"Tell me something about you. Something I don't know yet."
His fingers continued their gentle exploration of my calf as he thought. "I was afraid of heights when I was young," he finally said. "Ironic for a demon who would eventually develop wings."
The image of baby Magnur, afraid to look down, made me smile. "How did you get over it?"
"My father threw me off a cliff," he said matter-of-factly. At my horrified expression, he added, "Standard demon parenting. Sink or fly."
"And you flew," I guessed.
"Eventually," he admitted with a rueful smile. "After bouncing off a few outcroppings on the way down."
I winced, but couldn't help laughing at the image. "Remind me never to ask demon parents for childcare advice."
His smile softened as he reached for a piece of bread. "Your turn. Tell me something I don't know about you."
We traded stories as we ate, his childhood in a realm where fire was comfort rather than danger, my first art show in college where I'd accidentally sold a piece I hadn't meant to display, hisfirst commission for a vampire countess who'd wanted a gown that could accommodate bat transformation. Small pieces of ourselves offered up between bites of food.
As we sat tangled together, my fingers kept finding their way back to the edges of scars visible at his collar and wrists. I couldn't help myself. They pulled at my attention like a puzzle I desperately wanted to solve.
"You keep touching them," Magnur said softly, his eyes following my fingers.
I pulled my hand back quickly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You don't," he said, catching my retreating hand and returning it to his wrist. "It's just...most people avoid them."
"I'm just curious," I admitted.
A shadow passed across his face, so brief I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching him closely.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Earlier, when I touched your scars...you said you'd tell me about them someday." I bit my lip, suddenly nervous. "Is...tonight okay? You don't have to," I added quickly. "If it's too painful or too soon or—"
"Jade," he interrupted gently. "It's okay."
I fell silent, watching as he considered my request. His expression grew distant for a moment, as if he were looking back through memories. Just when I thought he might refuse, he shifted our position, drawing me fully into his lap so I was cradled against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin. One arm curled protectively around me while his other hand began tracing slow, soothing patterns down my spine, as if he were the one comforting me rather than preparing to reveal his own trauma.
"I was young once," he began. "Young by demon standards, at least. Reckless. Hungry for power in ways that now seem...childish."
I stayed quiet, understanding instinctively that he needed to tell this at his own pace. My hand rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
"There was a coven of warlocks, powerful humans who had learned enough about demon physiology and magic to be dangerous. They approached me with an offer. Power, influence, partnership. They claimed to have developed rituals that would allow them to share magic with demons and in return receive some immortality that demons possess."
I felt his chest expand with a deep breath before he continued. "I was foolish enough to believe them. The ritual they performed wasn't about sharing anything," he said. "It was a trap, designed specifically to bind a demon of my particular bloodline. They had been hunting for one like me for decades."
My fingers curled involuntarily against his chest, as if I could somehow protect him from a past that had already happened. "What did they do?" I whispered.
"They carved sigils into my skin," he replied, his hand leaving my back to trace a pattern on his own chest. "Binding circles, contract marks, control sigils, layers upon layers of magical restraints, each tied to a different warlock in the coven."
I tried to imagine it, the pain and betrayal, along with the dawning horror of realizing you'd walked willingly into your own cage, and found I couldn't. The magnitude of it was too vast.
"Once the binding was complete," he continued, his voice unnervingly steady, "I belonged to them. Could only move when permitted, speak when allowed, exist where they willed me to be. They could summon and dismiss me at will, forcing me to appear wherever they called, no matter what I was doing or where I was."
"How long?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Four hundred and seventy-two years," he replied without hesitation. "Long enough to watch each original warlock grow old and die, passing their portion of the binding to their children, then their grandchildren. Generations of the same families, inheriting me like property."
I felt sick.
"They used me as a weapon, primarily," he continued, his hand resuming its gentle stroking along my spine. "A guard dog, a threat, muscle to intimidate their enemies. Sometimes they experimented, testing the limits of what they could force me to do through the bindings."
