrutinizing her. “You slept well enough?”

Her lips twist in a wry smile. “As well as one can in a demon fortress with lesser creatures sniffing around.” She rakes a hand through her dark hair, pushing tangles aside. “I heard something outside my door, but it never came in. Probably one of your underlings.”

My chest rumbles with a soft growl. “They know better than to breach my wards without my permission. If any tries, they’ll regret it.”

She studies me with guarded eyes. “Good. I’d rather not watch my own back every second.”