Page 133 of Demon’s Snack

I fold my hands together and begin.

“I sent three evidence packets out before confinement,” I say. “Syrenya received the ritual lattice proof and bait-channel records. Lord Kairven received shell contract trails tied to siphoned soul-energy intake. Lady Othrel received intake discrepancies linked to falsified ward reinforcement expenditures.”

Corin leans forward, elbows resting against his knees. “You trust them?”

“No.”

“Comforting.”

“I trust their ambition,” I reply evenly. “Different thing.”

Rhazek inclines his head once from the doorway. “Often more reliable.”

“Exactly.”

Sable settles onto the edge of the table, crossing one boot over the other. “What’s Vaerith’s next move?”

“Containment and narrative control,” I answer immediately. “He’ll attempt to frame tonight as unlawful extraction of a ward under unstable influence. He’ll also begin searching for the missing ledgers, which means Bren’s route becomes dangerous within hours.”

Corin’s fingers flex against his knee. “Then we move Bren.”

“We warn Bren,” I correct. “Moving him immediately confirms compromise.”

“You’re talking about people getting hurt like it’s a chess problem.”

“It is a chess problem.” My voice sharpens despite the exhaustion dragging at me. “That’s what Vaerith made it. If we move every piece emotionally, he predicts us. If we move strategically, he loses control of the board.”

Corin studies my face in silence.

“You’ve been fighting him alone too long,” he says quietly.

The statement lands harder than I expect.

I look away first.

Sable clears her throat and slides off the table. “Right. I’m going to check the east perimeter wards before this turns into emotional devastation beside the fire.”

Corin glances toward her. “Coward.”

“Absolutely,” she replies cheerfully. “Rhazek, come help me before they start staring at each other hard enough to ignite furniture.”

Rhazek’s gaze moves between us once.

Then, very deliberately, he leaves with her.

The door shuts behind them.

Silence settles through the room, softened by the crackle of the hearth and the low hum of practical wards embedded in the walls. Rain taps gently against the shutters. Somewhere deeper in the house, old pipes groan softly as heated water moves through metal.

Corin remains exactly where he is.

Too exactly.

The distance between us suddenly feels absurd.

“You’re doing it again,” I say.

His brow furrows. “Doing what?”