Page 218 of Demon’s Snack

We leave the district office together beneath a sky bruised purple and silver from incoming rain. Street lanterns reflect in puddles along the rebuilt avenue, and the former estate district feels transformed in ways more meaningful than repaired walls. Human merchants argue with Dark Elf contractors over lumber prices. Guards patrol without house insignia. Civic wardlights pulse evenly along the sidewalks instead of hiding surveillance hooks beneath decorative glamour.

People breathe differently now.

Cautiously.

But freely.

Syrenya pauses beside her waiting carriage “You know he watches the street every evening around this hour.”

I lift one brow. “That is a suspiciously specific observation.”

“He pretends to be training.” Her smile turns wicked. “He is absolutely waiting for you.”

Warmth spreads through the bond.

Syrenya notices immediately.

“Oh, that is adorable.”

“Go home, Syrenya.”

“I have one. You should try it. They’re delightful.”

I turn away before she can continue weaponizing her own amusement.

The road back to the neutral territory house curves along the stream where evening mist gathers over dark water and cedar roots. The unfinished structure stands ahead beneath lantern glow, no longer skeletal but becoming recognizable as a home. The roof is finished now. The kitchen windows Mira demanded are installed. Sable has somehow turned the front entry into a defensible position without sacrificing aesthetic appeal, which I suspect may become her defining artistic achievement.

I hear Corin before I see him.

Steel strikes wood in the side yard behind the house, rhythmic and controlled.

Training.

The bond warms steadily as I cross the grass toward the sound. Lanternlight spills through the trees, catching rain droplets still clinging to the leaves overhead. The training yard Rhazek helped construct stretches behind the house beside the stream, packed earth ringed with ward posts and practice targets. Corin stands shirtless in the center of it, sweat gleaming across his shoulders and chest while black-gold flame curls around his forearms in controlled lines.

Rhazek circles him slowly.

“Again,” Rhazek says.

Corin exhales and draws a thread of ward-energy from the nearest post.

The hunger responds instantly.

I feel it through the bond with startling clarity now, not as threat or strain, but as powerful attention turning toward command. The energy spirals down his arm, brightening the gold beneath his skin. He closes his hand, redirects the force, and releases it into the next ward post in a smooth controlled pulse.

No spill.

No surge.

No desperate effort.

Rhazek nods once. “Clean.”

Corin wipes sweat from his jaw with the back of his wrist. “You keep saying that like it physically pains you.”

“It encourages complacency.”

“Or confidence.”