Page 185 of Demon’s Snack

The ground beneath Vaerith’s ruined dais ignites in pale light.

A secondary spell rises from the shattered summoning geometry, hidden deeper than the devourer’s anchor lines and fueled by reservoirs Vaerith never intended anyone else to find. Rings of white fire spiral upward around him, threaded with black infernal script so dense it hurts to look at directly. Unlike the grand spectacle of the summoning circle, this magic is stripped clean of theatrics. Every line exists for a single purpose.

Me.

The spell lashes across the courtyard before anyone can react.

Isolde starts toward me immediately, but I tighten my grip on her hand and keep her beside me instead of between me and the attack.

“Stay with me,” I say quietly.

Her eyes flash. “Corin⁠—”

“I’ve got this.”

The containment spell hits my chest.

Cold pressure tears through me so violently that the world blurs at the edges. The magic bypasses skin, muscle, and ordinary infernal defenses entirely, driving straight into the hybrid structure beneath my ribs. Hooks of pale force slam into the places where mortal soul and infernal rewrite fused together, then wrench outward with brutal precision.

Pain detonates through my core.

My knees almost give.

Isolde catches my arm instantly. “What is it?”

Rhazek’s expression darkens. “A core-fracture construct.”

Sable stares at him. “I hate every word in that sentence.”

Vaerith steps forward through the rain. “You survived because your instability adapted faster than expected. I accounted for that.”

The containment hooks twist harder.

The spell is built around division. I feel it probing for fractures, trying to separate every piece of me Vaerith believes should exist in conflict. Mortal against infernal. Hunger against restraint. Survival against humanity. The magic insists that I am a failed union held together only by pressure and luck.

For a dangerous second, the force of that certainty rattles me.

The pain is bad enough.

The implication underneath it is worse.

Isolde’s voice cuts cleanly through the pressure.

“Corin. Look at me.”

I turn toward her.

Rain runs down her face in silver tracks. Ash darkens one side of her throat where soot smeared against damp skin. Her expression burns with focused anger rather than fear.

“That spell is based on his assumptions,” she says.

Another spike of pain rips through my chest. “Not helping yet.”

“It will.” Her fingers tighten around my arm. “Vaerith believes your structure survives through opposition. He thinks he can pull it apart because he still sees you as incompatible pieces forced into the same body.”

The containment rings flare brighter around me.

I grit my teeth against another violent twist of pressure.