Deals With Demons

Torchlight seeps through iron bars in a cramped stone cell. Damp straw, a pail, and a hanging noose beyond the corridor tell the room exactly what it is for.

Buer crouches on the bench, tail curled around the edge, while across from them the exiled lord sits in his chains, jaw set and eyes burning at the floor.

He lifts his chained hands just enough for the metal to clink. Outside, boots pass once, then fade. The hour feels close.

A key ring rattles somewhere down the hall. The cell door shudders in its frame, and the corridor falls quiet again.

Buer flashes that impish smile and lets the dagger spin once over their clawed finger. Their hands rise, fingers weaving a brief arcane sign in the stale torchlight.

A soft pulse of magic slips through the cell. The exiled lord’s shackles click open, metal loosening all at once.

The chains spill against the straw with a dull rattle. Torchlight trembles across the bars as if the corridor itself notices.

He lifts his newly freed hands, one foot already shifting under him, while the hall beyond the door stays silent, waiting.

Buer’s hands sketch the bargain in the air, and the last of the iron on the exiled lord’s wrists loosens with a dull clink. The lord rolls his freed wrists, then lowers his voice instead of raising it.

He takes one careful step nearer the bars, not to flee yet, but to be heard. The chains lie slack in the straw behind him like shed skin.

The torch outside wavers. In the dim, the lord’s expression softens from caution into a thin, exhausted trust.

Buer rises from the bench and closes the distance in one smooth motion, dagger turning toward the lock instead of the lord. Their smile lands as a quick, hard pat between the lord’s shoulders, more mockery than comfort.

The blade slips into the keyhole. Buer works it once, then twice, but the warded mechanism catches with a stubborn metallic bite and twists the point off-line.

A faint scrape rings through the cell. The knife does not break free cleanly, and the lock answers with a dull click that is not freedom.

Buer draws back a fraction, the failed pick leaving the door unchanged but the blade’s angle ruined. The bars stay shut, and the lord watches the damaged trick with careful, growing concern.

Buer plants the focus against the ward and murmurs through gritted teeth, then the sigil gutters out like a snuffed candle. The ward falls silent, and the lock gives a clean, obedient click.

The iron door swings inward on a tired hinge. Cold corridor air slips into the cell, and the bars no longer hold either prisoner or promise.

The Exiled Lord eases a step toward the opening, shoulders still tight, eyes fixed on the hall beyond the threshold.

The corridor waits outside, dark and listening, while the open cell gives Buer and the lord only a narrow window to choose their next move.

Buer slips in behind the Exiled Lord, light on their feet, and the doorframe swallows their small shadow whole.

The lord pauses just outside the cell, listening. Buer settles exactly where the corridor darkens, silent enough to be mistaken for a fold in the stone.

He moves first, one careful step after another, and Buer matches his pace without a scrape of heel or chain.

Ahead, the corridor bends toward a faint orange spill of guardlight, while the prison behind them fades into wet dark.

Buer reaches the bend with him, unseen, and the hall opens toward two possible turns.

Buer angles a bright grin toward the guardlight and points down the corridor. The Exiled Lord follows the gesture, and his shoulders loosen despite himself.

He gives a thin, shaky laugh, then looks back to Buer with the first hint of trust in his eyes. The torch glow on the stone seems farther away now, less like a warning and more like a choice.

Buer’s shrug turns into a showy little pass of the knife, and the corridor darkens as a hush spell spills outward. The guards ahead keep moving, but their boots, keys, and muttered checks vanish into dead silence.

The blade goes light in Buer’s hand. One moment they stand beside the lord, the next they are gone from sight, swallowed by invisibility.

Buer crosses the black gap between torchlit stones and a guard’s throat opens under a sudden strike. No cry escapes, no shout follows, only the guard’s slackened body dropping into the silence.

The exiled lord stares at the empty air where Buer vanished, then at the fallen guard, his trust curdling into alarm at the speed of it.

Buer slips back into view beside the stone wall, a wet sheen on the blade as they casually clean it with two fingers. The exiled lord flinches anyway, then forces himself to keep looking.

Buer’s eyes linger on him, reading the fear under his composure. It is there in the tight jaw, the guarded shoulders, the way he keeps one foot angled toward the dark.

The lord swallows hard and lifts his chin toward the corridor ahead, trying to recover some dignity. The hush spell still presses on everything, making his voice seem too loud in the dead air.

Buer tips their head, then takes a tiny, theatrical nibble at the point of a claw as if tasting the bargain itself. Their tone lands light, almost playful.

They pat the lord once on the head, a mockingly gentle blessing that still makes the corridor feel colder.

Alaric says it softly, with a bruised dignity, and the barest flicker of relief when Buer does not press closer. But his gaze keeps dropping to the blade, where the cost of honesty feels written in the sheen.

Buer smiles and keeps walking, boots and claws alike skimming over the fallen guard without a glance. The hush spell swallows the corridor, making Alaric’s breath sound loud by comparison.

Alaric falls in beside Buer, still wary, but walking. His gaze flicks to the body on the floor, then away, as if refusing to give the sight power.

Buer stops just long enough to make the corridor listen. Their eyes roll, then settle on Alaric with a thin, delighted grin.

The hush spell drinks the last of his words, and the effort of speaking plainly leaves Buer with a faint sting at the back of the throat. Alaric watches them now without flinching away, measuring the shape of the bargain as if it might yet become real.