She gestures wildly at Azrathiel, her hands shaking but her voice growing stronger with each word. "We all know demons don't actually appear for peasant girls! This is elaborate theater, nothing more. The ceremony can continue once we've dealt with whatever conjuration this is."
The temperature drops ten degrees in an instant.
Azrathiel takes a single step toward Bram, and the dark elf's remaining composure shatters entirely. His guards—two hulking figures who'd been flanking the dais like statues—suddenly discover urgent business elsewhere, backing away with hands hovering over weapon hilts they clearly have no intention of drawing.
"You know what?" Bram's voice climbs toward hysteria as he continues his retreat. "Nothing—absolutely nothing—is worth remaining in a demon-plagued settlement. The trade agreements are void. The marriage contracts are void. Consider your protection rescinded!"
He spins on his heel and flees, his fine leather boots slipping on the cobblestones in his haste. His guards follow, their armorclanking in discordant rhythm as they abandon all pretense of dignity.
The square empties like water from a broken dam. Bodies stream away in all directions—down side streets, into doorways, behind market stalls—until the only sounds are distant sobs and slamming doors echoing from the surrounding buildings.
Within moments, only four figures remain standing among the scattered flowers and overturned chairs: Azrathiel in all his terrible glory, myself in wedding white that suddenly feels more like armor than surrender, Vaelra with her mouth still hanging open in shock, and Mariselle cowering behind an overturned table like a child hiding from thunder.
The silence seems to suffocate the air, thick with possibility and the lingering scent of brimstone.
34
AZRATHIEL
The square settles into an eerie calm, broken only by the distant echo of slamming doors and muffled sobs from the surrounding buildings. Flower petals drift across the cobblestones like fallen snow, and the ceremonial arch sways in the breeze, its white ribbons torn and fluttering like surrender flags.
Then Vaelra rounds on Ilyra with the fury of a woman who has just watched her carefully constructed world crumble to ash.
"A demon?!" The words tear from her throat like a physical wound. Her face contorts with rage and disbelief, silver-streaked hair whipping around her shoulders as she gestures wildly. "You summoned an actual demon to our home?"
Ilyra arches one dark brow with the kind of cool composure that would make royalty envious. The white wedding gown transforms her into something ethereal and untouchable, like a goddess of winter delivering judgment.
"And what of it?"
The casual dismissal hits Vaelra like a physical blow. Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment before the words come flooding out in a torrent of accusation.
"You signed a contract, didn't you? You stupid, foolish girl!"
Ice floods my veins.
My wings snap tighter against my back as anxiety spikes through me like a blade between the ribs. The infernal chains that bind me to covenant law seem to rattle, responding to the surge of emotion I can't quite suppress.
Does Vaelra know about infernal contracts? More importantly—does she understand the default price when no specific payment is negotiated?
I study the woman's face with the same intensity I once reserved for reading legal documents in the Covenant Courts. Her eyes hold knowledge, not just fury. Experience, not mere speculation.
This is dangerous territory.
"Reckless and forbidden!" Vaelra's voice climbs toward hysteria as she advances on Ilyra, hands clenched into fists. "Don't you know the price of such a thing? Demons don't work for free, you little fool. They always collect, and they feast on the souls of selfish bitches like you without remorse!"
She spins toward me, pointing one trembling finger in my direction like she's marking me for divine retribution.
"You think he's helping you? This is just an assignment, a deal. In the end, he'll kill you and you'll be wishing that you'd listened to me."
I feel something cold settle in my chest. Not because she's wrong about infernal contracts—she isn't—but because of how easily she speaks these truths. As if she's seen the aftermath before.
Ilyra's response cuts through the tension.
"I will not be pawned for the comfort of your daughter." Her voice carries the kind of quiet authority that makes kingdoms tremble. "You're selling me off because I'm the spare—and hadyou ever once been kind to me, I would have gladly sacrificed my freedom to protect you both."
She takes a step forward, and even in bare feet on cold cobblestones, she moves like she owns the entire square.
"Instead, you treated me like dirt. Like a maid, a punching bag, a meal ticket." Her dark eyes flash with silver fire, and I feel the pull of our bond strengthen in response to her rising power. "If Father was here to see this, he would shame both of you."