Page 205 of Demon’s Snack

“Burning it clean.”

“Right branch touches the containment wards around him.”

I look up at Vaerith.

He stands behind his pale rings with terror finally breaking through the polished mask. His own safety has been wired into the ritual. Of course it has. Men like him always build exits into burning houses and call everyone else expendable.

“Leave that branch intact for one breath,” Isolde says.

I turn toward her. “That sounds vindictive.”

“It is evidentiary.”

“I adore you.”

“Focus.”

I hold the right branch long enough for every witness to see the containment wards around Vaerith drawing from the same illegal summoning lattice, then I drive a compressed thread through it. The pale rings around him flare violently, turning black-gold at the edges. Vaerith staggers backward as his private shield overloads and collapses into sparks that rain around him like dying stars.

The runes implode.

The estate hall becomes light.

Black-gold fire races inward from every wall, every floor mark, every hidden channel, collapsing toward the center of the summoning spiral beneath the devourer. The creature convulses overhead, its enormous ribcage cracking as the threads I stripped from it burn through the very structure that held it in this world. Its antlers fragment into ash. Its arms buckle. The hollow chest caves inward around a core of gold flame that I can feel because I am holding the end of every thread.

The devourer tries one final override.

Its consciousness slams against mine with everything it has left: endless hunger, ancient command, the weight of every soul it has swallowed. The attack hits my core and finds structure waiting. Integrated. Whole. Mine.

I close the compartments.

The remaining will shatters.

The devourer disintegrates entirely.

No spray of residue reaches the crowd. No soul-energy lashes outward. The collapsing essence pours through the threads, through my channels, into Vaerith’s runes, and burns itself clean as the ritual implodes from the inside. The breach above the floor seals with a shriek that rattles the high windows and sends every loose paper in the hall dropping at once.

Silence falls so hard it feels physical.

Rain whispers through broken glass. Steam rises from the floor in delicate curls. Somewhere behind me, a clerk sobs once and clamps both hands over his mouth. Sable breathes out a curse so soft it sounds almost reverent.

I remain kneeling with Isolde’s palm still pressed over my heart.

My body waits for pain.

It does not come.

The hunger rests inside me, deep and integrated, threaded through my blood and core with the calm density of a power that finally knows its master. My eyes remain gold. My horns remain long and visible. Flame curls along my forearms in thin, obedient lines before sinking beneath my skin at a thought.

Isolde’s hand trembles over my chest.

I cover it with mine.

“I’m here,” I say.

Her breath catches, and the bond floods with relief so fierce it nearly bends me forward. “You are.”

I rise slowly.