Of course, they know. You can’t do anything around here without her fucking knowing about it.
“I did.” I say flatly. “Her father traded it like cheap coin for his own worthless skin.”
“And yet, it is not in your possession anymore.” Elaron murmurs, tone smooth as glass. “Why?”
There it is. The question I didn’t want to answer, not now. Not like this. I’d planned on telling Daisy myself, when she was old, ready to cross over to the other side. I didn’t want to discuss it here in this sanctimonious hellhole, in front of six relics trying to play ruler. I hold in my sigh, because I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me irritated.
“I gave it back.”
A pause, the room going deathly silent. Here we go. Velentha tilts her head, her face unreadable beneath her hood.
“That does not answer the question, Child of Ruin.”
There it is again. That fucking nickname. I clench my jaw until it clicks. I don’t ask why she calls me that. I don’t even want to know. Whatever she’s seen in some bullshit web of fate she crawled out of is none of my business.
“I owe you no such answers,” I say, voice low and laced with venom, “because it does not concern any of you.”
A beat passes and I flash them a cold, crooked smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have far more important things to do than sit in a room with pretentious assholes who’ve forgotten what it means to get their hands dirty.”
Calrix’s sword flares and Mal’Thariel’s eyes flicker with an emotion I don’t care to read into. None of them deign to speak further, and none of them stop me as I move to leave, vanishing before they can even blink.
Back in Zeriavoss,I’m pacing.
I don’t pace. Ever. Pacing is for anxious mortals and over-caffeinated scribes. But I can’t sit still. Daisy’s body lies motionless in that godsdamned bed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, artificial rhythm. And that tether—that thing—between us won’t shut up. I can feel it tugging. Anchored deep like a hook caught in my soul. Low and quiet, with an almost ancient feel surrounding it. For the life of me, I can’t fucking explain it. A mortal shouldn’t be able to bond with an immortal one. That’s not how it works. It shouldn’t be possible, but how this feels, sounds exactly like how people describe soul bonds. And I hate it. Why does it feel like if she doesn’t wake up, something in the realm, in me, is going to snap? Maybe this is some residual from the soul bargain that I didn’t remove properly. A tether from her end for some strange reason. Yeah, something she did. Definitely not me. Definitely not.
Fuck.
For the restof the first day, I don’t move. I sit beside her, hands braced on her bed as my wings twitch in time with the grinding of my jaw. I keep my head bowed as the healers come in and out, ensuring that she remains in the protective coma. I zone in on the feeling of her soul flickering—barely tethered, barely there—and all I can think to myself is: If she dies, I’ll burn every fucking plane of existence until there’s nothing left but ash.
The second day, I don’t speak to anyone. Not even Aran, who hovers nearby like he wants to say something useful and knows better than to try. The healer brings water to dab her lips, and I glare at her hands the whole time, daring them to shake, daring them to falter. If they so much as tremble, I’ll break her fingers one by one.
“She’s stable,” the healer says.
Stable. Like that’s supposed to reassure me. I don’t want stable. I want her blazing. Radiating. I want her laughing at something dumb and rolling her ocean eyes like she’s too good for the world. Not this—pale and silent and still.
The third day is no different. I move only when absolutely necessary. I ignore food, ignore Aran’s updates. I chew on the occasional ashberry when the hunger pangs claw too deep. Hell can run itself for now. Let the councils argue, let Lucifer keep leaking summoning rituals to idiotic morals. Fuck, even the world can burn for all I care.
I reach for the dagger on my belt sometime in the late hours, when the silence starts to stretch too long and too loud. My fingers curl around the hilt, and I draw it across the palm of my hand with clinical precision. Blood wells up instantly, the crimson fluid grounding me. The pain helps. It pulls me slightly away from that damn tether, from whatever the fuck it is. Because it isn’t a bond. It isn’t real. I’m not attached to her. She’s a mortal. A stubborn, emotional, unpredictable mortal, and I’ve known a thousand like her. But no soul bargain has ever tethered to me like this, and it’s utterly fucking infuriating.
I wipe the blood on my thighs and press a thumb into the wound until the sting dulls. She’s not special. And yet, I haven’t left her side once.
The fourth day,the Divine Six summoned me again.
Their realm is so sickeningly bright, it hurts my eyes, my bones, and my blackened soul. I’m getting real fucking tired of their obsession with me.
“We have given you a few days to cool down, Korithax. But we cannot ignore that you have brought a mortal girl into Hell twice.” Seraphiel says as I arrive, arms crossed over her silver-plated chest.
“I do what I want,” I growl. “And something that’s mine needed saving.”
My nostrils flare as I meet her gaze. She does not intimidate me. None of them do.
“She is not yours,” Amarithe says softly, with that fake sweetness that curdles my blood.
“You do not own her soul,” Elaron adds, again.
“I did own it. Her father traded it. It was legally signed and sealed.” I am so bored with the same conversation. Why do they care so much about a mortal girl? It's not like she can do them, or anyone in Hell, any harm.
“Yet, her soul is not in your possession now, Korithax.” Calrix rumbles, his grip never leaving the hilt of his sword like he’s afraid I’ll strike him at any moment. Gods, if they carry on questioning me like an insolent child, I just might.
