Page 181 of Demon’s Snack

His fury rises like a slow tide.

It does not spill.

I step closer to him, shoulder nearly brushing his arm, and pass the first page to the nearest guild recorder. “Copy it aloud.”

The young woman stares at me, rain running down her face. “Lady Dareth⁠—”

“Now,” I say.

Her hands shake as she takes the page. She looks at Vaerith, then at Corin, then at the burned circle that still glows beneath the rain. Something in her face changes.

She reads.

“‘Regarding the preservation of compatible mortal lines for hybrid stabilization breeding,’” she begins, voice thin at first, then stronger as the courtyard listens. “‘The Dareth line shows sufficient harmonic tolerance after generational exposure, with anchor responsiveness likely under direct hybrid volatility. Ardyn collateral blood remains viable for adaptive rewrite projection if mortality crisis is paired with infernal authority.’”

The murmurs swell into outrage.

Vaerith moves one step forward. “That document is stolen and contextually misrepresented.”

Lady Othrel’s cane strikes the stone. “Then provide context.”

Vaerith’s gaze cuts to her. “Lady Othrel, surely you do not intend to dignify a forged⁠—”

“I asked for context,” Othrel snaps. “Not perfume.”

Syrenya descends one step from the rail, voice smooth and merciless. “Forgery is a bold claim, Vaerith. Your script is difficult to imitate because you ornament your cruelty.”

A few nervous laughs flicker through the crowd.

Vaerith ignores them, but a flush rises beneath the ash on his cheek.

I pull out the next page. “There is more. Broker replies. Compatibility projections. Payment references. Preservation marks tied to wardship claims. My mother’s name is in your records. My grandfather’s. My great-grandmother’s. You preserved my family because you believed our blood could help control what you planned to create or exploit.”

Corin finally looks at me.

The expression on his face almost undoes me. Rage, grief, and horror move through his eyes, but beneath all of it is a steady refusal to let Vaerith’s documents define us.

I turn back to the crowd before emotion can make my voice break. “He also stole from you.”

Kairven’s nephew lifts his packet. “We have the shell contracts.”

Lady Othrel raises hers. “And the intake discrepancies.”

Syrenya flicks water from the edge of her sleeve. “And the ritual lattice proof showing the so-called cleansing was built into civic infrastructure before tonight.”

The evidence moves through the courtyard in multiple hands now, no longer mine alone. Clerks pass pages under coats to shield them from rain. Minor nobles compare seals. Human copyists crouch under a cracked awning, already making duplicates on damp boards while one of Sable’s runners holds a cloak over their heads.

Vaerith sees it happening.

He sees the story escaping him.

“Enough,” he says.

His voice is soft.

The ward fragments around him flare red.

Corin shifts immediately, one foot sliding forward, shoulders lowering as if his entire body has become a barrier waiting for the first hint of attack. I touch his wrist lightly.