The Debt

The demon realm smells like sulfur and regret.

I stand at the border where the mortal world bleeds into something older, something that doesn't follow the rules of physics or fairness. The Keeper's mark burns cold on my forearm, a reminder of who I belong to. What I am.

Seven years of collections. Forty-three souls delivered. This is number forty-four.

The Crown Prince of the Demon Realm owes a debt he cannot pay.

I step through the veil. The air changes immediately, thicker, warmer, tasting of ash and old magic. The path ahead is paved in black stone that seems to drink the light. Thorns grow from the cracks, silver and sharp.

The palace rises in the distance. Obsidian towers pierce a sky the color of a bruise. Beautiful, in the way all dangerous things are beautiful.

I've learned not to trust beauty.

My fingers brush the cold iron at my hip. The soul-blade won't kill a demon prince, but it will make the extraction easier if he resists. They usually resist.

"You're smaller than I expected."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. I don't flinch. The dead have been whispering to me for seven years. A disembodied voice is amateur hour.

"And you're stalling." I scan the shadows between the thorns. "Malakai Ravenholt. Your father's debt has come due."

Movement in my peripheral vision. He steps onto the path ahead of me, materializing from the darkness like he was always there, just waiting.

The reports didn't do him justice.

Tall. Sharp features that would be handsome if they weren't slightly wrong, the angles too precise, the proportions subtly inhuman. Black horns curve back from his temples, polished and deadly. His eyes are the color of banked coals, smoldering with contained heat.

He's smiling. That's unusual.

"My father's debt," he repeats, walking toward me with the unhurried grace of something that has never been prey. "Sold before I was born, for a throne he couldn't win on his own merit. And now you've come to collect."

"The Keeper doesn't distinguish between those who bargain and those who inherit the cost." I keep my voice flat. Professional. Emotion is a luxury I don't afford. "Your soul was promised. Your father is dead. The debt remains."

"So businesslike." He stops three feet away. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "No introductions? No pleasantries?"

"I'm not here for pleasantries."

"No. You're here to rip my soul from my body and deliver it to an entity that will use it as currency in games older than this realm." His smile doesn't waver. "Did they tell you I'd resist?"

"They usually do."

"And do you always succeed?"

I meet his gaze. The heat flares, just slightly. "Forty-three times."

"Impressive." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "What's your name, Collector?"

"Irrelevant."

"Humor me."

I shouldn't. Names have power, especially here. But there's something in his voice, not fear, not anger. Curiosity. It's been a long time since someone looked at me with anything other than terror or hatred.

"Vesper."

"Vesper." He tastes the syllables like wine. "The evening star. The moment between light and dark." His smile shifts into something almost genuine. "It suits you."

"My soul doesn't require poetry." I draw the soul-blade. The iron sings against the scabbard. "Your compliance will make this faster. Less painful."

He doesn't move. Doesn't flinch at the weapon. "I have a counter-offer."

"I don't negotiate."

"You should." He raises his hand slowly, and flame dances across his fingers, blue-white and hungry. "I could fight you. I won't win, I suspect. You didn't collect forty-three souls by being weak. But I could make it cost you."

"Threats don't change the equation."

"They're not threats. They're facts." The flame dies. He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to step back. "I could spend the last moments of my existence making yours difficult. Or I could offer you something better than my soul."

The Keeper's mark pulses against my skin. Warning or encouragement, I can never tell.

"There's nothing better than what's owed."

"Isn't there?" Another step. The intensity of his focus pins me in place. "One soul versus an entire realm's worth of debts. One prince versus a kingdom of demons who have all made bargains they can't keep."

I go still. "What are you proposing?"

"Marriage." The word hangs between us like smoke. "Make me your husband. Become my queen. Help me win the war that's splitting my kingdom apart. And in exchange, I'll give the Keeper access to every uncollected debt in the demon realm."

The audacity of it steals my voice for a moment. "You want me to marry you."

"I want to survive." The mask slips, just for an instant. Underneath the charm, I see something raw. Desperate. "My uncle is gathering forces to take my crown. My father's allies are scattered or dead. I need power I don't have, and you..." His gaze rakes over me, assessing. "You command the dead. You serve an entity that terrifies demons. You are exactly the weapon I need."

"I'm not a weapon."

"No?" One eyebrow rises. "What are you, then?"

The question lands harder than it should. I don't have an answer. I haven't had an answer in seven years.

"The Keeper won't accept your trade."

"Let me worry about the Keeper." He extends his hand, palm up. An offering. "Say yes. Become my queen. And I'll give you something no one else can."

I should refuse. I should collect what I came for and leave this realm of thorns and fire. The Keeper doesn't tolerate deviation. He doesn't accept alternatives.

But the way Malakai is looking at me, like I'm a person, not a function,

"What could you possibly give me?"

His smile returns, but softer now. Almost sad. "The chance to be more than what they made you."

The Keeper's mark burns. My hand tightens on the soul-blade. The sensible choice is clear.

I've never been accused of being sensible.

"I've come for your soul," I say slowly. "And you're offering me a crown instead."

"A crown. A war. A marriage that might kill us both." He laughs, low and rough. "I never claimed it was a good deal. Just a better one than dying."

The dead whisper at the edges of my awareness. They know something I don't. They always do.

I sheathe my blade.

Malakai goes still. The first genuine surprise he's shown.

"I'll hear your terms." I step past him, toward the palace of thorns. "But if you're lying to me, Prince, I'll take your soul and your uncle's. And I won't make it quick."

His laughter follows me down the path. When he falls into step beside me, his shoulder brushes mine. Heat and shadow and the faint scent of smoke.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Collector."

The palace doors open ahead of us. Inside, I can feel hundreds of debt-threads humming, promises made and broken, bargains waiting to be collected.

He's not lying about the realm's debts. The Keeper would want this.

The question is whether I want it too.

"Your terms," I say as we cross the threshold. "All of them. Now."

Malakai smiles like he's already won.

"I knew I liked you." He gestures toward the throne room. "Shall we negotiate?"

The doors close behind us.

No turning back now.