Page 5 of The Devil's Canvas

Cassius doesn’t react.

"And more than that," I continue, "she will lose the ability to feel the emotions of others. No connection, no understanding of what lies beneath the surface. She will be an island, alone in a world of people she can no longer reach."

Still, nothing.

"And in exchange," Cassius says, "Melanie will have what she deserves."

"Melanie will have what was not meant for her," I correct. "And it will change her."

"She was meant for this," he says, with the certainty of a man who has already convinced himself of his own righteousness.

I nod, letting a flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, calculation—pass through me. "We have an agreement."

But before I seal it, I add one final thought.

"One last thing, Cassius."

He straightens, waiting.

"Melanie’s success—" I pause, "it will not come easily. You will push her, shape her, mold her into something greater. And she will resent you for it. She may never know why, but she will feel it. The pressure. The unseen hand guiding her every move."

"She will understand in time," Cassius says dismissively.

I smile slightly. "Perhaps."

He doesn’t ask what happens if she fails.

Because he doesn’t believe she will.

And that is his first mistake.

Cassius believes he understands the terms. He thinks he has outmaneuvered fate, that he is correcting an error rather than condemning a daughter. He does not hesitate. He does not question.

He should.

Because there is one last price—the part he has not considered, the part he will not realize until it is far too late.

His bond to Melanie is not just one of success and failure.

It is one of soul and consequence.

Because the brightest star before the trade—the one who carried the gifts, the one who was meant to succeed—is always the cost.

The parchment appears the moment I will it into existence, the paper thick and edged in black ink that does not bleed, does not fade, does not forgive. Cassius doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the quill—one crafted from a feather long since turned to shadow, its tip razor-sharp.

I do not offer ink. Deals like these are sealed in something far more permanent.

He presses the tip to his finger, just enough to break the skin. A bead of crimson wells before he signs—smooth, practiced strokes, like it’s nothing more than another business contract.

The moment his name settles onto the parchment, the ink shifts, darkens, burns. The letters twist into something older, something binding and final. The air tightens around us, the room pressing in as the bargain takes hold.

I lift the parchment, inspecting it. The seal has formed. The terms are set. The contract is complete.

At the height of Melanie’s success, when her gift has flourished, when the exchange is absolute, the price will come due. And the soul that must be collected—the daughter with the most success—will be Ophelia Arden.

I look at Cassius, and he looks at me, and in this moment—he does not know what he has truly done.

But he will.

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