Page 124 of Demon’s Snack

“No devouring,” I grumble, flexing my hand while the stolen ward thread burns into my palm. “Look at that. Character development.”

A faint pulse moves through the estate wards, searching for the disruption.

I flatten against the stone wall and let the hunger open just enough to taste the magic instead of tearing into it. Isolde was right about Vaerith’s structures. They are elegant, excessive, and proud of themselves. The ward lattice runs through the estate like veins beneath skin, carrying commands through doors, mirrors, corridors, and containment circles. Tonight the damaged sections have been patched too quickly, layering fresh silver script over burned foundations.

The repairs smell wrong.

I follow the wrongness.

The pattern leads me along the inner wall, across a narrow service roof slick with rain, and down into a blind stairwell where old moisture clings to the stones. The air inside the tower tastes colder, thick with iron, dust, and the faint sourness of confinement magic. The hunger recognizes the shape of the wards the way wolves recognize fresh blood, and I hate how useful that feels.

Voices drift upward from the second landing.

“Orders say no entry without Lord Vaerith’s seal.”

“Orders also said the west gallery was secure before the circle burned open.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“I am keeping my voice down.”

“You sound terrified.”

“I am professionally concerned.”

I glance over the railing.

Two guards stand at a locked corridor arch wrapped in fresh warding bands. One looks young enough to still believe armor changes what fear does to a face. The older one keeps glancing toward the ceiling as if expecting demons to drip from the mortar.

Sensible man.

I drop behind them.

The older guard senses movement first. He starts turning, mouth opening.

I hook one arm around his chest and drive two fingers into the pressure point beneath his shoulder. His body goes limp almost immediately. The younger guard recoils with a strangled sound and reaches for the alarm charm hanging at his belt.

“Bad choice,” I tell him quietly.

I catch his wrist before he touches it and drain the charm in one sharp pull. Cold ward-energy surges into me, metallic and vicious. The hunger tries to follow the current deeper into him, but Isolde’s breathing rhythm echoes through the bond before instinct can slip.

In.

Hold.

Out.

I release the guard’s wrist and drive the heel of my palm into his sternum. The ward backlash knocks the air from his lungs. He collapses unconscious into my arms.

I lower both guards against the wall.

“Still alive,” I murmur, brushing rainwater from my sleeve. “Everybody clap.”

The confinement corridor waits beyond the archway.

It is narrow, windowless, and lined with black metal bands sunk into the walls at measured intervals. Tiny runes crawl beneath the surface of the iron like trapped embers. The floor beneath my boots is black stone veined with silver, and the air tastes like a storm sealed inside a locked box.

At the far end stands a reinforced oak door wrapped in enough ward locks to imprison a demon or a very inconvenient woman whose employer has mistaken possession for law.