That. Damned. Brat.

He has been asleep for a year. A fucking year.

I waited. I endured. I played my part, twirling through the halls of Danatallion's cage like a patient performer waiting for his cue. And just when I should finally claim my prize—just when the ink should be dry, the contract sealed, and his soul tethered ever so neatly to my will—what happens?

The moment I even attempt to collect, he gets whisked away.

To her market.

Of course. Of course, she has to get involved. That self-important, preening, smug bitch. The first Dominus of Luxury, Vanity, and Vice—oh, how she loves to remind me. As if I could ever forget. As if I haven't spent centuries perfecting what she merely invented.

If she truly embodied vanity, then why didn't she claim it as her name? Oh, that's right—because she's a coward. A Dominus-damned fraud who bathes in indulgence but lacks the spine to carve her title into existence like I did.

I feel my grip tighten. The fruit in my hand, once a plump and glistening delicacy, crumples under my fingers, its juices running down my palm in thick rivulets, dripping onto the silk of my robe. A waste.

I flick my hand in disgust, sending the ruined pulp splattering against the marble floor.

"Leave."

My voice is velvet over a razor's edge.

The attendants hesitate. My adoring devotees, those who fan me, feed me, grovel at my feet, eagerly awaiting the next indulgence I might bestow upon them. I see the confusion flash across their painted faces—why would their divine patron, their radiant Vanitas, suddenly demand solitude?

I flex my fingers, and the room begins to shift. Color drains from the walls, from the golden ornaments, from their skin, their garments, their very beings—and it flows into me, a rushing tide of stolen vibrance that leaves them pale, spectral. The hues coil around my frame, slithering into the folds of my extravagant ensemble like silken ribbons of power.

Their hesitation evaporates.

"Now," I say.

They scatter.

The doors slam shut behind them, leaving me in suffocating silence.

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For a brief moment, I revel in it.

Then, I let the rage bloom.

"Yes, he completed my deal," I hiss, storming towards the towering bookshelf that holds my greatest treasures. The pages of fate, the records of indulgence, the lives I have reshaped with my ever-gracious gifts. I reach for the one that matters most—his book, his cursed, glorious mistake.

A biography. The autobiography of a godforsaken fool who was foolish enough to dream beyond the limits imposed on him. And the brat—my brat—read it.

Which means I can finally—

I flip open the cover.

Blank.

The pages are shrouded in mist, obscured by intricate, writhing runes that twist and shift before my eyes, mocking me. They glisten with ancient power, sealing the knowledge within.

"Hells. Take. You. Danatallion!"

The book snaps shut in my grasp, but the fury remains.

He cheated me. Again.

I should have seen this coming. Danatallion, that wretched, reclusive warden of his prison of books, always leaves his mark on those who walk his halls for too long. His cursed touch lingers, seeping into the ink, into the stories, into the minds of those foolish enough to lose themselves in his domain.

And Alexander? Oh, my dear, infuriating Alexander—he is nothing if not a fool. A brilliant, infuriating fool.

I pace the chamber, my movements sharp, theatrical, yet utterly unamused. The train of my coat flares behind me as I spin, my fingers trailing across the spines of countless volumes, seeking another way, another thread to pull, another loophole to exploit.

There is always a loophole.

There must be.

But the biography is locked, wrapped in enchantments of a craft far older than even my own. And if I know Danatallion, the only key to unlocking its secrets is the boy himself.

Which means I need him back.

Which means I need to drag him out of her damned market.

My lip curls at the thought. The Market of Indulgence. A realm where gold sings, where debts are written in pleasures rather than coin, where every desire is just a whispered deal away. I know it well—I have played in its halls, danced its games, won and lost fortunes upon its tables.

But she rules there. And she will not be eager to relinquish her new guest.

I snatch a goblet from the table beside me, drinking deeply. It tastes of honey and wine, of something richer, darker, threaded with the lingering essence of stolen dreams. It should soothe me. It doesn't.

That woman has spent centuries pretending she is above me. That she is the true master of our domain. That I am a mere upstart in the realm of Vanity.

She would keep Alexander just to spite me.

Well, if she wants to play this game, then so be it.

A slow grin spreads across my lips.

If she thinks she can hoard him, that she can entangle him in her web of pleasures and debts without consequence, she is sorely mistaken.

Because Alexander is mine.

And I am coming for him.

I extend a hand, and the air shimmers. The silks of my coat shift, colors deepening, golden embroidery writhing into intricate, living patterns—my war garb, as flamboyant as it is terrible. The glamour of indulgence wraps around me like a second skin, my every movement a siren call to those who would dare gaze upon me.

I step forward, and the room fractures.

A ripple in reality. A doorway opening.

To her domain.

To the Market of Indulgence.

To where my prize waits.

And I will be damned if I leave without him.

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