Chapter 3 #2
She arched a brow. “Something to do with it being the longest night of the year?”
He sipped his lemon-flavoured hot water before answering, “Our ancestors believed it to be the most auspicious time for conception of progeny. With the night at its longest, and much of our power governed by darkness, there is a long-standing belief that any child conceived on Yulefrost night has the highest chance of inheriting great strength.”
Cassia paused, her fork hovering over her cake. “That sounds . . . deeply traditional. And ambitious.”
“Tradition and ambition are the pillars of demon society,” he said.
“And my mother, being a devout believer in such customs, has made it her personal mission to see me wed. For the last five years, she has hosted a Yulefrost ball—an event that, to my great misfortune, exists solely to parade eligible daughters before me in the hopes I will finally select a Chosen.” He exhaled slowly and put his cup down.
“It has been the bane of my existence ever since.”
Five years of eligible daughters. No wonder he sounded weary. Her brow furrowed. The timing didn’t quite fit, though.
“I read about Varil Delphyne’s Yulefrost ball in the papers every year,” she said, “but isn’t it two weeks before the holiday? How does that factor into the tradition?”
“Well.” Arkenoth’s lips quirked. “Those two weeks would give my mother time to plan the wedding of the decade and see it done. Then on the night of Yulefrost itself . . .” He tilted his head and smiled. “I’m sure you get the idea.”
Heat crept up her neck before she could stop it.
Of all the things she’d braced herself for tonight—rejection, confrontation, even arrest—a demon casually outlining the conception schedule his mother had laid out for him certainly wasn’t on the list. She covered it by taking a deliberate bite of cake, chewing slowly, as if the angel sponge required her full attention.
“And you’re telling me all this because . . . ?” she said, once she trusted her voice.
He leaned forward, the light catching the dull gold in his eyes.
“Because I require a shield for my mother’s Yulefrost ball, and you require a saviour for your orphanage.
I propose a trade: be my charmingly inconvenient Chosen for one evening, and I will help you thwart Alderrath’s plan to seize your orphanage. ”
Cassia nearly choked. Her teacup clattered when she placed it back on the saucer, her hands not entirely steady. She pressed them flat against her lap beneath the table.
“A fake engagement? You want me to pretend to be your Chosen?”
“Consider it a piece of political theatre,” he said.
She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. “Let me see if I understand the script,” she said slowly. “I’m to be the dazzling, mysterious outsider who somehow stole the heart of the notoriously unattainable Varil heir. Is that the part?”
“You’ve grasped the premise succinctly.”
“It’s a dreadful premise! Thin, full of plot holes. They’ll see right through it.”
He smiled over his cup. “Is it, though?”
Cassia nearly gaped at him. “You seem to be overlooking a rather significant casting flaw in your little production.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I’m not Echelon-bred.”
“An Untethered,” he agreed. “Yes. I’m aware.”
“I’m also half human. And my magic doesn’t exactly shimmer with ancestral prestige.”
“It intrigued me nonetheless,” he countered, his gaze dropping to her hands as if he could still see remnants of her power there. “Their magic may shine with centuries of prestigious bloodline. But yours . . .” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Resonates. I find it far more compelling.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment.
“Shall I continue? You’re stubborn, you have a frankly terrifying gleam in your eyes when challenged, and you clearly have no regard for the rules of my world.
You are, in short, the most unconvincing demon bride imaginable.
No one could invent a Chosen as unsuitable as you. Therefore, you must be real.”
Her mouth hung open. A fake Chosen. From his mouth, the common word somehow sounded weightier, more binding. She wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
The idea was so absurd it circled back to being plausible. But, wait . . . This demon, with his watchful eyes and shadow power, wasn’t offering charity. He was offering a transaction, and she knew: In the world of the Echelons, transactions always favoured the one writing the contracts.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” she said, her fingers clutching her cup, “with something incredibly dear to me. How precisely will you save Starlight?”
“I know a thing or two about property law and contract disputes.”
Her gaze trailed over his tailored coat, his hands, the ease of a man who’d never had to fight for anything in his life.
He was known to be idle, if not useless—a wealthy demon with no visible occupation, no purpose beyond avoiding his responsibilities.
And yet, he spoke like someone who’d actually done the work.
“Really,” she said, her tone flat.
He met her gaze. “I can’t say without reviewing the details. Alderrath may have a firm grip on this city’s properties, but every contract has a chain, and every chain has a weak link.”
Cassia narrowed her eyes. “Still, that’s not much of a promise.”
“I won’t insult you with promises I haven’t yet worked out how to keep, but I don’t make bargains I can’t honour. That is the only guarantee you will get.”
It was the worst kind of answer—an offer with no substance, designed to make her fill in the blanks with her own hope.
Yet . . . what was her alternative? Return to Starlight and watch the days count down to eviction? Revisit Alderrath and be humiliated again? She had spent weeks exhausting every avenue, hearing ‘no’ from every person who had the power to help but lacked the inclination to care.
Varil Arkenoth didn’t care either. Not about the children. He cared only about how this arrangement would serve his needs. But at least he was offering something. An opportunity. A chance. In desperate times, a bad bargain was better than no bargain at all.
She glanced up at him. “I assume Agmon Alderrath won’t be pleased about this arrangement.”
Arkenoth smirked. “An added advantage.”
“Aren’t you two . . . friends?”
He rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”
“But you were at The Ivory Club together.”
“Alderrath is ambitious. He tries to use people to his advantage, but we are not friends. In fact, I imagine our engagement will be particularly irksome to him.”
His tone—casual, almost flippant—made her pause. “And that’s part of your reason, isn’t it?”