Page 73 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Rise," Azzaron commands, and they obey with the careful movements of people who've seen what happens to those who don't.
Two thrones dominate the dais now. His remains obsidian—ancient, terrible, beautiful. Mine is newer, carved from a single piece of twilight crystal we found in the deepest canyon. It shouldn't exist. Neither should I. We match.
I settle into my throne with the casual grace my body learned from demon blood, crossing my legs so the slit in my dress reveals the faint scars where chains once cut. Battle souvenirs. The court tracks every movement, cataloging their Queen who died and chose to return. Azzaron's hand returns to my thigh, possessive and visible. Let them see. Let them understand exactly what we are to each other.
"We have eight empty council positions," I announce without preamble. "Thanks to the previous council's unfortunate decision to touch what wasn't theirs. Their vacancy is your opportunity. Impress us."
A demon steps forward—Lord Pyraxis, middle-tier nobility with ambitions that outweigh his intelligence. His pewter horns spiral tight against his skull, marks pulsing nervous green that clashes terribly with his complexion.
"Your Majesties," he begins, voice trembling slightly. "I offer three centuries of trade experience. My routes span from the eastern settlements to the void markets. I've overseen soul-stone transportation that—"
"Stop." I lean forward, deliberately letting my dress gap to show more of my soul-mark. His eyes track the movement before snapping back to my face. "Lord Pyraxis, didn't your grandmother establish those routes?"
"I... that is... I've maintained them excellently—"
"Maintaining isn't creating. You're a glorified delivery boy with inherited privilege." I tilt my head, studying him withthe same interest I'd give a mildly toxic fungus. "Tell me, in three centuries, what single innovation have you contributed?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing emerges but a wheezing sound.
"Thought so. Next."
He retreats, black blood flushing his ash-pale cheeks. Another demon approaches—Lady Senna, whose thirteen eyes blink in sequence when she's nervous. Currently they're going off like a celebration of anxiety.
"I propose expanding the soul-stone refinement process," she says quickly, all thirteen eyes focusing on me with desperate intensity. "If we could extract purer essence—"
"Let me stop you right there." I stand, moving down from the throne with deliberate slowness. Azzaron's eyes track my movement, and through our bond I feel his appreciation for the performance. "We're restructuring the entire soul economy. Your proposal would be like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, except the Titanic is made of suffering and powered by exploitation."
"But tradition—"
"Tradition is peer pressure from dead people." I stop directly in front of her, close enough that she has to tilt her head back. "Anyone else want to impress us with their dedication to the status quo?"
Silence. Beautiful, productive silence. Then—
"I might have ideas that aren't completely fucking stupid."
The voice comes from the back, young and human. Female. She pushes through the demon crowd like she has every right to be here, which takes either courage or insanity. I appreciate both.
The court inhales collectively. Several demons' horns extend with outrage. Lord Hessian's marks shift from yellow toviolent orange. Azzaron's interest sharpens through our bond—he loves when I'm proven right about humans being more than decorative meat.
"Name," I demand, returning to my throne.
"Vera." She meets my eyes without flinching, though I notice her hands shake slightly. "I run the eastern settlement's infrastructure. And before you ask, yes, I know exactly what I'm risking by speaking here."
"Do you? Because it looks like you're risking everything on the assumption that I value interesting over traditional." I lean back, letting Azzaron's hand return to my thigh, his thumb resuming those maddening circles. "Lucky for you, I do. Speak."
"Voluntary soul-shares instead of full extraction." She produces actual notes, which makes several demons hiss. "Humans provide essence willingly in exchange for demon protection, education, resources. The soul regenerates if only partially given. Sustainable harvest instead of one-time devastation."
The demons around her recoil, a collective hiss of indrawn breath like sand on stone. One actually traces a ward in the air against her. Azzaron's dark chuckle resonates through our connection, and his claws prick slightly through my dress.
"That's blasphemy!" Lord Pyraxis finds his voice, unfortunately. "Souls are meant to be taken, consumed, traded—"
"Souls are meant to be whatever we decide they're meant to be." I examine my nails, noting they're sharper now, almost claws. When I tap them on the throne's arm, they create the same rhythm Azzaron uses. "Unless you'd like to argue with your Queen about the nature of souls? I have recent hands-on experience. Very educational. The dying really clarifies things. Want me to demonstrate?"
He shrinks back. Smart demon.
"Vera, you're hired." I turn to the crowd. "I need two more humans for the council. Volunteers? Or do I have to voluntell someone?"
"You can't be serious." A demon from old bloodlines—Lord Kex, whose marks are so ancient they've turned silver. His horns are ivory-white, carved with symbols that hurt to read. "Humans? Making decisions about demon society?"
