Page 96 of Demon’s Snack

The crowd parts badly, which is to say slowly and with far too much screaming. Nobles stumble away from my exposed horns. Human witnesses shove toward the rails, trapped between terror of me and terror of the guards. Armed retainers hesitate because no one wants to be the first person to strike a creature who just swallowed a demon and then burned only the correct part of a ritual circle.

That hesitation saves us.

I keep Isolde close, my body between her and every raised blade. A jeweled noblewoman reaches for her sleeve as we pass, maybe to stop her, maybe to ask a question, maybe because people with power think anything within reach belongs to them. I turn my head, and the woman snatches her hand back before I have to bare teeth.

“Wise,” I murmur.

Isolde’s fingers tighten around her satchel strap. “You are enjoying that too much.”

“I am having a terrible time.”

“You sound pleased.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“That is Mira’s line.”

“I’m borrowing it.”

Vaerith’s voice lashes across the courtyard behind us. “Seal the gates.”

The perimeter guards move to obey.

Sable reaches them first.

I see her at the east rail, hood fallen back enough for the faint infernal glow beneath her skin to catch the lamplight. She slams both hands into the ward post nearest her and spits a word I do not recognize. The post flares red, then white, then goes dead with a pathetic hiss. The gate ward stutters long enough for a gap to open in the guards’ formation.

“That’s my sister,” I say.

Isolde peers around my shoulder. “She is terrifying.”

“She’ll be touched.”

“I doubt that.”

“So do I.”

We cut through the gap as Syrenya’s voice rises behind us, smooth and merciless. “Lord Vaerith, before anyone departs, perhaps the witnesses should preserve the circle exactly as revealed. I am certain the guild clerks would appreciate an undisturbed record.”

Several clerks immediately begin shouting about preservation protocols, because if there is one thing more powerful than noble panic, it is bureaucrats smelling jurisdiction.

Vaerith’s reply is lost beneath the noise.

Sable grabs my arm the instant we clear the outer rail.

Her fingers dig hard enough to hurt. “Eyes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar. Eyes.”

I stop because she will trip me if I do not, and because Isolde is watching me like the answer matters more than our speed. Sable grips my chin and forces my face toward hers. Her gaze moves over my eyes, my horns, my shoulders, the blood soaking one sleeve, and the ember lines still glowing faintly beneath my skin.

“Breathe,” she snaps.

“I am breathing.”

“You are growling with punctuation.”