Page 57 of Demon’s Snack

“So he ignored you.”

“He moved civilians out of the lane.”

“Convenient.”

I lift my eyes to his. “Would you prefer dead witnesses?”

The irritation that flashes across his face is immediate and ugly. He hides it quickly when the other guards glance between us.

“Lady Isolde,” he says, forcing politeness through clenched embarrassment, “my concern is your safety.”

“My safety improves when infernal incidents are contained quickly.”

“That thing is not contained.”

No. He is not.

The thought strikes harder than it should, because Corin did not look contained kneeling in the rain with smoke curling from his mouth and hunger shaking through his bones. He looked like a man trying to hold a collapsing wall upright with his bare hands while everyone around him debated whether to study the collapse or weaponize it.

And when he looked at me, some terrible, precise part of me wanted to step closer instead of away.

I stop the thought before it travels farther.

Talen steps closer again, lowering his voice. “Vaerith will want details.”

“Then you should gather accurate ones.”

“I’m trying.”

“No,” I say softly. “You are trying to confirm a story you already prefer.”

His expression hardens.

Before he can answer, another voice cuts through the lane.

“That will be enough.”

The guards straighten instantly.

Vaerith approaches beneath a black umbrella carried by one of his attendants, silver-white hair untouched by the rain, pale eyes reflecting the fractured glow of ward-lamps along the street. He looks elegant enough to belong in a painting instead of a steaming alley littered with infernal ash, and the contrast feels deliberate because everything about him usually is.

Talen bows quickly. “My lord.”

Vaerith ignores him at first, his attention settling on me instead.

“Isolde,” he says. “You are injured.”

“Superficially.”

“You remained after the attack.”

“There were civilians.”

“And the hybrid?”

The question lands lightly.

Too lightly.