The Ninth Circle was cold. Not winter-cold, but betrayal-cold . The kind of cold that seeps in when a friend forgets your name.
That night, I looked in a mirror. My ears were still pointy. My skin still glowed faintly with the light of the elder wood. But my eyes had a new shade—the gray of a spreadsheet cell.
I looked into the black liquid. It swirled with geometric patterns that hurt my fae-touched retinas. “This is distilled from the tears of the damned.”
I found the logs guarded by a lesser demon named Vrax. Vrax was crying. You Can-t Corrupt Me- -Tale of the Naive Elven ...
Malachar laughed—a sound like a collapsing galaxy. “Finally. A honest employee. You’re promoted.” I did not quit.
“They had a hostile work environment,” I said. “I was protecting the interns.”
So when the Mortal Reckoning began—a polite elven term for “we ran out of magic and had to get jobs”—I did not flee to the Shire or retreat to the Druid groves. I applied for an internship. The Ninth Circle was cold
I should have run. Instead, I asked for a desk near a window. My mentor was a tiefling named Malaxus. He had horns that curled like a ram’s and the dead-eyed stare of someone who had sold his first soul for student loan forgiveness. He handed me a chipped mug.
I poured her a cup.
My elven heart cracked. I did not use force. I did not use my enchanted binding words. Instead, I gave him a hug. That night, I looked in a mirror
“It’s dark roast,” Malaxus replied. “Drink.”
“The elf,” he rumbled. “The pure one. Tell me, child, how does it feel to be our most effective employee?”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, kneeling. (Mistake one.)
That was me. Laeral Thornwood. 347 years old. Pristine of robe, pure of heart, and, according to my mothers’ exasperated letters, hopelessly naive .
He handed me the logs. Then he whispered, “Page forty-two has a loophole that lets you keep 5% of the profits for yourself. I didn’t tell you that.”