Page 34 of Bargain with the Demon King

"Wonderful. Three humans." I move back to my throne, deliberately brushing against Azzaron as I pass.

He growls sub-vocally, a sound only I can hear through our bond.

"Now for demon positions. Convince me you're worth more than fertilizer.

And please, someone do something interesting.

The bar is underground, and yet so many of you still limbo beneath it. "

A demon literally sets himself on fire.

"I am Lord Pyrrhus!" He shouts through the flames. "My dedication burns eternal! I will serve with the passion of—"

"You're on fire," I observe. "That's not dedication, that's a cry for help. Also, your marks are turning black. That's probably not good."

"I can maintain this for hours!"

"But why would you want to?" I gesture vaguely at his flaming form. "You're literally cooking yourself for a job interview. That doesn't show dedication—it shows poor judgment. Next."

He extinguishes himself with a whimper. Another demon approaches, carrying a sack that drips black blood.

"I offer the heads of your enemies!" He upends the bag. Several heads roll across the floor, leaving trails of ichor.

"Those are your enemies, Lord Ghast, not mine." I recognize one of the heads—his former business partner. "Also, the feng shui is all wrong for severed heads this season. We're going for 'revolutionary chic,' not 'discount charnel house.' Clean those up and see yourself out."

A young demon with barely-there horns steps forward. His marks pulse steady blue—nervous but controlled. He clutches papers that shake slightly in his grip.

"I have a restructuring plan," he says quietly. "For the soul economy Vera mentioned. I've run models for three different implementation strategies."

Now that's interesting. "Continue."

"If we transition gradually, we can maintain stability while—" He actually has charts. Color-coded charts. "The profit margins would initially dip, but within a decade, we'd see forty percent increase in sustainable essence harvest."

"What's your name?"

"Zephyr, Your Majesty."

"Zephyr's in charge of infrastructure reform." I point at him. "See how easy that was? No self-immolation required. I need someone for cultural development. Someone who understands that eternal twilight doesn't mean eternal stagnation."

"I paint," offers a demon with artist's ink permanently staining her fingers.

Her horns are delicate spirals decorated with silver chains.

"Scenes of suffering, mostly, but I could branch out.

Maybe some nice landscapes. A few still lifes.

The occasional portrait that doesn't scream in eternal agony. "

"Branching out is exactly what we need. You're in. What's your name?"

"Meridian, Your Majesty."

"Meridian, I want murals in every settlement within the year. Something that doesn't traumatize children. Think you can manage that?"

"I'll try, Your Majesty. Though trauma is rather my specialty."

"Time to develop new specialties."

By the time we've filled the positions, the court looks ready to collapse from shock.

Several demons' shadows have detached completely, huddling in corners.

Lord Hessian's marks have gone through the entire color spectrum and settled on a defeated gray.

Five demons, three humans, all reporting to us equally.

The configuration breaks seventeen thousand years of precedent.

"This new council meets tomorrow at dawn," Azzaron announces, his hand finding mine again, thumb tracing my pulse point. "Bring solutions, not problems. Bring innovation, not tradition. Bring results, or bring your own replacement."

"Dismissed," I add. "Except you, Lord Hessian. Stay."

They flee like startled birds, leaving Hessian trembling before our thrones. His marks pulse panic-purple.

"Your Majesty?"

"You've been contemplating treason for forty-three minutes." I lean forward, counting his nervous horn-twitches. "Seven different plans, if your mark-shifts are accurate. Care to share?"

"I—no, I would never—"

"Lying makes it worse." Azzaron's voice drops to that dangerous register that makes even demons pray. "We can taste your intentions."

"Here's what's going to happen," I interrupt. "You're going to go home, think very hard about your life choices, and tomorrow you're going to bring me a written apology. In verse. Minimum three stanzas. If it makes me laugh, you live. If it's boring, we get creative. Clear?"

"Crystal, Your Majesty."

"Good. Run along."

He literally runs.

The throne room empties except for shadows and the weight of change. I slump back in my crystal throne, finally letting exhaustion show.

"Poetry?" Azzaron asks, pulling me from my throne into his lap. "That's your punishment?"

"Humiliation lasts longer than death. Plus, demon poetry is hilarious. All that angst and grandeur." I settle against his chest, feeling our marks align through fabric. "Ready for the best part?"

"There's more?"

"Chad." I feel him tense through our bond. "I want to see him. Not his soul-stone—him. Want to watch his face when he sees what his spectacular failure created."

"That can be arranged." He produces the soul-stone from shadow—dim, cracked, barely glowing. "But first, this."

I take the stone, feeling its insignificant weight.

All that pain, all that sacrifice, for this.

A soul barely worth the crystal containing it.

Through the fragment, I sense him—still alive, still fucking his way through the village, still telling anyone who'll listen about the naive girl who died for him.

"What will you do?" Azzaron asks, watching me with those impossible black-gold eyes.

"After we visit? Fertilizer." I pocket the stone. "But first, I want my comedy show."

The journey to the mortal realm takes seconds. We materialize in Chad's cottage just as he's sitting down to dinner with his latest conquest—a brunette this time, pretty in that fragile way that would break under the slightest pressure.

"What the—" Chad jumps up, knocking over his wine. It spreads across the table like blood. His face cycles through emotions—confusion, recognition, terror. "Adraya? But you're dead. You're supposed to be dead."

"Disappointing you even from beyond the grave." I examine my nails, noting how the light catches on their sharp edges. "Though technically I did die. Twice. Very educational experience. The second time really stuck."

"How are you—what are you—" His eyes find my soul-mark glowing through the dress, then Azzaron standing behind me like divine judgment. "That's a demon."

"That's my husband, technically. Mate? Bound eternal companion? We haven't settled on terminology." I move closer, and Chad stumbles backward, knocking into his chair. "You remember demons, right? From when you shoved me toward a sword and I sold my soul to save your worthless life?"

"I didn't—that's not—"

"Oh, but it is." I count his nervous ticks—eye twitch, jaw clench, hand tremor. Seven tells before the first lie even forms. "Want to know the funny part? You created this. Your cowardice, your betrayal, your mediocrity—it all led to me becoming Queen of the demon realm."

"Queen?" His voice cracks.

"Queen." I let my soul-mark glow brighter, the light of it casting shadows that move wrong in the corners of the room. The brunette whimpers. "Your betrayal was the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me what nothing looked like, so I could recognize everything when I found it."

"Adraya, please, I can explain—"

"No need. I've seen enough." I pull out his soul-stone, watch his eyes track it. "This is you, by the way. Your entire essence. Barely glowing. Weak. Worthless. The physical manifestation of your mediocrity."

"Is that—are you going to—"

"Kill you? Torture you? Make you suffer for eternity?" I toss the stone up, catch it. "No. You're going to live a long, ordinary life. You'll grow old knowing you had someone who would have given you everything, and you threw her away for—what's your name?"

"S-Sarah," the brunette stammers.

"Sarah. Who will leave you within the year when she realizes what you are." I hand the stone to Azzaron. "Fertilizer. Mix it with the soil in the nightmare gardens. Maybe something beautiful will grow from his mediocrity."

"You can't—" Chad starts forward, then freezes when Azzaron moves. Just a shift of weight, but Chad recognizes predator.

"Actually, I can. I'm Queen. I make the rules now." I turn to leave, then pause. "Oh, Chad? Every good thing that happens in your life from now on? That's my mercy. Every bad thing? That's just you being you."

We leave him standing there, mouth opening and closing like a fish drowning in air. Sarah's already backing toward the door.

Back in our realm, in our chambers, I stretch out on our bed while Azzaron crushes Chad's soul-stone to dust.

"Satisfied?" He asks, sprinkling the remains into a potted plant that immediately sprouts black flowers.

"Completely. Did you see his face? The exact moment he realized he created his own replacement?

" I pull him down beside me, our marks glowing in sync.

"I should send him a thank you note. 'Dear Chad, thanks for being inadequate.

Your mediocrity led to my magnificence. Best wishes, Your Former Victim Turned Demon Queen. '"

"You're never letting this go."

"Never. It's the best running joke in the realms." I trace his soul-mark through his shirt. "Besides, someone has to remind you how we got here."

"As if I could forget." Through our bond, I feel his contentment mixing with mine. "You chose me while bleeding out. Declared yourself mine in front of the entire court."

"Best decision I ever made. Well, second best. Selling my soul was technically first, but only because it led to you."

"Tell me about the reforms," he says, pulling me closer. "What are we building?"

"Everything." I feel his curiosity through our bond, his genuine interest in my chaos. "Education systems where humans and demons learn together. Art that isn't all suffering—"

"—though some suffering, for tradition—" he interjects.

"Obviously. Can't abandon our roots entirely. Trade routes based on mutual benefit rather than exploitation. Voluntary soul-sharing programs—"

"—with strict oversight to prevent abuse—"

"Exactly. And festivals. Actual celebrations that don't involve blood sacrifice."

"What would we celebrate?"

"The day I died. The day you crushed my soul. The day we killed the council." I grin against his shoulder. "We'll call it 'Chad's Folly Day.' Make it a realm-wide holiday."

"You're impossible."

"I'm revolutionary. There's a difference." I sit up, straddling his waist. "We're going to change everything. It'll be violent and messy and half the realm will try to kill us, but we're going to build something beautiful."

"Together."

"Together." Our marks pulse in perfect synchronization. "Though I still get to name things. You have no creativity. 'The Lower Throne Room'? Really?"

"It's descriptive."

"It's boring. I'm renaming it 'The Murder Gallery.' Much more accurate."

He laughs, pulling me down for a kiss that tastes of forever and revolution. Through our bond, I feel his thoughts mixing with mine—plans within plans, dreams of what we'll build, the certainty that we'll face it all together.

Tomorrow we'll terrorize the council into brilliance. The demon lords will present their terrible poetry. Vera will present her soul-sharing proposals. The realm will shift another degree toward something unprecedented.

But tonight, I lie in the arms of the Demon King who killed for me, died for me, remade me into something that could match him.

The twilight necklace pulses warm against my throat—no longer the color it was at the market, but something deeper, richer, ours.

We're building something impossible—a realm where power comes from choice, where humans and demons create instead of destroy, where optimism has teeth and uses them.

"I love you," I tell him, the words easy as breathing.

"I know." He pulls me closer. "You chose me. That's better than love."

"It's the same thing, just with more violence."

"Our kind of love."

"The only kind worth having."

We fall asleep planning revolution, our marks glowing soft in the darkness, proof that some choices echo through eternity. And somewhere in the mortal realm, Chad lies awake knowing exactly what he lost, while we lie entwined, knowing exactly what we found.

All because he couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

Fucking Chad.

The catalyst that never mattered.