I've collected forty-three souls for the Keeper, and this one is supposed to be easy.

The Crown Prince of the Demon Realm. Soul sold before birth. Father dead. Debt come due. Walk in, extract, walk out. I've done it forty-three times and I'll do it forty-three more.

The Keeper's marks burn cold on my forearms as I cross the veil. The air changes, thicker, tasting of ash and something that burned centuries ago. A path of black stone stretches ahead, thorns growing silver and sharp from the cracks.

I brush my fingers over the soul-blade at my hip. It won't kill a demon prince, but it makes extraction easier when they resist.

They always resist.

The palace rises in the distance, obsidian towers against a bruised sky. I don't slow down. Beauty is a blade here, and I learned to stop trusting blades years ago.

A thorn catches my boot. I stumble, one knee dropping toward the stone.

A hand catches my elbow.

Warm. Steady. The grip holds me upright with an ease that says he could have crushed the bone just as simply.

"Careful, Collector. The thorns here draw blood on purpose."

I wrench free and spin.

He's already three paces back, palms raised, that infuriating smile in place. Tall. Sharp features angled slightly wrong, the proportions subtly inhuman. Black horns curve from his temples like polished weapons. His eyes hold the dull glow of banked coals, never quite catching, never quite dying.

"Malakai Ravenholt." I keep my voice flat. "Your father's debt has come due."

"The Keeper sent his best." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle missing a piece. "You're smaller than the reports suggested."

"And you're stalling."

"Guilty." He falls into step beside me, uninvited, as I continue toward the palace. His stride is unhurried, the walk of something that has never been prey. "My father sold my soul before I was born. For a throne he couldn't win on merit. And now you've come to rip it out and deliver it to an entity that uses souls as currency."

"The Keeper doesn't distinguish between those who bargain and those who inherit the cost."

"So businesslike." He angles closer. I can feel the heat off his skin, carrying a scent of something recently burned. "No introductions? No pleasantries?"

"I'm not here for pleasantries."

"No. You're here to kill me." His smile doesn't waver. "Did they tell you I'd resist?"

"They usually do."

"And do you always succeed?"

I look at him. "Every time."

"Forty-three out of forty-three." He lets out a low sound, almost admiration. "Impressive. Which makes what I'm about to say either very brave or very stupid." He stops walking. "I have a counter-offer."

"I don't negotiate."

"You should." Flame dances across his fingers, blue-white and hungry. "Not a threat. A fact. I could fight you. I suspect I'd lose. You didn't collect forty-three souls by being weak. But I could make it expensive."

The Keeper's mark pulses against my skin. Warning or encouragement, I can never tell.

"There's nothing better than what's owed."

"One soul versus an entire realm's worth of debts." He lets the fire die. "One prince versus a kingdom of demons who have all made bargains they can't keep. Hundreds of uncollected threads. Your Keeper would feast for decades."

I go still.

"What are you proposing?"

"Marriage." The word lands between us like a dropped blade. "Become my queen. Help me win the war that's tearing my kingdom apart. In exchange, I give the Keeper access to every uncollected debt in the demon realm."

The audacity steals my voice for a full breath.

"You want me to marry you."

"I want to survive." The mask slips. Underneath the charm, something raw. Desperate. "My uncle is gathering forces to take my crown. I need power I don't have, and you..." He measures me. "You command the dead. You serve an entity that terrifies demons. You're exactly what I need."

"I'm not a weapon."

"No?" One eyebrow rises. "What are you, then?"

The question lands harder than it should. I don't have an answer. I haven't had one in seven years.

"The Keeper won't accept your trade."

"Let me worry about the Keeper." He extends his hand, palm up. An offering. "Say yes. Become my queen. And I'll give you something no one else can."

I should refuse. I should collect what I came for and leave this realm of thorns and fire. The Keeper doesn't tolerate deviation.

But Malakai is looking at me the way no one has in seven years: like I exist beyond my function.

"What could you possibly give me?"

His smile turns almost sad. "A reason to stop counting."

The Keeper's mark burns. My hand tightens on the soul-blade.

I sheathe it.

His composure fractures. Genuine surprise, the first honest thing I've seen on his face.

"I'll hear your terms." I walk past him, toward the palace of thorns. "But if you're lying to me, Prince, I'll take your soul and your uncle's. And I won't make it quick."

His laugh follows me down the path. When he catches up, I can feel the heat off his shoulder beside mine, carrying that burned-honey scent.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Collector."

The palace doors open. Inside, hundreds of debt-threads hum against my awareness, promises made and broken, bargains waiting.

He's not lying about the debts. The Keeper would want this.

"Your terms," I say as we cross the threshold. "All of them. Now."

Malakai smiles like he's already won.

The doors close behind us.