Victor’s attention locked on the idol. “That would get us an immediate audience.”
“It would get you the Duke’s undivided attention.” Andromalius picked up the idol, turned it in his fingers. The gold caught the dim light. “He’d clear the court to see this. Postponeevery other petition. You’d have his ear for as long as you needed it.”
“What do you want?” Ava asked.
Andromalius set down the idol. Picked up his glass. Set it down again with deliberate precision.
“A century of service,” he said. “From Victor. After your natural death.”
The words landed like stones.
“One hundred years,” Andromalius continued. “He serves me personally. Does what I ask, when I ask it. No questions. No negotiations.” His gold eyes met Victor’s. “That’s my price.”
“No.” The word cut sharp. “That’s not—you can’t ask?—”
“I can ask whatever I want. This is Hell.” Andromalius shrugged. “A century of a Morningstar’s service is valuable. This idol is valuable. The math works out.”
“The math…” She turned to Victor. “Tell him no. There has to be another way.”
Victor wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the idol. At the golden figure that represented their only chance to reach Marchosias before midnight.
“Victor.”
“It’s just time. A century. After you’re gone.”
“After I’m…” The words caught in her throat. “You’d be a slave for a hundred years. Because of me. Because I…”
“Because you saved your family.” He finally looked at her. “You made your choice. Now I’m making mine.”
“This isn’t your choice to make. This is my soul, my…”
“And that’s my existence.” He took her hand. The chains flared at the contact, gold wrestling with silver. “A century is nothing compared to never having tried. Nothing compared to watching you belong to Marchosias forever because I wasn’t willing to pay the price.”
Andromalius watched them with an expression Ava couldn’t read.
“I need a moment,” she said. “To think.”
“You have maybe three hours until the formal acceptance.” Andromalius checked his watch, an actual pocket watch, gold like everything else. “Think fast.”
Victor held her hand. His certainty pressed into her like a hand against her spine. His willingness to pay whatever price was asked. His absolute refusal to let her face Marchosias without every possible advantage.
And underneath it—fear. Not of the century to come. Fear of losing her. Fear of watching her become property of a Duke of Hell while he stood helpless.
She thought about what he was offering. A hundred years of servitude. A hundred years of doing whatever Andromalius asked, whenever he asked it. A hundred years of being owned, the very thing he’d fled Hell to escape six millennia ago.
For her. Because she’d bound herself to save her family, and he refused to let that sacrifice be the end of her story.
The chains burned beneath her skin. Marchosias’s claim, pulling her toward a future where she belonged to a Duke forever. But there was another way. There had to be.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Victor turned sharply. “What?”
“The century of service.” She looked at Andromalius. “I’ll do it. Not Victor. Me.”
Andromalius raised an eyebrow. “You’re human. You’d be dead long before the century ended.”
“So extend my life. You’re demons. You have ways.” She pulled her hand free of Victor’s grip. “I’m the one who bound myself to Hell. I’m the one whose soul is on the line. If someone’s paying for my chance to argue, it should be me.”
