Page 87 of Demon’s Snack

The demon breaks free.

The projection collapses inward first, its silver edges shredding into black. Then the pedestal cracks with a sound like ice splitting across a lake. A spear of shadow erupts from the runes, body forming midair, all hooked limbs and stretched hunger, and the ritual circle flares red as attendants shout and stumble back.

The demon ignores them.

It ignores Vaerith.

It lunges straight for Isolde’s throat.

The courtyard vanishes into motion.

I move.

A nobleman in blue robes steps into my path, and I shove him aside without slowing. He yelps, jewelry flashing as he tumbles into two retainers. Someone screams. Sable shouts my name from the east rail, not to stop me but to anchor me, and I carry the sound with me as I tear through the edge of the crowd.

The ritual boundary meets my body like burning wire.

It does not open for me.

I break it.

Pain lashes across my chest as the circle rejects the intrusion, but the bond pulls harder than the ward hurts. My glamour flickers apart. Horns cut through the illusion, black and unmistakable. Gold floods my vision until the world becomes heat, threat, and Isolde turning toward the demon with one hand lifting as if she can stop it with a clause and sheer nerve.

I hit the creature before it reaches her.

My hand closes around its throat, if throat is the right word for the twisting column of shadow and gristle under my palm. Its momentum drives us sideways across the circle, sparks exploding where my boots grind through active runes. The demon shrieks in my face, opening a mouth full of inner red light.

The crowd sees everything.

Horns.

Eyes.

Gold fire crawling under my skin.

Good.

Let them see the next part too.

The hunger rises, eager enough to drown judgment. It wants to rip the demon open. It wants to scatter ash across Vaerith’s polished stones, drink the creature dry, and turn toward the man who set it loose. That would be simple. That would be satisfying. That would hand Vaerith every witness he needs.

Isolde is behind me, breathing hard but alive.

That is the only fact that matters.

I shift my grip.

Instead of tearing outward, I clamp down.

The demon’s essence bucks against my hand, slick and furious, trying to split around my fingers. I catch it deeper, past the thrashing body, past the glamour residue, past the staged projection still clinging to its outer shell. The current bites into my palm, but I force it narrow, tighter, cleaner, refusing the messy violence it wants from me.

“Corin,” Isolde says behind me.

Her voice cuts through the roar.

“I have it,” I grind out.

The demon rakes claws down my shoulder. Pain tears hot across muscle, and the hunger surges toward the wound like oil to flame. I stagger half a step, but I do not let go.