Page 122 of Demon’s Snack

The ward snaps.

Pain shoots up my arm.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out, tasting blood and iron together.

The bond answers instantly.

Corin.

His response rolls through me like a low growl in my bones, furious and focused, close enough that my hand tightens around the pin. The heat of him floods the bond for one breath, sharp enough to make the ward circle flicker.

I close my eyes and force my breathing steady.

No panic.

No frantic pull.

No fear for Vaerith to aim like a flare.

“I am here,” I whisper, though I do not know whether the words can travel. “I am contained. I am breathing. Do not explode.”

The bond burns with restrained violence.

I scrape the ward again, making a second mark angled toward the outer rim. The pulse that travels through the breach is small but clear, a narrow signal pushed through the bond and the estate wards together. Not a scream. Not a plea. A location. East tower. Iron circle. Alive.

The ward tries to seal the scratch.

I stop before it can retaliate fully and tuck the hairpin back into my braid.

Then I sit on the narrow bench.

My wrists ache where the temporary ward pinned them. My throat still remembers Vaerith’s earlier threat. My satchel is gone, my chamber is being searched, and somewhere in the estate Senreth is congratulating himself for confiscating ledgers that were mostly bait. The real copies are already moving through hands Vaerith does not control, traveling under laundry cloth, routine auditing stamps, and the arrogance of guards who think anything dull must be harmless.

I fold my hands in my lap.

The confinement room hums around me, iron-heavy and patient.

I study the ward circle until I can close my eyes and still see it: restraint bands, motion delays, threshold hooks, speech dampening, decorative flourishes, timing pulses. I memorize every mark. I name every weakness. I set my breathing to the rhythm Corin knows.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Again.

The bond steadies by degrees. His rage does not vanish, but it learns the cadence I am sending back. If he comes hot, Vaerith wins. If he comes cold enough to think, we have a chance.

I keep breathing for both of us.

When Vaerith makes his next move, I intend to be ready.

And when Corin arrives, I intend for him to find me already standing inside the trap with a map of its teeth.

17

CORIN