Page 217 of Demon’s Snack

I no longer belong to any estate but the one I choose.

The realization settles through my chest with strange, quiet force.

Syrenya watches me over the rim of her wineglass. “You look disappointed that the final document did not burst into symbolic flames.”

“I admit there was a tiny part of me hoping for theatrical closure.”

“That is Corin rubbing off on you.”

“An alarming sentence.”

“It truly is.”

I stack the finished ledgers into the transfer crate beside my chair. “The hybrid contract revisions are next.”

Syrenya groans dramatically and lets her head fall back against the chair. “Ah yes. Seduction by legislation.”

“You volunteered.”

“I was intoxicated and emotionally compromised by political victory.”

“You were sober.”

“A technicality.”

Despite her complaints, she slides upright when I spread the draft revisions across the table. Her expression sharpens immediately, all amusement narrowing into the razor intelligence that made her survive Vaerith’s court without becoming another decorative corpse in silk.

I tap the first clause. “Mandatory neutral witnesses for all infernal transformation contracts.”

“Good.”

“Bloodline classifications stripped from civic authority access.”

“Excellent.”

“No hereditary stabilization claims enforceable without repeated adult consent.”

Syrenya smiles slowly. “That one will cause screaming.”

“Then we should print extra copies.”

She laughs softly. “Gods, I do enjoy you.”

We work through sunset.

Line by line, clause by clause, we carve new law out of old poison. No bloodline can be preserved through coercive debt structures. No infernal adaptation can justify wardship ownership. No hybrid classification can override civic rights. Any stabilizing bond must remain voluntary, revocable, and legally protected from outside claim.

The work feels oddly intimate.

Every sentence removes one more hidden hand from the throat of the future.

By the time the lamps glow gold against the darkening windows, my shoulders ache and ink stains the side of my hand. Syrenya signs the preliminary draft with a flourish dramatic enough to qualify as choreography.

“There,” she says. “A beautiful little knife aimed directly at half the old families.”

“I’m touched by your civic spirit.”

“Please never call it that again.”