Page 43 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Disappointing, isn't it? When strangers succeed where you failed."
"I didn't fail. I was failed. There's a difference."
"Is there? Or is that just something we tell ourselves when we choose wrong?"
Before I can respond, a small girl detaches from the playing children. She approaches fearlessly, holding a flower—pale purple, one of those demon realm plants that never wilts.
She extends it toward me, gap-toothed and smiling. "Pretty ladies should have pretty flowers."
I stare at the flower. At her small hand. At simple kindness that expects nothing. My hand won't move to take it. The commands from brain to fingers get lost in the hollow where my ribs meet.
The silence stretches. The child's smile wavers. "Don't you want it?"
"I—" Nothing comes. What do you tell a child? That flowers don't fix betrayal? That kindness is wasted on empty things?
"She's tired," Azzaron says, materializing beside me. He takes the flower from the child, then moves behind me. His chest presses against my back as he reaches around to tuck it behind my ear. His fingers graze my temple, trace my jaw. His breath disturbs my hair. "But she appreciates the gift."
The child beams and skips away. I touch the petals—soft, real, absurd against my unwashed hair.
"She thinks I'm pretty."
"Children have excellent taste."
"Chad said I was too much flesh to handle properly."
Azzaron's stillness radiates violence. "Chad's opinion became irrelevant the moment he shoved you toward a sword."
"His opinion was never relevant. I just didn't know it yet." I step away from his heat, from the solid presence thatthreatens to anchor me. "Show me more of this impossible place."
We walk deeper into the settlement. The women at the well notice me immediately, whispers starting. "The King's mortal," one says. "The one from the dinner," another adds. They know what happened in that hall, how I came apart while demons laughed.
"They're talking about me."
"They always talk. About everyone. It's what humans do when their own lives bore them."
"Did you bring me here to show me humans can be happy in Hell? Some kind of object lesson?"
"I brought you here because staying in that room counting ceiling cracks was killing you faster than I prefer."
"You prefer a slower death?"
"I prefer no death. But you seem determined to test that preference."
An old woman sells bread from a window. A young man repairs a roof. Children play games with glowing crystals. They're alive. Building impossible lives in impossible places.
A couple passes—woman human, man demon. Small horns, ash-pale skin, movements wrong for mortality. She laughs at something he says. He looks at her like she invented joy. Their fingers intertwine, his claws careful against her skin.
"That shouldn't work."
"Most things that work shouldn't." Azzaron watches them. "That's what makes them interesting."
The demon notices us, bows deep, pulling his wife down. She goes but rolls her eyes at the protocol. When they rise, she looks at me with recognition—one broken woman to another.
"You're her. The one who—" She stops. "I'm Senna. This is Vazril."
"Adraya." My name feels borrowed.
"Would you like some tea? I just made a batch with herbs from both realms. Tastes like honey and lightning."
