Page 15 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

"Soul-stone authentication," Azzaron begins, his words stiff and overly formal, "requires specific atmospheric conditions. The market's energy signature allows for proper verification."

"That's the most elaborate excuse for shopping I've ever heard." I follow him through the fortress corridors, practically bouncing with excitement. "Though I appreciate the effort. Chad usually just says 'we need eggs' when he wants to avoid his mother."

His jaw tightens at Chad's name, but I'm too eager to analyze it. We're leaving the fortress. Actually leaving. After days of stone walls and demon politics, I get to see something new. The optimist in me is practically vibrating.

"This is business," he insists, leading me toward an entrance I haven't seen before. "A rare trade requiring my direct oversight. You will observe silently."

"Of course. Silent as death. Quieter than demon horses—which by the way, move so quietly it's genuinely unsettling. Do they not have joints? How do their hooves make no sound? These are the questions that keep me up at night."

"Your questions about livestock keep you awake?"

"Among other things." Like dreams about you touching me, but we're not discussing that. "Point is, I'll be professionally silent. You won't even know I'm there."

The look he gives me suggests he seriously doubts this claim.

The market hits every sense at once—a glorious assault of color, sound, and scents that shouldn't exist in the same space. My carefully planned silence lasts approximately three seconds.

"Oh hells, is that fruit glowing? Actually glowing? Not metaphorically glowing like when people say someone's 'glowing' but they just mean sweaty—this is literal light-producing fruit. That's incredible. Can you eat it? Does it glow in your stomach? Would you become a human lantern?"

Azzaron steers me past the fruit vendor with one hand on my lower back. "Focus."

"I am focused. Extremely focused on that fabric—is it changing colors?

It is! It's literally shifting from purple to blue to.

.. is that a color? I don't think that color exists in my world.

" I drag him toward a stall draped in impossible textiles.

"This is better than the time Chad took me to the harvest festival and I discovered candied apples.

Though he did get annoyed when I wanted to try every single variety—"

"We have an appointment." But he lets me run my hands over the fabric, watching as my eyes go wide when it shifts from silk to something that feels like solid moonlight.

"One minute. Just one—oh, what's that?"

The market sprawls through multiple levels of the canyon, carved into rock that gleams with embedded crystals.

Demons haggle in their grinding language while others speak common tongue with accents that scrape.

Lesser demons scurry between legs, carrying packages and messages.

And the wares—blades that hum with their own frequency, jewelry that moves like it's alive, books that whisper when you pass, bottled shadows that press against glass seeking escape.

"Is that a cursed dagger or a butter knife?" I pick up something sharp and ornate. "In the demon realm, it's genuinely hard to tell. This could either spread jam or steal someone's soul."

"It's for peeling vegetables." Azzaron plucks it from my hand. "And you're holding it backwards."

"In my defense, demon kitchenware is unreasonably elaborate. Chad's mother has one good knife and it's older than I am—" I spot something else and dart away. "Are those singing stones?"

The vendor—a demon with ram's horns and too many teeth—demonstrates by tapping them. Music rises, but wrong. Beautiful but off-key in ways that make my chest ache.

"They harmonize with heartbreak," the vendor explains in accented common tongue. "Very popular for romantic occasions."

"That's the saddest and most romantic thing I've ever heard. Chad would hate these—he doesn't like music that makes him feel things. Says it's manipulative." I set them down carefully. "Though personally, I think feeling things is the point of music."

Azzaron appears at my shoulder. "The trade. Now."

Right. His actual business. I follow him to a quieter section where three demons wait around a table covered in black cloth. Soul-stones rest on velvet—a fortune in captured essence. The gems pulse with different rhythms, some bright as stars, others dim as dying embers.

The negotiation happens in the demon tongue, all grinding consonants and implied threats.

I try to look professionally silent, but my attention keeps wandering.

A stall sells what appears to be emotions in bottles—rage swirls red, joy sparkles gold, and something dark purple labeled only with symbols makes the back of my throat itch, like I've inhaled poison.

"Do not touch that." Azzaron's voice comes from directly behind me. When did he move?

"I wasn't going to touch it. I was going to poke it with a stick." I beam up at him. "Completely different thing."

"The trade is complete." He sounds resigned, like he's given up on controlling my market enthusiasm. "We can go."

"Already? But I haven't seen the weapons that definitely aren't compensating for something, or the books that probably bite, or—is that demon selling tiny dragons?"

"Decorative lizards. They breathe sparkles."

"Even better!" I'm already moving toward them when his hand catches my waist.

"Five more minutes."

"Really?" I turn to face him fully, delighted. "You're indulging my market tourism?"

"I'm preventing you from causing a diplomatic incident with your aggressive enthusiasm."

"My enthusiasm is perfectly normal. You're just used to demons who treat wonder like weakness." I grab his hand—his claws flex but don't scratch—and pull him toward the lizard stall. "Come on, Your Majesty. Let's see some sparkle-breathing reptiles."

We spend not five but twenty minutes wandering.

I provide running commentary on everything.

The jewelry that's definitely cursed but pretty enough to risk it.

The meat that's still moving but smells delicious.

The weapons displayed with casual deadliness next to children's toys that also appear deadly.

"In my world, we have very clear sections for 'things that kill' and 'things for kids,'" I inform him, holding up what might be a doll or might be an assassination tool. "Here it's just chaos. Beautiful, terrifying chaos."

"You find beauty in everything." He watches me examine a music box that plays backwards. "Even things that should frighten you."

"Fear and beauty aren't mutually exclusive. Some of the most beautiful things are terrifying. Storms. Ocean depths. The way you look when someone threatens something you consider yours." The last one slips out before I can stop it. "I mean—"

"This." He picks up the shimmering fabric I'd been touching earlier. "You want this."

"I didn't say—"

He's already negotiating with the vendor. The fabric changes hands, along with a sweet fruit that glows softly and a piece of jewelry I'd tried on as a joke—a delicate chain with a stone that matches the eternal twilight of his realm.

"You don't have to buy me things." But I'm clutching the fabric like it might disappear. "Chad always said wanting things was materialistic—"

"Chad sounds like he's made poverty into a personality trait."

"He's practical. Romantic gestures don't have to cost money."

"No, but they should cost effort." He fastens the chain around my neck, claws careful against my skin. "And your Chad seems allergic to both."

"That's not—" But actually, it's a little bit true. "He tries. Last month he forgot my birthday but then made up for it by letting me pick what we had for dinner."

Azzaron stops walking. He doesn't just stare; his entire body goes still, as if he's processing an alien concept. "He let you choose dinner," he repeats, the words slow and toneless. "As an apology. For forgetting your birth celebration."

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad." I fidget with the necklace, which sits warm against my collarbone. "But intentions matter more than actions, right?"

"Wrong. Actions are all that matter. Intentions are just pretty lies we tell ourselves."

We walk back through the market, his hand on my back guiding me through the crowd.

I clutch my treasures—silly, beautiful things that serve no purpose except making me smile.

When was the last time someone bought me something just because I wanted it?

Chad brings wildflowers, yes, but they're free.

When I mentioned wanting a particular book once, he said I should save up for it myself. Build character.

"Thank you," I tell Azzaron as we near the fortress. "For the gifts. For letting me explore. For not laughing at my enthusiasm."

"Your enthusiasm is..." He pauses, searching for words. "Refreshing."

"You mean exhausting."

"That too." But there's warmth in his voice that makes my chest tight. "Though watching you threaten that vendor with aggressive optimism was worth the delay."

"I didn't threaten anyone! I simply suggested that his prices would attract more customers if he smiled occasionally. It's basic economics."

"You told him his face would crack less if he practiced joy."

"That's helpful advice!"

We enter the fortress, and the familiar weight of stone and shadow settles around us. But something feels different. Lighter. Like I've brought some of the market's chaos back with me.

"Chad would laugh at me getting this excited over demon markets," I say, running my fingers over the fabric that shifts between textures. "He thinks I'm too easily impressed. Says I'd find wonder in a mud puddle."

"Would you?"

"Probably. Mud puddles reflect the sky, you know. It's like holding heaven in holes in the ground." I glance up at him. "That's the thing Chad doesn't understand—choosing to see beauty isn't weakness. It's survival."

We walk in comfortable silence until we reach our chambers. I should go to my room, sort through my treasures, write mental poetry about markets and monsters. But Azzaron stops at his door, turns to face me with an expression I can't read.

"Would you like to visit him?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I don't understand.

"Visit who?"

"Chad." The name falls from his lips like a stone. "Would you like to see him?"

Joy erupts through me—immediate, overwhelming, guilty. "Yes! Oh hells, yes. Is that possible? Can you do that? I could see Chad?"

"Tomorrow." His expression remains unreadable, carved from the same stone as his fortress. "If you want."

"Yes. Please. Yes." I'm practically vibrating with excitement, clutching my market treasures. "I have so much to tell him. About the soul-stones and the markets and the tiny dragons that aren't dragons. He won't believe any of it, but—"

"Tomorrow then."

He disappears into his chambers before I can thank him properly. I stand in the corridor, overwhelmed by competing emotions. Joy at seeing Chad. Guilt for how much fun I had today without him. Confusion at Azzaron's sudden offer.

I enter my room and spread my treasures on the bed. The fabric ripples through states of matter. The fruit glows softly, promising flavors that don't exist in my world. The necklace sits warm against my skin, pulsing faintly with its own rhythm.

Chad would say these are unnecessary. That I'm too easily pleased by shiny things. That practical gifts mean more than pretty ones.

But today, wandering the demon market with Azzaron, I felt more seen than I have in years. He noticed what I touched, what made my eyes light up, what made me laugh. He bought me things just because they brought me joy.

Tomorrow I'll see Chad. My love. The man I sold my soul for.

I should be thinking only of him, but instead I'm remembering Azzaron's hand on my back, guiding me through crowds.

The way he watched me explore with something almost like fondness.

How he didn't mock my enthusiasm or tell me to be quieter, calmer, less.

Tomorrow I'll see Chad, and everything will make sense again. I'll remember why I made my bargain. Why he's worth any price.

But tonight, wearing a demon's gift around my neck and surrounded by impossible treasures, I'm not sure I want things to make sense. Maybe some beauty needs to stay complicated. Maybe that's what makes it worth finding.

Through the adjoining wall, I hear Azzaron moving. Restless sounds, pacing. Whatever tomorrow brings, he's given me today. A perfect, chaotic, beautiful day where someone saw my joy and chose to nurture it instead of dim it.

That's more than Chad's done in months.

The thought should sting. Instead, I run my thumb over the twilight stone of the necklace. It pulses with a faint, steady warmth against my skin, a silent counterargument to years of hollow gestures. I feel grateful. Tomorrow I'll see Chad and remember why I love him.

Tonight, I'll dream of markets and monsters and the dangerous gift of being truly seen.