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MALPHAS

I ’m perched on the highest parapet of my fortress, wings half unfurled against the stale wind that howls across these cursed spires.

Dawn in my realm comes in a muted gray, filtered through illusions that twist the sky into something nightmarish.

I watch the swirling clouds overhead, catching faint glimmers of arcane lightning that flickers through the barrier.

Beyond the wards, Protheka lies in all its mortal frailty, yet here—within my domain—I am king.

Or so I’ve always believed.

A dull ache lingers beneath my ribcage, that constant echo of the binding contract.

It thrums louder since Valentina arrived.

Every moment she’s near, I sense flickers of instability in my forced oath to the dark elves.

My entire existence has revolved around the notion that I can never break these chains—only endure.

But the past few days suggest otherwise.

I grit my teeth, recalling her trial in the Gauntlet.

She emerged shaken but unbowed, a testament to her grit.

Against all logic, part of me admires her resolve.

If she were any other mortal, I’d find her defiance irritating at best, punishable at worst. Yet I can’t crush it.

Something about her challenges me in a way the elves never have.

An aggravating hum resonates at the base of my skull.

The fortress wards sense my tension, swirling with faint pulses of black flame along the ramparts.

This place is an extension of my chaos magic, so it mirrors my emotions in subtle ways.

Sometimes it’s a comfort, reminding me I command more than just a blade.

Lately, however, it feels like the fortress questions me as well—sensing the cracks in my absolute authority.

I shift my weight, scanning the courtyard far below.

Lesser demons skulk among the twisted columns, occasionally glancing toward the parapet.

Zonaks, Trolvors, even a spindly Dazoneth slithers past the statue at the courtyard’s center.

Their movements carry an undercurrent of speculation—ever since I brought a human here, they’ve grown restless.

They sense a shift in power, or perhaps they’re just hungry for drama.

Valentina is not visible from this vantage, though I know she’s somewhere in these halls, presumably resting after her illusions test. The memory of her face in that moment when she nearly broke, only to push through, sends a slow coil of heat through my veins.

Mortals typically wilt under the Gauntlet’s nightmares. She refused.

My wings snap taut in annoyance at the direction of my thoughts.

Focus, Malphas . I have more pressing concerns than dwelling on a mortal’s stubborn courage.

The archivist in Vhoig’s mid-tier remains our best lead for deciphering the secrets in her bloodline.

But I can’t waltz back into the city with the contract half-unraveling.

The King might sense an opening to drag me to the palace by force. I need a plan.

With a growl, I swing off the parapet, landing heavily on the adjacent walkway.

The basalt groans beneath my impact. I head for the stairwell that spirals down inside the fortress, each step echoing in the gloom.

My horns scrape the low ceiling more than once, a reminder this place was shaped for my convenience, not for comfort.

At the bottom of the stairs, I push open a heavy iron door leading into a passage flanked by bizarre carvings—demons locked in combat, or so it appears.

My illusions froze them in an eternal clash, a testament to the warlike nature of my realm.

Arcane torches flicker with pale lavender flames, throwing shifting shadows on the walls.

I see a Zonak scuttle off around the corner, frightened squeaks betraying its presence.

Perhaps it was eavesdropping. I let it flee.

Eventually, I reach the corridor near Valentina’s chamber.

I sense her heartbeat from a distance—rapid, uneven.

When I step closer, her scent, tinged with sweat and the herbal salve I gave her, drifts to my nostrils.

Instinct flares, an almost predatory interest that irritates me.

She’s only a mortal, Malphas, I remind myself. But my body doesn’t care.

I make no effort to mask my footsteps. After last night’s illusions, she deserves a sliver of warning that I’m approaching.

The heavy door stands slightly ajar, a faint wedge of light spilling into the corridor.

That’s unexpected. I push it open the rest of the way, stepping inside to find her awake, standing by the brazier, tension coiled in every part of her body.

Her eyes snap to me, silver irises meeting my gaze.

There’s surprise there, but also a flicker of defiance.

She’s dressed in the patched coat, bandages partially hidden, hair rumpled from sleep.

The bruises along her neck and arms look a tad less severe, thanks to the salve.

But her face remains drawn with exhaustion.

She doesn’t bow. Instead, her chin lifts. “You’re back.”

I narrow my eyes. “I never left. This fortress is mine. I was on the parapet.”

A faint flush colors her cheeks. “I meant… You weren’t here when I woke.”

I cross my arms, exhaling a low breath. “You expected me to stand guard at your bedside?”

She shrugs, tension rippling in her lean frame. “No. But after the illusions, I didn’t know if you’d expect me to do something else.”

My wings twitch. “Not at the moment.” An impulse to needle her arises, but I clamp down on it. Instead, I tilt my head, scrutinizing her. “You slept well enough?”

Her lips twist in a wry smile. “As well as one can in a demon fortress with lesser creatures sniffing around.” She rakes a hand through her dark hair, pushing tangles aside. “I heard something outside my door, but it never came in. Probably one of your underlings.”

My chest rumbles with a soft growl. “They know better than to breach my wards without my permission. If any tries, they’ll regret it.”

She studies me with guarded eyes. “Good. I’d rather not watch my own back every second.”

Silence stretches, broken only by the crackling of arcane flames.

My gaze drifts across her face, lingering on the bruise near her temple.

It’s half-faded now, but I recall how she earned it—when the dark elf soldiers dragged her to the ritual.

The memory ignites a smolder of anger in me.

Anger for her, or anger at the elves who dared to seize what is mine?

I clamp down on that line of thought. “We need to talk,” I say, stepping forward until we’re a few paces apart. “Your illusions trial proved you have a high threshold for fear and pain. Yet I wonder if you understand just how hopeless it is to resist me if I decide you’re no longer useful.”

Her fingers graze the hilt of her dagger. “Is that what you came to tell me? That you can kill me anytime?”

A humorless smile curves my lips. “Not precisely. But I sense your defiance. Let’s see how unwavering it is.”

She tenses. “I’m not picking another fight with illusions, if that’s what you mean.”

“No illusions this time.” My voice drops, a dark promise. “Only you and me.”

Her brows knit in suspicion. “You’re challenging me to a duel?”

The notion prods an amused snort from my throat. “A demon of my power against you? That’s not a challenge—it’s a slaughter. What I propose is more… instructive.” I pivot on my heel, gesturing for her to follow. She hesitates, then falls into step behind me.

We traverse the corridor in silence, eventually emerging into a small courtyard enclosed by four spires.

Overhead, the sky churns with swirling illusions, red clouds streaked by arcs of black lightning.

A balcony lines the upper levels, where lesser demons occasionally prowl or perch.

I sense their curious gazes. Let them watch.

I stride to the center of the courtyard, an open space of cracked basalt. Valentina stops a yard away, gripping her dagger. Her posture says she expects an attack, but her eyes flick around, searching for hidden threats.

I face her, wings partially spread. “You claim to be no man’s puppet,” I say, voice echoing. “Prove it.”

She warily glances around. “How?”

I summon a flicker of chaos flame around my claws, letting it spiral up my forearm.

The black fire crackles, reflecting in her wide eyes.

I keep the blaze contained, but menacing.

“If you want your so-called freedom while under my roof, you must show me that you can hold your own. That your will is stronger than the contract that binds me.”

The question in her gaze is obvious: How can I challenge that contract? But she doesn’t speak it. Instead, she huffs, tension visible in the set of her shoulders. “You want me to fight you with this dagger? You’d tear me apart.”

A smirk crosses my lips. “I won’t tear you apart—unless you bore me.” I pause, letting the threat hang. “But we’ll see how far you get. Draw that blade, try to strike. If you can land a blow, I might grant you more autonomy. Fail, and perhaps you’ll learn hopelessness.”

She releases a shaky breath. “You’re insane,” she mutters, but there’s a spark in her eyes that suggests she won’t back down. She shifts her weight, pulling the dagger from its sheath, the metal glinting in the courtyard’s grim light.

I direct her to begin. She squares her stance, the coat billowing around her calves. For a beat, we lock gazes, the fortress hush enveloping us. Then she lunges.

Her move is surprisingly quick, a slash aimed at my midsection. I twist aside, letting her pass me by. She stumbles slightly but recovers. My wings flare, stirring the dust. She whirls, dagger raised, scanning for an opening.