It wasn’t luck. It was mathematics. A debt being collected, one loss at a time, until nothing remained.
The line burns out.
That was the part that kept Alessandro awake. The curse would end one of two ways: broken, or fulfilled. And fulfilled meant extinction. The last Draven dying alone and forgotten, the way his grandfather had. The way his father was headed.
The way Alessandro would, if he couldn’t find another path.
His phone buzzed, shattering the thought.
He glanced at the screen.Malachar.
He let it ring three times before answering.
“Alessandro.” Malachar’s voice was warm, avuncular, the kind of tone that invited trust. “Burning the midnight oil again? It’s nearly four in the morning.”
“I’m aware of the time.”
“Of course you are. You’re always aware.” A soft chuckle. “I heard about the quarterly losses. Two point three million, wasn’t it? Concerning.”
How did you know?He didn’t ask. Malachar always knew things he shouldn’t. The demon had been a “family friend” for as long as Alessandro could remember, longer even, though the details were always conveniently vague.
“The numbers are within projected parameters,” Alessandro said. A lie. The numbers were twenty percent worse than his worst-case model.
“Are they? Because I’ve been running my own projections, and I worry, Alessandro. I worry that you’re shouldering this burden alone when you don’t have to.”
“I have it under control.”
“Do you?” The warmth didn’t waver. That was the unsettling part: Malachar’s voice stayed perfectly pleasant even when his words carried edges. “Because I could send someone. Aspecialist I know, very discreet. She’s broken curses older than this one. There’s no shame in accepting help from those who care about you.”
He could feel the dragon stirring, heat building in his throat, and forced it back down.
Control. Breathe. Don’t give him anything.
“I said I have it under control.”
A pause. Longer than necessary. When Malachar spoke again, the pleasantness had thinned, and underneath it Alessandro caught smoke and old copper.
“Of course you do. You always do.” Another pause. “But Alessandro… the offer stands. Whenever you’re ready to stop punishing yourself for sins you didn’t commit.”
The line went dead.
Alessandro set down the phone and stared at it. His hands shook. Heat radiated from his palms, warping the air above them. He pressed them flat against the cold glass of the window and waited for the sensation to fade.
He’s trying to help.
He’s trying something.
He didn’t trust Malachar. Had never trusted him, though he couldn’t articulate why. The demon had been helpful for generations; he had advised his grandfather, his great-grandfather, everyone back to the curse’s origin. Always there. Always smiling. Always offering exactly what the Dravens needed, at exactly the moment they were desperate enough to take it.
That’s what demons do, the rational part of his brain supplied.They wait. They watch. They make themselves indispensable.
But indispensable for what? If Malachar had wanted the family destroyed, two centuries had offered ample opportunity. Instead he’d helped. Advised. Supported.
Unless the helping was the point. Unless keeping the Dravens alive and suffering served some purpose Alessandro couldn’t see.
He shook his head. Paranoia. That’s all this was: the sleeplessness and the stress turning him into his grandfather, seeing enemies in every shadow.
Smoke curled from his nostrils before he could stop it. He breathed through his mouth until it dissipated.
