Page 103 of Demon’s Snack

“My apologies. It would be politically nimble of you.”

“Much better.” Her gaze drops once more to the ledger I have half-closed. “Be careful which numbers you follow, Isolde. Some sums end in graves.”

“I have noticed.”

She leaves with the same unhurried grace with which she entered, and the room feels colder after her perfume fades.

I finish copying the shell contract identifiers with faster hands.

By late afternoon, I have hidden three duplicate pages in the hem of my formal gray dress, tucked coin beneath the lining of my ledger satchel, and sent Mira away with a list of names disguised as laundry debts. I am sealing the last intake comparison beneath a false inventory sheet when the corridor outside goes quiet.

The wrong kind of quiet.

I stand.

The door opens.

Vaerith waits on the other side.

No attendants. No Talen. No clerk with a slate. The absence of witnesses is the first threat.

“Isolde,” he says.

“My lord.”

His eyes move over the desk, the ledgers, the ink drying near my hand. “Still working.”

“Damage assessment requires figures.”

“Does rebellion?”

My skin cools beneath my sleeves.

“I would not know.”

“No?” He steps into the room, and the air changes as the ward magic enters with him. “You contradicted me in public.”

“I corrected a ritual classification.”

“You stepped into the hybrid’s space.”

“I prevented escalation.”

“You placed your hands on him in front of witnesses.”

“To stabilize an active surge.”

Vaerith’s mouth curves faintly. “How generously you frame disobedience.”

He lifts two fingers.

The ward catches me before I can move.

Invisible pressure slams my arms back against the wall beside the door, pinning them at shoulder height without a hand touching me. The force is cold and precise, wrapping my wrists, elbows, and throat in bands of compressed magic. My ledger satchel drops to the floor with a heavy thud. Pain sparks up my shoulders as the ward presses harder, not enough to break bone, only enough to remind me it can.

Vaerith steps close enough that I can smell the cold floral oil on his skin.

“I have indulged your edges,” he says softly. “I have allowed your cleverness because it served the estate. I have permitted your little preferences, your private ledgers, your insolent silences, because useful tools sometimes require tolerance.”