The carriage bounced over a final rut before the road smoothed into the cobblestone streets of Thornhill. I leaned toward the window, curious despite myself. After days of endless forests and scattered farmsteads, the bustling market town erupted into vibrant existence around us.

  My enhanced hearing immediately picked up everything. The cacophony hit first—merchants hawking wares, children shrieking as they darted between stalls, horses nickering at the communal trough. Beneath it all ran the constant murmur of human conversation, like water flowing over stones.

  Smells assaulted me next. Fresh bread from a bakery we passed. Sweat from the bodies pressed together in the market square. The iron tang of blood from a butcher's stall. Spices from lands distant even to me. Horse manure. Human waste. Perfumes attempting to mask it all.

  Jacobi watched my reaction. "First time in a human settlement this size?"

  I nodded, still taking everything in. "We don't have towns like this in Naerith."

  "It's small compared to the capital, but it serves as a trading hub for the northern coast."

  Leonard guided the carriage down a side street, away from the main market bustle. The buildings here stood taller, constructed of solid stone rather than wood and thatch. Signs swung above doorways depicting tankards, beds, or animals. Inns, all of them, catering to various classes of traveler.

  We stopped before one with a carved wooden sign showing a crown resting atop a ship's wheel. The Crown Mariner. Leonard opened the carriage door and Jacobi stepped down first, then turned to offer me his hand. The gesture still surprised me—so did the impulse to accept it.

  Our fingers connected briefly. His palm was warm, the skin calloused in places that spoke of his dagger training. The unexpected intimacy of skin on skin made me pull away the moment my feet touched ground.

  "Leonard, see to the horses. We'll take a private room for our meal."

  Inside, the inn's common room bustled with activity despite the early hour. Merchants in quality garb occupied most tables, gesturing over ledgers or samples of trade goods. Conversations hushed momentarily as we entered. Eyes flickered to my horns, then quickly away when they noticed Jacobi's imperious stance.

  The innkeeper hurried forward, bowing slightly. "Lord Velez. A pleasure, as always."

  I raised an eyebrow at the title, but held my tongue until the innkeeper led us to a private dining room upstairs. When the door closed behind him, I turned to Jacobi.

  "Lord Velez?" Amusement colored my tone. "I didn't realize I was in the presence of nobility."

  Jacobi's lips quirked. "It's a courtesy title. Given to those with enough money to make others pretend they're impressed."

  I laughed, genuinely surprised by his honesty. "At least you admit it. In Naerith, men kill to protect smaller lies than that."

  He gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. The food here is worth the innkeeper's excessive flattery."

  The private room provided a respite from the constant stares. I felt tension ease from my shoulders as I settled into the chair. The wood was smooth beneath my fingers, polished by years of use but still solid. Comfortable without being luxurious.

  The room itself was plainly appointed but well-maintained. Wood paneling covered the lower half of the walls, while the upper portion was painted a muted green. A single window overlooked the inn's courtyard, its leaded glass casting diamond-shaped patterns of light across the wooden table. A vase of fresh wildflowers sat in the center, adding a touch of color to the otherwise practical space.

  "You're observant." Jacobi watched me assess the room. "Always aware of your surroundings."

  "A necessary survival skill."

  He leaned back in his chair, studying me with that measuring gaze that seemed to catalogue every detail. "Were you born with that awareness, or was it learned?"

  I met his gaze directly. "Both. Enhanced hearing is natural to my kind. Learning what to do with all that information... that came later."

  "In the fighting pits?"

  My fingers stilled on the table. "Yes."

  "You never finished telling me about those." His tone remained casual, but I sensed the genuine curiosity beneath. "It must have been quite different from the fights staged here."

  The innkeeper returned then with a serving girl, both bearing trays laden with food. They arranged platters of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spring vegetables on our table, plus a decanter of dark red wine and two glasses. The rich smells made my stomach tighten with hunger.

  When they'd gone, Jacobi poured wine for us both, then gestured for me to continue. I took a sip first, letting the liquid roll over my tongue. Sweet, with an undercurrent of something sharper. Not unpleasant.

  "The pits in Naerith aren't entertainment. They're trials. Contests for status, vengeance, or justice."

  "To the death?" His question was direct.

  I nodded, spearing a piece of meat with my fork. "Often. That surprises you?"

  "Not particularly." He cut into his own food with precise movements. "Have you killed before?"

  The bluntness of the question might have shocked someone else. I appreciated the lack of pretense.

  "Yes." The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned. I chewed deliberately before continuing. "Some deserved it more than others. All of them made the mistake of standing between me and what I wanted."

  Jacobi's eyes sharpened with interest, though his expression remained unchanged. "You speak of killing very matter-of-factly."

  I took another sip of wine. "In some areas of Naerith, death is a currency. You pay or you collect. Nothing more."

  He nodded slowly. "I understand that perspective better than most might." Something in his voice suggested personal experience, though he offered no details of his own.

  "What about you?" I watched his reaction. "I've seen you fight. You're skilled with those daggers."

  "I've had cause to use them." He sipped his wine. "Though I prefer to avoid situations where lethal force becomes necessary."

  "Yet you've purchased a demon fighter."

  His smile returned, a flash of genuine amusement. "For sport, not execution. The fights are contests of skill, not blood matches." He leaned forward slightly. "Which, I suspect, will make them far less challenging for someone of your abilities."

  "Perhaps." I matched his posture, finding myself relaxing into the conversation despite my usual caution. "Though constraints can create their own challenges. Fighting to subdue without killing requires different skills than fighting to survive."

  "Are these skills you possess?"

  "I wouldn't have survived this long if I couldn't adapt."

  The tension that had characterized our earlier interactions on the road had faded, replaced by something closer to comfortable curiosity. I couldn't remember the last time I'd spoken so openly with anyone, let alone a human who technically owned me. The wine might have played a part, but there was something about Jacobi that invited honesty – a directness that matched my own.

  "Tell me about your estate. What should I expect?"

  "The main house dates back seven generations in my family, though parts have been rebuilt after particularly violent storms. The western wing houses my brother Selwyn and myself, while the eastern wing contains guest rooms and... other accommodations."

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  "For your property," I supplied, arching an eyebrow.

  "For those with specialized needs," he countered smoothly. "Your quarters will be comfortable – I see no point in discomfort for its own sake."

  "How civilized of you."

  He refilled our wine glasses. "The estate includes extensive grounds, including the training arena where you'll work daily. The climate can be harsh in storm season, but the views compensate for the inconvenience."

  "And your brother? What should I expect from him?"

  "Selwyn is... different from me." Jacobi seemed to choose his words carefully. "Less concerned with business matters, more interested in books and art. He'll likely be curious about you, but he poses no threat."

  "Unlike yourself?" I kept my tone light, but the question was serious.

  Jacobi considered this, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "I am exactly as much of a threat as circumstances require. No more, no less."

  "An honest answer, at least."

  We continued eating, the conversation flowing more easily than I'd expected. Jacobi asked about Naerith – the climate, the terrain, the customs. I answered honestly where I could, evasively where necessary. In return, he described the social circles of his world, the intricacies of human politics, the seasonal gatherings where demons were displayed like exotic pets or prized horses.

  By the time our plates were empty, something had shifted between us. Not trust, exactly. More like recognition. Two predators acknowledging each other's capabilities without immediate threat.

  "The journey becomes more interesting by the day. I find myself curious what other surprises you might have in store."

  "Wynford did warn you I was a handful," I reminded him.

  "So he did." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Though I'm beginning to think his definition of 'handful' was woefully inadequate."

  I leaned forward, deliberately dropping my voice to a suggestive purr. "I can be quite a handful in ways Wynford wouldn't know about."

  Jacobi inhaled mid-drink, wine splashing up into his nose. He coughed, eyes watering as he set down his glass.

  I laughed, genuine and unrestrained. "You humans are so easy to fluster. Who would've thought the composed Jacobi Velez could be undone by a simple innuendo?"

  "I wasn't—" He wiped his mouth with a napkin, fighting a smile. "You caught me off guard. It won't happen again."

  "Challenge accepted," I replied, still grinning.

  The door opened without a knock. Leonard entered, his usually composed features showing uncharacteristic urgency.

  "My apologies for the interruption, sir, but I thought you should know. Lord Levanth has just arrived."

  Jacobi's expression transformed instantly. His shoulders stiffened, the relaxed demeanor vanishing beneath something colder and more controlled. "Marcelo is here? In Thornhill?"

  "Yes, sir. With an entourage. They've taken the main dining hall."

  I watched the change come over Jacobi with fascination. The man who had nearly snorted wine moments ago disappeared, replaced by someone I barely recognized.

  "How long has it been since you saw him last?"

  "Two years." Jacobi's mind clearly elsewhere. "But news travels. He'll know about you."

  I bristled. "What concern is it of his?"

  Before Jacobi could answer, voices grew louder in the hallway outside. The door swung open again, this time revealing a tall man with sharp features and dark hair swept back from a high forehead. His clothing spoke of wealth—finer even than Jacobi's—and his smile didn't reach his eyes.

  "Jacobi Velez. What a delightful coincidence."

  "Marcelo." Jacobi stood, his posture perfectly controlled. "I wasn't aware you traveled this route."

  Marcelo Levanth stepped into our private room without invitation, gaze immediately finding me. His eyes were the pale blue of winter ice, and just as warm.

  "Business in the north. Though I must say, if I'd known what treasures awaited in Thornhill, I'd have come sooner."

  Behind him, a thin demon male hovered in the doorway. His posture was hunched, eyes downcast, hands clasped before him in a pose of perfect submission. A purple-black bruise discolored one side of his face. Another peeked from beneath his high collar.

  "Aren't you going to introduce me to your new acquisition?"

  I remained seated, refusing to rise at his approach. The disrespect was deliberate, and I noted the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features.

  "This is Joy," Jacobi said, his voice carefully neutral. "Recently arrived from Naerith."

  "Stand for your betters, Joy." The instruction came as if it were his right to command me.

  I glanced at Jacobi, whose expression gave nothing away. Then I smiled up at Marcelo without moving. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. In Naerith, it's considered impolite to issue commands to someone else's demon."

  Marcelo's eyebrows rose. He turned to Jacobi with a smirk. "Spirited, isn't she? How refreshing to see one with a bit of fire left." He glanced back at his own demon. "Elias. Wait outside."

  The bruised demon bowed low and backed out of the room. His movements were fluid but stiff, like someone moving through pain they'd learned to ignore. I couldn't help noticing the careful way he held his left arm across his body, as if protecting broken ribs. His eyes never once lifted from the floor, and his throat worked constantly, swallowing nervously.

  "May I join you?" Marcelo asked, though he was already pulling a chair from against the wall.

  "We were just finishing."

  "Nonsense. It's been too long." Marcelo settled into the chair, uninvited. "We have so much to catch up on."

  The air in the room felt suddenly thicker, harder to breathe. I watched the two men, sensing currents of old rivalry beneath the veneer of civility.

  "I heard you'd purchased a fighter. Though the rumors failed to mention how exquisite she is. Quite the specimen."

  I kept my expression neutral despite the urge to bare my teeth at being discussed once again like livestock.

  "Joy will represent my interests in the coming season."

  "Bold choice." Marcelo sipped the wine, grimaced slightly, and set it aside. "Though I notice certain... inefficiencies in your handling methods."

  "Oh?"

  Marcelo gestured toward me. "She sits at your table. Drinks your wine. Speaks without permission." His smile turned cold. "One might almost think she believes herself your equal."

  "Different methods yield different results. I find that—"

  "They require discipline, Jacobi." His eyes flashed with darkness in the torchlight. "Structure. Consequences. Demons understand power, nothing more. Show weakness, and they'll exploit it. Every time."

  "As fascinating as your insights are, I can assure you that demons, like humans, understand far more than simple power dynamics."

  Marcelo laughed, a sound without humor. "It speaks again, unprompted." He turned to Jacobi. "You indulge her too much. It will end badly."

  "Your concern is noted."

  "Not concern. Friendly advice." Marcelo's gaze returned to me, assessing and proprietary in a way that made my skin crawl. "I've learned through extensive experience what works and what doesn't. My methods produce perfect obedience."

  His hand moved to rest on the table between us, close enough that I could see the scars across his knuckles. Fighting scars, but not from formal training. The pattern spoke of someone who enjoyed causing pain with his bare hands.

  "Like your demon outside? The one who can barely stand straight from his beatings?"

  Silence fell. Marcelo's expression hardened, then relaxed into something more dangerous.

  "You know, Jacobi, I might be interested in adding her to my collection when you tire of her rebellious streak. Name your price."

  "Joy isn't for sale."

  "Everything has a price." Marcelo stood, smoothing his jacket. "Consider my offer standing. When she proves too much trouble—and she will—I'll take her off your hands."

  He moved to the door, then paused, looking back at Jacobi. "Old friend, a word of caution. The social season begins soon. How you present yourself—and your property—reflects on your standing. People talk. They remember weakness."

  With that, he left, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Silence stretched between us. I watched Jacobi, trying to read his thoughts in the sudden rigidity of his posture, the tightness around his eyes.

  "I see you know the worst of your kind."

  "Marcelo isn't the worst. Just the most refined in his cruelty."

  He stood abruptly, leaving his wine untouched. "We should continue our journey. I want to reach the coastal road by nightfall."

  The ease between us had vanished. In its place lay something colder, more formal. The barriers Marcelo had mentioned now visibly constructing themselves in Jacobi's demeanor.

  I rose as well, sensing the shift without fully understanding its cause. "Have I done something wrong?"

  "No." Jacobi wouldn't meet my eyes. "But Marcelo was right. Appearances matter in the world we're entering."

  "And I'm to be just another piece of property?"

  "You are property." The words fell between us like stones. "Whatever else you might have thought, you would do well to remember that."

  I followed him from the room, the taste of wine souring on my tongue. The warmth of our shared meal, the almost-friendship of our conversation, evaporated into the cool formality of master and slave.

  As we left the inn, I caught sight of Marcelo watching from the common room, satisfaction evident in the curl of his lips. Whatever game was being played between these men, I had somehow become both pawn and prize.

  The carriage waited in the courtyard. Leonard held the door, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes held questions as they flicked between Jacobi and me.

  Jacobi didn't offer his hand this time when I climbed into the carriage. The distance between us had grown immeasurably in the space of a single conversation.

  I settled onto the bench, watching Thornhill recede through the window as we continued our journey north. The warmth of the day couldn't penetrate the sudden chill that had descended over us.

  Marcelo Levanth. I committed the name to memory, adding it to my growing list of potential threats in this new world. Anyone who could transform Jacobi so completely with mere words was dangerous indeed.