Page 33 of Bargain with the Demon King

Adraya

The throne room doesn't pulse with soul-stones anymore.

Black obsidian shot through with veins of gold—actual gold, not trapped essence—creates patterns that shift when you're not looking directly at them.

The air tastes different too. Less ash and copper, more ozone and possibility.

Even the twilight filtering through reformed windows has changed, the purple-gold spectrum expanded to include colors that shouldn't exist but do now, because we decided they should.

Forty-three days since I died on this floor.

Forty-three days since Azzaron remade me with blood and choice.

The stones remember. They whisper my name when I pass, recognizing what their new Queen has become.

Their song has changed from lamentation to something that might be hope, if stones could hope.

"Nervous?" Azzaron's voice rumbles beside me, that particular tone that makes my spine remember it has opinions. His claws drum against his throne's armrest—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm I've learned means anticipation.

"About revolutionizing your entire political structure while wearing a dress that shows my soul-mark?

Absolutely not. This is exactly the kind of Tuesday I signed up for.

" I adjust the twilight necklace where it rests against my collarbone, its color deeper now, matching the marks we share.

"Though technically I didn't sign anything.

More of a verbal agreement sealed with multiple murders.

Very binding. The blood really adds legitimacy. "

"Our murders," he corrects, and I feel his satisfaction through our bond—that tree of light pulsing between us. His hand finds my thigh beneath the council table, thumb tracing circles through silk. "You planned the dismemberment patterns."

"Artistic vision is important. If you're going to redecorate with corpses, at least make it memorable. Lord Vex arranged in four directions? Inspired. Though I still think we should have made a mobile. Very avant-garde."

The massive doors—rebuilt from volcanic glass and demon bone—swing open at our approach.

The court assembled inside drops to their knees in perfect synchronization.

I can taste their fear now, a new sense that came with his blood.

It has flavors. The sharp, metallic tang of terror from those who remember the old council's fate.

The bitter, chalky dust of respect from survivors learning their place.

And underneath it all, the sweet, cloying scent of curiosity about what fresh insanity their mortal-turned-whatever-I-am Queen will inflict today.

I count them because counting's still soothing.

Ninety-three demons. Seventeen humans from the protected settlements.

All here to watch us reshape everything they've ever known.

Lord Hessian's marks pulse nervous yellow—he's contemplating treason, bless him.

Lady Carmina's shadows split repeatedly, arguing with themselves.

The young demon in back, barely past his first century, watches with hunger that tastes of ambition rather than fear.

"Rise," Azzaron commands, and they obey with the careful movements of people who've seen what happens to those who don't.

Two thrones dominate the dais now. His remains obsidian—ancient, terrible, beautiful. Mine is newer, carved from a single piece of twilight crystal we found in the deepest canyon. It shouldn't exist. Neither should I. We match.

I settle into my throne with the casual grace my body learned from demon blood, crossing my legs so the slit in my dress reveals the faint scars where chains once cut.

Battle souvenirs. The court tracks every movement, cataloging their Queen who died and chose to return.

Azzaron's hand returns to my thigh, possessive and visible.

Let them see. Let them understand exactly what we are to each other.

"We have eight empty council positions," I announce without preamble. "Thanks to the previous council's unfortunate decision to touch what wasn't theirs. Their vacancy is your opportunity. Impress us."

A demon steps forward—Lord Pyraxis, middle-tier nobility with ambitions that outweigh his intelligence. His pewter horns spiral tight against his skull, marks pulsing nervous green that clashes terribly with his complexion.

"Your Majesties," he begins, voice trembling slightly. "I offer three centuries of trade experience. My routes span from the eastern settlements to the void markets. I've overseen soul-stone transportation that—"

"Stop." I lean forward, deliberately letting my dress gap to show more of my soul-mark. His eyes track the movement before snapping back to my face. "Lord Pyraxis, didn't your grandmother establish those routes?"

"I... that is... I've maintained them excellently—"

"Maintaining isn't creating. You're a glorified delivery boy with inherited privilege." I tilt my head, studying him with the same interest I'd give a mildly toxic fungus. "Tell me, in three centuries, what single innovation have you contributed?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing emerges but a wheezing sound.

"Thought so. Next."

He retreats, black blood flushing his ash-pale cheeks. Another demon approaches—Lady Senna, whose thirteen eyes blink in sequence when she's nervous. Currently they're going off like a celebration of anxiety.

"I propose expanding the soul-stone refinement process," she says quickly, all thirteen eyes focusing on me with desperate intensity. "If we could extract purer essence—"

"Let me stop you right there." I stand, moving down from the throne with deliberate slowness.

Azzaron's eyes track my movement, and through our bond I feel his appreciation for the performance.

"We're restructuring the entire soul economy.

Your proposal would be like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, except the Titanic is made of suffering and powered by exploitation. "

"But tradition—"

"Tradition is peer pressure from dead people." I stop directly in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back. "Anyone else want to impress us with their dedication to the status quo?"

Silence. Beautiful, productive silence. Then—

"I might have ideas that aren't completely fucking stupid."

The voice comes from the back, young and human. Female. She pushes through the demon crowd like she has every right to be here, which takes either courage or insanity. I appreciate both.

The court inhales collectively. Several demons' horns extend with outrage. Lord Hessian's marks shift from yellow to violent orange. Azzaron's interest sharpens through our bond—he loves when I'm proven right about humans being more than decorative meat.

"Name," I demand, returning to my throne.

"Vera." She meets my eyes without flinching, though I notice her hands shake slightly. "I run the eastern settlement's infrastructure. And before you ask, yes, I know exactly what I'm risking by speaking here."

"Do you? Because it looks like you're risking everything on the assumption that I value interesting over traditional." I lean back, letting Azzaron's hand return to my thigh, his thumb resuming those maddening circles. "Lucky for you, I do. Speak."

"Voluntary soul-shares instead of full extraction.

" She produces actual notes, which makes several demons hiss.

"Humans provide essence willingly in exchange for demon protection, education, resources.

The soul regenerates if only partially given.

Sustainable harvest instead of one-time devastation. "

The demons around her recoil, a collective hiss of indrawn breath like sand on stone. One actually traces a ward in the air against her. Azzaron's dark chuckle resonates through our connection, and his claws prick slightly through my dress.

"That's blasphemy!" Lord Pyraxis finds his voice, unfortunately. "Souls are meant to be taken, consumed, traded—"

"Souls are meant to be whatever we decide they're meant to be.

" I examine my nails, noting they're sharper now, almost claws.

When I tap them on the throne's arm, they create the same rhythm Azzaron uses.

"Unless you'd like to argue with your Queen about the nature of souls?

I have recent hands-on experience. Very educational.

The dying really clarifies things. Want me to demonstrate? "

He shrinks back. Smart demon.

"Vera, you're hired." I turn to the crowd. "I need two more humans for the council. Volunteers? Or do I have to voluntell someone?"

"You can't be serious." A demon from old bloodlines—Lord Kex, whose marks are so ancient they've turned silver. His horns are ivory-white, carved with symbols that hurt to read. "Humans? Making decisions about demon society?"

"Would you prefer I dissolve the council entirely and rule through arbitrary whim?

" I stand again, this time moving to stand beside Azzaron's throne, my hand on his shoulder.

His hand covers mine, claws intertwining with my fingers.

"Because I'm completely willing to try chaos.

It's surprisingly effective. Azzaron, thoughts on anarchy? "

"It has its charms." His voice carries that particular deadpan that makes me want to climb him like a tree. "Though the paperwork becomes tedious. Blood signatures are particularly difficult to file."

"See? Even chaos has administrative downsides." I refocus on Lord Kex. "Three humans on a council of twelve. If that threatens you, you're too weak for leadership anyway. Your thousand-year-old bones too brittle for change?"

Two more humans step forward—Marcus, who manages the northern settlement's defense, and Elara, who somehow turned demon agriculture into actual food instead of nightmare fuel.

The court ripples with disgust and fascination.

I can taste their emotions souring the air—fear, rage, and underneath, guilty curiosity.