Page 17

I hear a soft rustle behind me and turn to see another demon approach—a Dazoneth, or twisted beast, once a forest creature mutated by demon magic.

It crawls on six spindly legs, each covered in bony spikes.

Its face is elongated, eyes shining with dull crimson.

The creature halts at the top of the stairs, sensing my aura.

Then it lowers its body in a sign of deference.

I wave it off, and it scuttles away, leaving me alone again.

Satisfied that no intruders lurk here, I stride back inside.

My tail flicks in short arcs as I descend the spiral staircase, passing runic etchings that glow in my presence.

Each marking resonates with my Soz’garoth blood.

I arrive at the chamber I set aside for Valentina.

She’s seated on the basalt slab, arms wrapped around her knees, gazing into the chaotic flames dancing in the brazier.

I pause in the doorway, studying her expression. There’s a hardness to her features—proof of years spent surviving under the elves. Yet I spot a glimmer of vulnerability. She’s in a fortress full of demons, reliant on the most dangerous one of them all.

Her head lifts when she senses my approach. She straightens, tension pulling at her shoulders. “Everything all right?”

I nod, stepping inside. “The wards are stable. No sign of intruders. How are your wounds?”

She touches her side, wincing slightly. “Better, though they still sting. The salve helps.”

I cross the room, halting near the brazier’s flickering light. “You’ll heal faster if you rest properly. Do so. I’ll provide food soon.”

She looks up, disbelieving. “Food?”

A faint smirk crosses my lips. “Did you think I’d let you starve? What use is a half-dead human if I’m trying to unravel her secrets?”

She huffs, apparently torn between gratitude and irritation. Then she nods once, face tightening. “Thank you,” she says quietly, as if the words cost her.

I dip my head in acknowledgment, though I don’t voice a response.

For an instant, the hush between us feels weighted with unspoken questions.

Perhaps she wonders if we’ll share a meal.

Demons don’t typically indulge in such human customs, but I suspect she’s used to communal scraps among slaves.

She’ll have to adjust to the idea that I feed my minions in different ways—often raw flesh from hunts or conjured demon fare that might turn a mortal’s stomach.

A crackle from the brazier draws my attention. The flames intensify, swirling with dark undertones. The fortress wards sense the friction between us, or maybe my own chaotic aura stirs them. I rake a claw across the basalt floor, leaving a faint scratch.

Valentina’s eyes flick to that mark. “You’re restless,” she observes.

I straighten, ignoring the prickle of annoyance her observation triggers. “I always am,” I state curtly. “If you want a peaceful caretaker, you swore yourself to the wrong demon.”

She shrugs, somehow summoning a wry half-smile. “I never asked for peaceful. Only survival.”

A silence drifts between us, thick with unresolved tension. The fortress walls seem to breathe around us, runes pulsing in a steady cadence. My gaze flicks over her bruised features, lingering on the silver gleam in her eyes. That glint unsettles me more than I care to admit.

I turn away abruptly. “Stay here. I’ll gather a few supplies.” Without further explanation, I stride from the chamber, my wings slicing the air behind me.

I navigate deeper into the fortress, descending rough-hewn steps to a subterranean vault. Thorny vines of black crystal drape the walls. Another lesser demon—a squat Zonak—lurks among crates, rummaging for scraps. At my approach, it scampers away with a squeal.

I open a battered trunk, retrieving a handful of dried provisions stored for travel.

Demons in my domain prefer fresh kills, but I keep some mortal-friendly supplies for rare occasions.

Next, I find a jug of stale water purified by runes.

Then I locate a small pot of thick, herbal ointment distilled from demonic flora.

It aids in healing flesh wounds. Might be gentler than the salve from that black-market vendor.

Tucking these items under one arm, I close the trunk and ascend again, ignoring the curious stares of a Trolvor prowling near the vault entrance.

The creature hisses, baring a ridge of sharpened teeth, but retreats when I flare my aura.

My fortress is a menagerie of monstrous shapes, but each knows better than to challenge me openly.

Upon returning to Valentina’s chamber, I find her lying on the slab, eyes closed. Her breathing is slow, though I sense she’s not fully asleep—likely a light doze. She jerks up at the sound of my footsteps, wariness flaring for a moment until she recognizes me.

“You left quickly,” she mutters, propping herself on one elbow.

“I brought these.” I drop the provisions onto a stone ledge. The small pouch of dried jerky and a canteen clatter, followed by the pot of ointment. Her brow furrows in surprise.

“Is it edible?” she asks, glancing at the jerky.

“For humans, yes. Not the best quality, but it’ll suffice.” I uncork the canteen, sniffing the contents. “The water isn’t fresh, but it’s purified. Drink slowly.”

She reaches for the canteen with a nod, taking a cautious sip. Then she breaks off a piece of jerky, chewing with a grimace. “Tastes like old leather. But I’ve had worse.” Her gaze flicks to the ointment. “Another salve?”

I tap the container. “More potent. Dab it on your wounds before you sleep.”

She exhales a short laugh, tinged with disbelief. “You’re practically mothering me.”

A growl rumbles deep in my chest. “I’m ensuring my investment doesn’t rot from infection. Don’t mistake it for kindness.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender, though a faint smirk lingers. She resumes chewing the jerky, swallowing with difficulty. I watch the muscles in her throat work, aware that each unguarded gesture highlights her humanity—a frailty I both scorn and feel oddly drawn to examine.

She finishes, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she eyes the basalt slab. “Can you at least conjure a blanket with your chaos magic?”

A humorless chuckle escapes me. “Blankets are not my specialty. I shape stone and ward illusions, not mortal comforts.”

She sighs. “Right. I should’ve guessed.”

I shift my stance. A flicker of memory reminds me I once stored furs in an upper chamber, trophies from hunts. But do I truly want to indulge her request? She’s no queen to be pampered. Yet the memory of her scowl tugs at something in me, a desire to see that defiance remain unbroken.

I turn away. “I’ll see what I can find.” As I walk out, I toss over my shoulder, “Don’t wander.”

Her irritated retort echoes after me. “You never stop giving orders, do you?”

I ignore the jibe, ascending another staircase.

My domain is labyrinthine by design, ensuring intruders become hopelessly lost. I pass rooms filled with arcane relics, half-finished experiments from centuries of tinkering.

A door stands ajar, revealing shelves cluttered with tomes about chaos spells, but I ignore them for now.

My mind churns with more immediate concerns—like keeping her safe from the lesser demons’ curiosity.

At last, I find a side room where a battered chest brims with thick animal hides, trophies from hunts in the demon realms. Their texture is coarse, but warm enough for mortal flesh.

I heft a hide onto my shoulder. The memory of her kneeling vow surfaces, unbidden: that moment she agreed to my dominion in exchange for survival.

It should have been satisfying, yet the victory felt hollow.

A vow made under duress lacks a certain sweetness.

I descend once more, returning to her chamber. She rises from the slab when I enter, eyes widening slightly at the sight of the hide. “That’s…unexpected.”

I shrug, tossing it onto the basalt bed. “Cover yourself with it if you grow cold. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

She touches the hide, fingers sinking into the coarse fur. “Thank you,” she says, quiet enough that I almost miss it. The sincerity there pricks at my composure. I mask it by turning away and dismissing the orb of chaos flame swirling near the brazier.

“I’ll be outside,” I say. “If you sense something creeping in, call out.”

Her voice stops me at the threshold. “Wait. You’re not staying here?”

My jaw tightens. “I have a fortress to run, wards to maintain. I’ll check on you later.”

She nods, exhaling through pursed lips. “Right.”

Without another word, I step into the corridor, letting the door grind shut behind me.

My chest feels tight, an unfamiliar pressure I can’t name.

It’s absurd to consider how quickly one mortal has upset the precarious balance of my existence.

Usually, I roam these halls alone, haunted only by my contract.

Now, I find myself ensuring another’s comfort, albeit grudgingly.

I descend to the throne room, where I plant myself on that carved seat of black stone and bleached bones.

From here, I can sense the fortress’s pulse, each ward humming in my mind.

I close my eyes, focusing on the flickers of energy that swirl around each corridor.

My lesser demons lurk at the peripheries, restless and curious about the mortal guest. I project a silent warning through the wards: Harm her, and face my wrath.

An uneasy hush follows, as if they heard the command directly in their bones.

Good. I won’t have them testing my authority at this juncture.

Already, the fortress hums with a new tension—my minions likely gossip among themselves, if they can be said to do such a thing, about the mortal woman in my domain.

My claws grip the throne’s armrests, the texture of fused vertebrae forming a macabre pattern under my palms. I think of Valentina lying in that chamber, clutching the coarse hide for warmth, bruised ribs throbbing from the day’s ordeal.

The memory sends an odd coil of heat through my veins.

Perhaps it’s the lingering echo of her defiance, or the faint tang of her unique blood.

I can’t decide if I’m intrigued or disgusted with myself.

I let a growl rumble in my throat, alone in the vast hall.

My reflection glints in a fractured mirror—crimson eyes, broad shoulders, horns that curve upward and one ragged stump that was snapped off in a humiliating defeat.

I loathe that imperfection, a permanent scar that never regrew.

In it, I see an unspoken reminder—the elves once forced me to kneel, too.

She kneels for me now. The irony isn’t lost on me. Two chained souls, forging a precarious alliance.

I let my eyes drift shut, focusing on the wards that circle our fortress.

Each runic barrier stands strong, reflecting my determination to keep the outside world at bay.

The King’s contract weighs less heavily here, though it lurks at the deepest recesses of my mind like a coiled serpent.

If I remain too long, he may attempt a direct summon. But for now, we’re safe.

Valentina’s presence complicates everything.

Yet I can’t deny the new sense of purpose stirring in me: If she truly holds the key to shattering my bonds, I must unearth it—even if that means enduring her stubborn defiance and the curious ache that arises whenever she’s near.

I open my eyes, pinning them on the gloom of the throne room.

For centuries, I existed only to follow my forced oath.

At last, I see a sliver of possibility that I might taste true freedom.

If it comes at a cost, then so be it.

A small, twisted smile curves my lips. Tomorrow, we’ll strategize how to approach the archivist, Enith, in Vhoig’s Temple District.

Tonight, I’ll remain vigilant, ensuring my fortress doesn’t devour my mortal asset.

Tension thrums under my skin, a heady mixture of power and uncertainty that stokes every feral instinct inside me.

My tail swishes against the basalt dais. The B story indeed—the intangible thread binding me to a slave girl with demon-touched blood. A single question echoes through my mind, refusing to be silenced. Which of us truly holds the leash now?

I lean back, letting the fortress’s wards swirl. The night stretches on, unbroken, as I keep watch in my domain of twisted spires and demonic wards. And somewhere down the corridor, Valentina rests, caught in the same uncertain dance of power and survival.