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Before I can snap back, a scuttling noise announces the arrival of lesser demons crowding near the chamber’s entrance.

A Trolvor and two Zonaks, likely drawn by the disturbance or curious about my survival.

Their eyes glint with speculation. One Zonak inches closer, sniffing the air.

I glare at it, brandishing the dagger. I’m not about to be the fortress’s next meal.

Malphas lifts his chin. “They come to see if you’re still breathing. They’re learning you’re under my protection—or do you wish to correct them?”

I grit my teeth, aware these demons see me as either prey or a curiosity. Something about Malphas’s tone suggests he wants me to prove my place. Anger coils in my chest at the idea of parading like a “pet,” but if I show weakness, the lesser demons might decide to test me.

I square my shoulders, glaring at the Trolvor. “You heard him,” I say boldly, voice echoing. “I’m not open for a snack.”

The Trolvor hisses, tail twitching. Malphas lets out a low, cold laugh. “You see, she’s mine.” His voice resonates through the cavern. “Touch her without my consent, and you answer to me.”

The Trolvor’s nostrils flare, but it backs down.

The Zonaks skitter in compliance, flattening themselves to the floor.

My chest tightens at the spectacle—like I’m some favored possession displayed before a pack of wild beasts.

But I keep my expression impassive. Better their fear than an attempt on my life.

Malphas’s gaze slides to me, measuring my reaction.

He steps forward, hooking a claw under my chin, tilting my face up to his.

The gesture forces me to meet his scorching eyes.

My pulse jumps at his touch. It reminds me how easily he could snap my neck, but also how he withheld that lethal strength.

“She belongs to me,” he repeats, voice silky. “Learn it well.”

A prickle of humiliation—or perhaps defiance—coils in my belly. I want to bite out a retort that I’m no one’s pet. But considering the audience, I remain silent, jaw clenched. The Trolvor and Zonaks scuttle away, satisfied or cowed. Their footsteps fade.

Malphas releases my chin. I scowl, rubbing the spot where his claw grazed. “Was that really necessary?”

His lips twist in a faint smirk. “I prefer not having to kill every lesser demon that challenges your presence. Public displays of dominance go a long way here.”

I can’t argue with that logic, though it sets my teeth on edge. Together, we leave the cavern, stepping into the corridor that leads back toward the fortress’s main halls. My legs still wobble from the illusions, but I hide the tremors, not wanting to appear weak.

As we walk, a hiss of steam emanates from a side arch, followed by flickers of pale green light.

I slow, peering within. It looks like a large, open room with multiple channels of scalding vapor rising from vents in the floor.

Shimmering crystals line the walls, casting reflections across shallow pools of glowing liquid.

“What’s that?” I ask, curiosity piqued despite my fatigue.

Malphas glances in, sniffing the air. “A subchamber for the fortress’s power conduits. Pockets of chaos energy well up there, regulated by wards.” He narrows his eyes. “It’s extremely hot inside, enough to boil a human’s flesh if you’re not careful.”

I take a hesitant step forward, intrigued by the dancing lights. The illusions tested my mind; maybe these conduits test my body? But Malphas rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. This area serves little purpose for you.”

Annoyance flares. “Just because you say so?”

He huffs a laugh. “Yes, precisely.” Then, with a firm tug, he steers me onward. “There are safer ways to explore if you intend to keep your limbs intact.”

I huff, letting him guide me away from the conduit room. Another wave of exhaustion swamps me, the adrenaline from earlier wearing off. My legs feel weighted. Despite my desire to remain defiant, I can’t deny I need rest. Malphas seems to sense it.

He leads me up a curving staircase that opens onto a balcony overlooking the fortress courtyard.

The vantage offers a glimpse of the twisted spires and swirling illusions in the sky beyond the wards.

Dark shapes flit among the towers—other demons or shadows cast by the fortress itself. A chill breeze ruffles my coat.

Malphas stands at the balustrade, wings partially unfurled.

The basalt merges seamlessly with the organic shapes of his body.

In the faint light, he looks equal parts regal and monstrous: broad chest, powerful arms, horns casting jagged silhouettes.

The scars across his shoulders gleam with faint highlights from the swirling energies overhead.

He glances at me, his gaze uncomfortably intense. “You’re tired.”

I clench my fists, hating that he reads me so easily. “I’ll manage.”

A corner of his mouth quirks. “I’ve no doubt, but a depleted mortal is of little use.” He pivots toward the corridor. “Let’s return to your chamber. You can rest. Then we’ll plan our next move—meeting the archivist, investigating your bloodline…or possibly more training.”

I stiffen. “Or illusions?”

He offers a sardonic shrug. “If you’re feeling masochistic.” Then he nods at the bandages peeking beneath my coat. “First, see to your wounds. The illusions took their toll.”

I glance at the tattered cloth, which is damp with sweat and slightly spotted with blood from where I tore a scab. “Right,” I mutter, swallowing a surge of weariness. The day’s trials have left me drained in more ways than one.

We navigate the winding corridors back to the room he assigned me. Along the way, lesser demons pause in doorways or slink behind pillars, watching with glowing eyes. Malphas pays them no mind, striding confidently, daring any to challenge him. None do.

At last, we reach my door. I step inside, exhaling in relief at the sight of the familiar brazier and the basalt slab.

The coarse fur still lies crumpled on the makeshift bed.

Malphas remains in the threshold, overshadowing the space.

He rakes a clawed hand through midnight-blue hair, dislodging a strand that falls across one eye.

“Rest,” he instructs, voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ll have a Zonak deliver fresh water and more salve soon. If it tries anything foolish, remind it you’re mine to protect.”

His gaze flicks across my face, then down to the dagger sheathed at my belt. Something unreadable crosses his features. Perhaps he’s remembering how I brandished it at illusions. Or maybe he’s just assessing my worth. Finally, he turns to go.

Before he can, I gather what remains of my courage. “Malphas,” I say, halting him. When he glances back, I swallow hard. “I didn’t say thanks for stepping in when those Trolvors cornered me. And for…not letting me drown in illusions.”

His molten eyes narrow, as if suspicious of gratitude. “You said you can handle yourself.”

“I can,” I retort, “but I still appreciate the backup.”

For a heartbeat, we stare at each other. The fortress wards hum in my ears like a distant heartbeat. Then he inclines his head, once, in a gesture that isn’t quite gracious. “Don’t read too much into it. Survival suits my interests.”

With that final jab, he leaves. The door thuds shut. I exhale, exhaustion pounding at my temples. My body sags, the adrenaline wearing off completely. Yet a faint sense of accomplishment warms me. I faced his illusions—and survived.

I slip off the coat, gingerly unwrapping my bandages. My ribs ache, but I see no fresh injuries beyond a few reopened scabs. The illusions were mostly mental torment, leaving only psychic bruises. I rummage for the salve he left me earlier, applying a dab to the worst spot. It stings, then cools.

The fortress’s quiet settles around me. Distantly, I hear demons scurrying in the corridors—no doubt gossiping about the 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 of Malphas 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.