Page 74 of Bargain with the Demon King
"Would you prefer I dissolve the council entirely and rule through arbitrary whim?" I stand again, this time moving to stand beside Azzaron's throne, my hand on his shoulder. His hand covers mine, claws intertwining with my fingers. "Because I'm completely willing to try chaos. It's surprisingly effective. Azzaron, thoughts on anarchy?"
"It has its charms." His voice carries that particular deadpan that makes me want to climb him like a tree. "Though the paperwork becomes tedious. Blood signatures are particularly difficult to file."
"See? Even chaos has administrative downsides." I refocus on Lord Kex. "Three humans on a council of twelve. If that threatens you, you're too weak for leadership anyway. Your thousand-year-old bones too brittle for change?"
Two more humans step forward—Marcus, who manages the northern settlement's defense, and Elara, who somehow turned demon agriculture into actual food instead of nightmare fuel. The court ripples with disgust and fascination. I can taste their emotions souring the air—fear, rage, and underneath, guilty curiosity.
"Wonderful. Three humans." I move back to my throne, deliberately brushing against Azzaron as I pass. He growls sub-vocally, a sound only I can hear through our bond. "Now for demon positions. Convince me you're worth more than fertilizer. And please, someone do something interesting. Thebar is underground, and yet so many of you still limbo beneath it."
A demon literally sets himself on fire.
"I am Lord Pyrrhus!" He shouts through the flames. "My dedication burns eternal! I will serve with the passion of—"
"You're on fire," I observe. "That's not dedication, that's a cry for help. Also, your marks are turning black. That's probably not good."
"I can maintain this for hours!"
"But why would you want to?" I gesture vaguely at his flaming form. "You're literally cooking yourself for a job interview. That doesn't show dedication—it shows poor judgment. Next."
He extinguishes himself with a whimper. Another demon approaches, carrying a sack that drips black blood.
"I offer the heads of your enemies!" He upends the bag. Several heads roll across the floor, leaving trails of ichor.
"Those are your enemies, Lord Ghast, not mine." I recognize one of the heads—his former business partner. "Also, the feng shui is all wrong for severed heads this season. We're going for 'revolutionary chic,' not 'discount charnel house.' Clean those up and see yourself out."
A young demon with barely-there horns steps forward. His marks pulse steady blue—nervous but controlled. He clutches papers that shake slightly in his grip.
"I have a restructuring plan," he says quietly. "For the soul economy Vera mentioned. I've run models for three different implementation strategies."
Now that's interesting. "Continue."
"If we transition gradually, we can maintain stability while—" He actually has charts. Color-coded charts. "The profit margins would initially dip, but within a decade, we'd see forty percent increase in sustainable essence harvest."
"What's your name?"
"Zephyr, Your Majesty."
"Zephyr's in charge of infrastructure reform." I point at him. "See how easy that was? No self-immolation required. I need someone for cultural development. Someone who understands that eternal twilight doesn't mean eternal stagnation."
"I paint," offers a demon with artist's ink permanently staining her fingers. Her horns are delicate spirals decorated with silver chains. "Scenes of suffering, mostly, but I could branch out. Maybe some nice landscapes. A few still lifes. The occasional portrait that doesn't scream in eternal agony."
"Branching out is exactly what we need. You're in. What's your name?"
"Meridian, Your Majesty."
"Meridian, I want murals in every settlement within the year. Something that doesn't traumatize children. Think you can manage that?"
"I'll try, Your Majesty. Though trauma is rather my specialty."
"Time to develop new specialties."
By the time we've filled the positions, the court looks ready to collapse from shock. Several demons' shadows have detached completely, huddling in corners. Lord Hessian's marks have gone through the entire color spectrum and settled on a defeated gray. Five demons, three humans, all reporting to us equally. The configuration breaks seventeen thousand years of precedent.
"This new council meets tomorrow at dawn," Azzaron announces, his hand finding mine again, thumb tracing my pulse point. "Bring solutions, not problems. Bring innovation, not tradition. Bring results, or bring your own replacement."
"Dismissed," I add. "Except you, Lord Hessian. Stay."
They flee like startled birds, leaving Hessian trembling before our thrones. His marks pulse panic-purple.
