The lamps in the dining hall burned low, filling the marble hall with a steady amber glow. It was the kind of warm light meant to calm nerves and soften shadows. It didn't work.

  Varin had been quiet longer than usual. His stare lingered on the Demon Lord. Finally, Varin leaned forward, elbows on the table.

  "Ravokar's face," he said, his tone musing, "looked ready to peel itself off when we called it corruption before. But you…" He gestured at the Demon Lord. "You don't seem to care. Not even a wince. Why?"

  Lord Zaltus chuckled, rolling his shoulders in loose amusement.

  "Rav is young," the Demon Lord said. "You must forgive him. He still clings to pride, and pride bends his logic. He doesn't yet understand that it is corruption. Our blood was never meant for such work. Never meant for mortal bodies. The results of such taboo speak for themselves."

  He tapped his chest once. "That truth is old. Older than your kingdoms. Older than this city. Older than me."

  A small silence followed—respectful, uneasy.

  The Demon Lord's smile softened as he continued.

  "The same is true of the blood of Gteju and Finixoen. None were meant to be consumed. Corruption is not unique to us, Iwon."

  Myrren blinked rapidly, brow creasing.

  "Finixoen… Gteju… Iwon?" she repeated, voice rising into something shy.

  Aelun answered before anyone else could draw breath.

  "Angels, Dragons, and Demons, respectively," Aelun said, tone flat, teacher-like. "Those are their true species names. What they call themselves. What they were before human tongues simplified them."

  The silence that followed was thicker now—less respectful, more stunned.

  Isolde folded her hands against her lap. Her voice was calm but edged.

  "So you're saying not only demon blood corrupts. Angelic blood, dragon blood—all of it carries the same danger."

  She held her breath before continuing.

  "But saints and witches descend from those who consumed dragon blood, don't they? Yet there was no… corruption."

  The Demon Lord laughed softly. Not cruelly—just deeply amused.

  "You are incorrect, Saintess. Your history hides more truths than it reveals."

  He lifted a hand, motioning towards Isolde. "You saints are descendants of those who survived ingesting the blood and flesh of Gteju. But for every success? For every miracle? Countless more died. And even more twisted into malformed terrors that had no place in this world."

  His eyes narrowed with memory. Disgust barely visible beneath his eyes.

  "The echoes of those creatures still roam the world."

  Myrren swallowed.

  "You speak of the draconic nightmares… in the Deadlands?"

  "Precisely them," the Demon Lord replied. "And many, many more. Your maps cover only a fraction of your world."

  The chamber felt colder after that. The torches hummed. Nobody moved.

  Varin rubbed his jaw.

  "Are you claiming our saints… are just the descendants of the lucky ones?"

  The Demon Lord shrugged,

  "You can call it luck. Or call it divine providence. Either way, that same 'luck' allowed Morgan and her coven to survive—allowed them to turn the tides against us during the war. Perhaps luck is merely the subtle nudging of the gods when no one's looking."

  Darius raised a brow at that. Varin frowned, but not in disagreement.

  Myrren piped up again, voice tentative.

  "So… that's why we can identify saints with saint stones?"

  The Demon Lord flicked his eyes toward her, amused and approving.

  "Good catch, little inquisitor."

  He tapped the table.

  "Your saint stones are pieces of Dragon Hearts. Old ones. Diminished, but still potent."

  Lucen froze in place. Even Varin's breath caught.

  Selene's expression didn't shift—not a flinch. This was a simple confirmation of truths she had already tread upon.

  Myrren continued, pushing through her shock. "Then that means… we can identify all demonic corruption using a Demon Heart."

  "Yes," the Demon Lord said with a smile.

  Lucen dragged both hands down his face.

  "I destroyed," he said slowly, "every single demon heart on the continent."

  A beat. Then—

  "Fucking hells." He slumped back.

  Selene giggled behind her fingers.

  The Demon Lord's gaze drifted, almost lazily, until it landed on Darius. There was no amusement in Darius's expression. There never was, when corruption was mentioned.

  "Corruption can be hidden," he said.

  "It can," the Demon Lord agreed. "Through artifacts, potions, incantations. Creative mortals have found many methods."

  "But there are no methods that can hide the blood," Darius said quietly.

  "Correct," the Demon Lord replied. "Blood tells truth when nothing else does."

  "And demon hearts react to the blood."

  Darius leaned forward.

  "Just like saint stones."

  "Yes."

  Darius exhaled through his nose.

  Then:

  "You can do that too, can't you? You can act like a demon heart."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Demon Lord smiled. Not a mortal smile. Not a polite one. His lips stretched too wide. Teeth appeared in rows that weren't human. Shadows curled around the edges of his face like eager fingers.

  "…Yes."

  Darius chuckled—one sharp breath, the kind with no humor in it at all.

  "But you're not going to help us… are you?"

  The Demon Lord leaned back, pleasant as a man enjoying tea.

  "That is correct."

  Selene snorted a laugh. She didn't even try to hide it. By this point, she had grown numb to demon theatrics. If anything, they started to remind her far too much of Emperor Valerion.

  Varin straightened.

  "And why not?"

  The Demon Lord lifted a single finger.

  "Let me ask you something."

  Everyone stilled.

  "These sorcerers… these ghouls, these abominations they craft—what do they require?"

  Isolde answered without hesitation.

  "Demon blood."

  "Correct."

  The Demon Lord tapped his finger against the armrest.

  "And no demons are wandering outside the Hallows. So, where do you suppose they are getting it?"

  The realization slammed through the group all at once.

  Every gaze—every single one—turned toward Selene.

  Her face scrunched into a scowl of pure offense.

  "You knew," she hissed, "and you did nothing?"

  The Demon Lord didn't even blink.

  "I did exactly as required by my pact with Morgan. We do not leave the Hallows. We do not interfere with the outside world—save observation. But we are permitted to offer counsel should we choose."

  Cassian rubbed his forehead.

  "…It makes sense," he said reluctantly. "I hate it, but it makes sense."

  Lucen rounded on him.

  "How?!"

  Cassian blew out a slow breath.

  "Demons seem to operate on a principle of controlled chaos. You can't cage chaos without giving it something—a pressure valve, a battlefield, a purpose. If Morgan has locked them into the Hallows with no outlet… no hunts, no wars, no bloodletting—"

  His shoulders sagged.

  "…then there's going to be a problem."

  Myrren swallowed hard.

  Isolde shifted uncomfortably.

  Darius said nothing, but his hand tightened around Devotion's hilt.

  "There might be a second Demon War," he said. "Just with a different leader."

  His gaze slid toward the Demon Lord.

  Who chuckled softly.

  "That's correct."

  The sound rolled through the chamber—warm, amused, and unnervingly calm. The tension didn't break. It settled deeper. Rooted in their bones.

  Lord Zaltus rose from his seat with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had worn a human form for convenience rather than necessity. His robes whispered as he moved, and the air around him seemed to bend in subtle ways, as though every step tugged the fabric of the chamber just slightly out of place.

  He began walking around the large table.

  As he did, the polished surface shifted, the wood rippling like disturbed water. Shadows spread across it in rings, climbing upward and shaping themselves into shimmering, vaylora-lit illusions.

  Scenes formed in the air over the table—humans fighting, screaming, burning. The fall of kings. The betrayal of lovers. Brothers turning on each other with knives. Entire families tearing themselves apart. Humans dying by human hands, again and again, with endless variation.

  "Humans," Zaltus said lightly, as though commenting on the weather, "are fascinating creatures."

  The others watched in uneasy silence as blood-slicked images played out in pale light.

  "A walking contradiction," he continued, hands clasped behind him. "Predictable in your logic, predictable in your cruelty… but the flavor of that cruelty—oh." He tapped his chest with a theatrical wince, near ecstasy laced across his face. "Even demons blush in shame at your creativity."

  Lucen muttered something under his breath. Cassian looked away. Zaltus's eyes glittered with amusement.

  "How could we resist the chance to watch you truly blossom? How can we resist, at least offering you a hand in your own demise?"

  Selene made a disgusted sound.

  "So you help the enemies of the Hallows now? For your entertainment?"

  Zaltus lifted a hand in mock defense.

  "I have done no such thing."

  Selene stepped around the table to face him more directly. "Do you deny that demons aiding these sorcerers have crossed the line?"

  "Yes," Zaltus said calmly. "They have."

  "And you and your son just sat back and let it happen."

  "Rav does not know," he answered, tone still even.

  Selene's stare sharpened.

  "So not your son, but you? You admit to treason?"

  Zaltus's smile returned—slow and amused.

  "I admit to no such thing. This is the way of demons. Unless we move as one, we do not interfere with one another's affairs." He rested a hand on the table as the illusions faded. "If my choice was of treachery, I could have chosen to withhold this information entirely."

  Selene clenched her jaw. He was right, and she hated that he was right.

  She scoffed. "If you're not going to help—and you know who they are—then you might as well be a traitor. But you probably couldn't tell, because treachery comes so naturally to you."

  Zaltus stopped walking.

  His fingers rested on the back of a nearby chair—light, almost casual. But the wood beneath his palm began to crack. Slow. Deliberate. Splintering in hairline fractures that spread like frost across glass. Then he lifted his hand. The fractured wood held—barely.

  "I didn't say," he murmured, "that I wouldn't help."

  Everyone remained very, very still.

  Zaltus resumed his walk, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve as if nothing had happened.

  “At least two demons are directly assisting the one you call the Pale Seer," he continued, tone smoothing back into casual ease. "Helping her secure demon blood."

  Cassian stiffened. Varin's eyes narrowed.

  Zaltus held up two fingers.

  "Who exactly they are, I can't tell you. But I can let you hazard a guess where they obtain the blood."

  "The underground fighting pits," Selene said.

  Zaltus turned his head and winked at her.

  Eryndor folded his arms. "You know where they get the blood. You know there are at least two of them. But you don't know who they are. Why," he asked dryly, "do I find that hard to believe?"

  Zaltus shrugged, palms up.

  "I didn't say I didn't know, I said I couldn't tell you. Call it... professional courtesy amongst peers." The Demon Lord chuckled as he looked into a sea of confused and frustrated faces.

  "However... I can tell you this. If I see them as a peer. You can only assume they are rather powerful."

  He tapped his temple. "If they meet my standard, then they are ancient—around my age."

  Selene snorted.

  "That hardly narrows anything down. There are hundreds of demons your age in the Hallows."

  Darius lifted his head.

  "How many of them are connected to the fighting pits?"

  Selene paused, thinking.

  "…About fifty."

  "And how many of those fifty," Darius pressed, "are bold enough to try something this dangerous?"

  Selene's answer came without hesitation.

  "Honestly? All of them."

  Darius huffed an incredulous laugh.

  Lucen threw his arms across his chest. "How can she keep that many loose cannons in the city without chaos breaking loose?"

  Zaltus gave him a pitying look.

  "Power solves all issues. Even for us."

  He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

  "Even I would be a fool to think I could kill Morgan within the Hallows. Not without immense preparation… and a willingness to die along with her. As it stands, I rather enjoy living. Most of us do."

  That made the room go quiet again.

  Varin leaned forward, thoughtful.

  "Then… who has a big enough grudge against the LeFayes to risk something like this? To throw their lives away?"

  Selene's breath caught. Her eyes widened.

  "…Three."

  Zaltus stopped beside her and bowed his head with exaggerated elegance.

  "And there you have it." His smile widened. "I wish you well on your investigation."

  Darius stood up, cutting him off.

  "We aren't done. We came for a way to detect corruption."

  Zaltus raised his brows.

  "And now you have it. Find the demon traitors, and everything becomes clear."

  Darius's eyes narrowed. "How?"

  The Demon Lord turned his head—slow, deliberate—and fixed his gaze on Selene.

  "Tell them, Princess," he said softly. "How does the Hallows deal with demons who step too far out of line?"

  Selene's lips curved into a sharp smirk.

  "Execution," she said. "Via forced demon heart extraction."

  A hush fell.

  Zaltus hummed, pleased.

  "A gruesome, excruciating death," he mused.

  "Serves them right."