"But he's not!" Mariselle's voice snaps venomously from her hiding place behind the overturned table. She emerges slowly, pale face streaked with tears but chin raised in defiance. "And the only one in shame is you! The townspeople will know you as a demon's whore."
The words still the air, and I feel my control slip for just a moment. Shadow ripples outward from my feet, and the temperature drops another five degrees.
But Ilyra doesn't flinch. Instead, she raises her chin with regal grace and delivers the killing blow.
"I'd rather be a whore to a demon than a sister to you."
Vaelra's hand draws back like a coiled viper, rage twisting her features into something ugly and desperate. The slap comes fast—aimed directly at Ilyra's cheek with the kind of vicious intent that promises bruising.
I move without conscious thought.
Shadow erupts from my feet in a violent surge, racing across the cobblestones like spilled ink. The air around me superheats as the chains that span across my skin burn white-hot, casting stark shadows that dance and writhe like living things. My full height unfolds as I step between them, wings spreading wide enough to eclipse half the square.
Vaelra's hand freezes mid-swing, her wrist caught in a tendril of pure darkness that wraps around her like a restraint. Herface goes sheet-white as she stares up at me, pupils dilating with primal terror.
"Touch her," I say, voice carrying the weight of infernal judgment, "and I will ensure your death takes three days."
The woman recoils so violently she nearly trips over her own feet, stumbling backward with a choked gasp. Her carefully maintained composure shatters completely, leaving her looking like exactly what she is—a frightened mortal who has just glimpsed the abyss.
"Mother!" Mariselle rushes forward, grabbing Vaelra's arm and dragging her away from the dais. Her own face is pale with shock, gray eyes wide as they dart between Ilyra and me. "Mother, come away. Now."
Vaelra allows herself to be pulled toward the edge of the square, but her voice carries back like a final curse.
"This isn't over! Contracts always end in death, you stupid girl! He'll come for you in the end, and you'll?—"
"Enough." The word cuts through the air like a blade, and Mariselle physically claps a hand over her mother's mouth before dragging her into the shadows between buildings.
Silence settles over the square like fresh snow, broken only by the distant sound of doors slamming and shutters being drawn tight. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
I fold my wings and turn toward Ilyra, who stands perfectly still in her white gown, dark hair gleaming like polished obsidian against the fabric. Her face is unreadable, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands before she clasps them together.
"Is it true?" Her voice is steady, but I hear the thread of vulnerability beneath the surface. "Do all contracts end in death?"
I study her face—the way her dark eyes search mine for honesty, the slight lift of her chin that speaks to courage even in the face of her own mortality.
I nod slowly. "Yes. Most of the time, they do."
The admission tastes bitter on my tongue, but I won't lie to her. Not now. Not when she deserves the truth.
"But if I had known you," I continue, the words coming slowly, carefully, "truly known you before the contract was signed... I would have asked for a different price."
Something flickers across her expression—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest spark of hope. But then her shoulders straighten and she lets out a long, measured sigh.
"It's fine." She turns toward me fully, and the silver sheen in her eyes catches the light like starfire. "I knew there was a price, and that it must be a great one. A contract is a contract, and like Vaelra said—a demon always comes to collect."
The words land like hammer blows against something fragile in my chest. The casual acceptance in her voice, the resigned grace with which she faces her own fate—it breaks something in me that I didn't know could still be broken.
35
ILYRA
Ireach up and pull the veil from my head, letting the delicate lace drift to the cobblestones like a fallen ghost. The pins holding it in place scatter with tiny metallic sounds that echo in the empty square.
Despite everything—Bram's retreat, Vaelra's humiliation, the victory written in shadow and flame across this place—I feel hollow. Scraped clean like an empty bowl.
What is all of this for, if it only ends in my death? I've traded one cage for another, one master for another. The only difference is that I chose this one willingly.
The irony tastes bitter on my tongue.