Page 41 of Demon’s Snack

His gaze sharpens slightly in the mirror. “Explain.”

I inhale carefully, forcing my shoulders to remain loose beneath my sleeves.

“He appears contract-touched. Possibly carrying residual infernal contamination after a poorly drafted bargain. His control is inconsistent, but his responses suggest trauma rather than training.”

“You saw that quickly.”

“I audit infernal contracts.”

“Yes,” he says softly, and this time the amusement fades into something more intent. “You do.”

The words settle against my skin like cold silk.

He traces the mirror frame again. The image shifts.

Now the passage appears.

I see Talen lunge. I see Corin catch the club. I see the flare of gold in his eyes.

Vaerith watches with visible interest, one finger resting lightly against his lower lip.

“What kind of contract creates that?” he asks.

“A bad one.”

His eyes slide toward me. “Do not be evasive.”

I look back at the mirror.

Most contract-touched mortals look ruined long before they become dangerous. Fever hollows them. Infernal leakage strips away memory, appetite, empathy, or restraint. Some become violent. Some become fragile. Some simply burn themselves empty trying to contain power never meant for flesh.

Corin does not fit any existing category cleanly enough for comfort.

“Most contract-touched subjects deteriorate along predictable pathways,” I say carefully. “If the infernal load exceeds mortal capacity, the body rejects the graft through wasting, predatory distortion, madness, or systemic collapse. In rare cases, the subject survives longer, but the infernal element and mortal structure remain unstable together.”

“And this one?”

The mirror catches another brief pulse of gold in Corin’s eyes.

“This one appears adaptive.”

Vaerith grows very still.

I realize too late that I have interested him more than intended.

“Adaptive,” he repeats.

“Yes, my lord.”

His voice lowers slightly. “That is uncommon.”

“Extremely.”

“And survivable?”

“Sometimes.”

He turns toward me fully now, the mirrorlight reflecting silver-blue across his pale face. “What stabilizes such a subject?”