I slept little that night. The damp chill deep underground usually didn't bother me, but now it permeated my sheets, and cold sweat pricked my skin.

I wondered how cold the interrogation chamber got at night.

When my alarm beeped at 5am, I popped out of bed and began my morning exercises. Push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, speed drills thumping all sides of my cramped corridors. The burn in my muscles provided a little reprieve...but not enough.

Sweat still pouring, I paced down the hall toward the communal shower. As I worked through tousled curls and scrubbed the sweat from my arms and chest, the Demon's speculative gaze invaded my mind. Did he really think I was handsome? How would he react if he saw what lay beneath my clothing?

I jerked the shower knob to cold.

I toweled off, tugged on jeans and a black t-shirt, and scarfed down a packet of re-hydrated vegetables and rice. A second packet of food tumbled out of the cupboard with the first, and my eyes fixed on it.

The Demon prisoner must be hungry.

That wasn't my responsibility and certainly shouldn't come out of my rations. Then again, no one else would be feeding him. Why feed someone who would soon die? An irresponsible waste of precious resources, really.

But maybe I could use this to my advantage somehow. I could earn his trust, or offer him food for information.

I slipped the packet into my pocket and strode toward the interrogation chambers.

Outside the Demon's room, I paused. When he saw me return, he would surely adopt a cocky smile. I could already imagine his response: 'Couldn't get enough of me, Guardian?' Sucking in a breath, I pushed the door open.

The Demon was slumped over the table. His cheek pressed flat against the table, his arms wrapped his chest...and he was shivering.

Over the last fourteen years, most Guardians had started tuning out our hyper-awareness of pain. With the world in ruins, empathy was too great a burden. Usually, I only ignored the pain of Demons. Even if I deserved the burden, monsters didn't deserve empathy.

But this younger Demon Prince felt different. Was it because I had kissed him? Or was it something else?

"You're cold." The words left my lips unsummoned.

He picked his head up just high enough to blink at me. His face was even paler than the night before, eyes bleary and rimmed with red. "You're not Marqan."

"You didn't sleep."

"You came back."

Fuck, why did he sound so hopeful? I might not have tortured him, but I had left him strapped to that chair all night, cold and scared, waiting for Marqan to arrive...

Steeling myself, I grabbed a chair near the door, carried it to the table where he still sat, and plopped down across from him. "This is how this is going to work. No more bargaining. You'll play nice now, or I'll hand you off to Marqan."

He frowned. "Play nice, fine. But I really don't know anything."

"What's your name?"

His eyebrows drew together. "No one uses my name. They just call me by my royal title."

"I'm not calling you 'Your Highness.' And if you won't even answer this question–"

"Isalio." The name left his lips with breathless abandon, and he looked surprised to hear his own admission. Then he drew a breath and repeated himself. "My name is Isalio."

I gave a slow nod. "Good. Now tell me about your powers."

He shrugged. "I'm a Demon. We harness electricity and suck life from victims."

"Could you kill me?"

His eyes traced my broad chest and biceps. "At full strength and with no cuffs? Maybe. But one cuff would easily stop me. I'm the weakest Demon in my family."

He could be lying, but his bloodshot amber eyes appeared sincere, and Borgal had said the same. Only the High Prince required two cuffs.

"And your brother is the strongest in your family?"

"He's the most powerful Demon ever."

I propped my elbows on the table and leaned toward him. "How did he summon the Morgabeast?"

"I don't know. I was only twelve when it happened."

Twelve... the same age I had been when the Morgabeast destroyed the Legion of Guardian, forcing the remaining resistance underground. When the High Prince murdered my family.

Could this younger Prince and I really be the same age? His face provided little evidence, with the kind of elegant lines that could be twenty-six like me but could equally be seventeen or thirty-five. Was the age he gave me just another calculated lie to make me empathize with him more?

Even his still-shivering shoulders could be a ploy for pity. The metal walls of the chamber trapped a slight lingering chill, but not enough to justify the shudders racking his chest.

"Why are you shivering?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you think?"

I clucked my tongue. "It's not that cold down here, and I've heard Demons are supposed to run hot."

"Well, Demons aren't supposed to wear four blocker cuffs."

My brow furrowed. "Explain."

"My brother is the only Demon who has manifested significant powers while wearing a single blocker cuff. With four cuffs, the blockers run out of external energy to sap and start attacking the internal. The muscles, the lungs...the heart."

"So you're saying..."

"You're already killing me. Slowly."

I swallowed to wet my dry throat and steadied myself. This was one lie I could quickly debunk. No matter how manipulative a Demon was, they couldn't change their own skin temperature.

I held out my palm. "Give me your hand."

His eyes flicked toward the box of tools, and his hands retreated further into his lap.

My gut pinched. "I'm not going to hurt you, alright? Just give me your hand."

He lifted a hand toward me with jerky, hesitant movements, like a foal's first steps. When his hand touched mine, I sucked in a breath.

"Fuck, you're freezing."

"No, really? I thought I was shaking out of excitement." He winced and bit his tongue, eyes still on his hand. "Sorry, I'm not accustomed to...playing nice."

Against my will, a huff of laughter escaped me. Disparaging, maybe, but with a little real warmth from deep in my belly. His eyes flicked to mine. The barest hint of a smile touched his lips, and his shoulders relaxed a little.

He looked...fuck, he looked cute. I suddenly became overly aware of his hand still in mine.

I yanked my hand back and drew the package of food out of my pocket. "You should eat."

His eyes fixed on the food packet, eyebrows pulling together. "Why?"

"You'll feel better, maybe."

"What does it matter if I feel better?"

I blew out a breath and pushed the packet toward him. "Eat."

His gaze lifted to meet mine, and his teeth played with the corner of his lower lip once more. "I can't."

"Why not?"

He raised his blocker-cuffed wrists.

I gritted my teeth to steady myself. "I'm not taking off any of your blocker cuffs."

"I'm not asking you to."

"But you said I'm..."

Killing you. Why did those words curdle my gut? I had always known the only good Demon was a dead one.

But I had never known a Demon like Isalio.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll last long enough for you to get your answers."

That didn't appease me at all. Guilt prodded at my chest, an insistent worm I couldn't quite squash. I grasped at possible responses. Before I could settle on one, my wrist-watch beeped.

Green letters scrolled across the screen. Urgent: summons to control room. Meeting starts in five minutes.

I rose from the chair and pivoted toward the door.

"Wait." Panic cracked Isalio's voice. "Where are you going?"

He didn't deserve an answer, really. But I couldn't stop thinking of how he looked when he first picked up his head. You came back.

"I'll be back," I promised. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Until they kill me?"

An asinine protest swelled in my throat–but he was right. No matter what he did, we would kill him. So I swallowed the protest and gave him the only answer I could.

"Yeah. Until then."

***

On my walk down the hallway, I imagined how I might appeal to Leader Rakimar and the other Guardian Lords for Isalio's life—or at least his comfort. But when I pushed open the door to the control room, all thoughts of Isalio fled my mind.

Silence blanketed the air like a physical weight. The Guardian Lords and council members all sat around the circular oak table. Some Guardians dropped their faces into their hands while others fixed distant gazes on the First Guardian statue or on the mural of those lost.

Leader Rakimar raised her eyes to meet mine. Stress lines feathered her face with wrinkles like cracks in breaking glass, and her voice croaked. "Remgar...the Morgabeast is attacking another human village."

I gripped the back of the chair reserved for me. "Which village?"

"Anyalasa."

My gut flipped. I had stopped in Anyalasa once on my way to visit my father in Pataklasa. Colorful shanties rolled over Anyalasa's hills, and the village bustled with busy workers and laughter.

"Why are we just sitting here?" I asked the group. "Let's go fight."

"If we fight, we die," said Leader Rakimar, and the rest of the table nodded in agreement.

"Hundreds are already dying," I said. "How can we call ourselves 'Guardians' when we hide underground while the rest of the world is torn apart?"

The Leader's voice sharpened. "Remgar, I am the only Guardian who has seen the Morgabeast and lived to tell the tale. Do you even understand what that creature is like?"

"I've heard it's like a giant centipede crossed with a cobra."

"In looks, perhaps, but it is far faster, deadlier, and less vulnerable than either of those. More like a bolt of lightning." Rakimar pulled back her broad shoulders and raised her chin, drawing attention to the puckered white scar that snaked from her missing ear down over her neck and disappeared into her tattered vest. "I only survived because my wife absorbed most of the impact."

I swallowed. "I didn't mean to question your judgment, Leader."

Her eyes softened. "I know you would give anything to slay that beast—as would I. But if we attack without a solid plan, we throw our lives away. And if we throw our lives away, the rest of the world stands no chance."

I sank down into my chair.

Marqan twisted toward Rakimar. His cheeks burned ruddier than usual, and his dark curls spilled over his shoulders in a matted mane. "Doesn't Anyalasa pay tribute to the Demon Palace?"

Borgal snorted into his fist. "How does that matter?"

Marqan raised defensive palms. "All I'm saying is, this is the first time the Morgabeast has attacked a village that was complying with all of the Demons' demands."

Borgal scoffed. "By 'complying,' you mean that Anyalasa was sending the Demons as many human 'cows' as they needed to fill their 'barn.' Sending them to a fate worse than death, with no chance of escape."

"But you escaped that barn, Borgal." Marqan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Remind us...how did you find freedom, exactly? And why didn't you take any other prisoners with you?"

Borgal's fist struck the table, nostrils flaring.

I responded before he had to. "Borgal has given more to this cause than any of us. How dare you question him, after what he has been through? After we failed to save him?" After I failed to save him.

Marqan conceded with a head tilt. "I know everyone in the 'barn' suffers, Borgal included. But before this, at least Anyalasa could choose which people would suffer. People who committed horrendous crimes, for instance."

Borgal clucked his tongue. "They started by sending criminals on death row, but they ran out of those soon enough. These last few years, they've been sending petty thieves, those with terminal illnesses...and eventually, volunteers."

The thought of someone volunteering for that fate dried my throat. My eyes found the statue of the First Guardian, her eyes pinned to the ground beneath her feet and arms stretched wide as though to embrace the whole world. The First Guardian would sooner die than let a human offer themselves in sacrifice.

"Well, that's still better than an attack from the Morgabeast," said Marqan. "The Morgabeast doesn't even spare newborn babies..." His voice choked, and he blinked back tears. "Didn't even spare my daughter."

The room fell silent. Not even Borgal could fight that statement.

Ten seconds passed before Rakimar spoke. "We can't stop this attack, but we can minimize losses and prevent future attacks. As soon as the Morgabeast retreats to its den, we will send a team to tend to Anyalasa's survivors and help bury the dead. The rest of us will plan a long-term strategy using intel from the survivors and from our Demon prisoner."

"Speaking of," said the Guardian Lord beside Rakimar, "How is it going with the prisoner, Remgar?"

All eyes turned to me, a range of earth tones. Normally, seeing the eyes of other Guardians calmed me. But right now, I thought of a certain amber-eyed Demon who played with my emotions more than should have been possible.

Fuck, I had entered this meeting wondering how to persuade them to let Isalio live...even as the Morgabeast was murdering humans. I needed to get my priorities straight. Even if Isalio had not committed half as many atrocities as the High Demon Prince had, no Demon was innocent. And the ends—saving humanity—justified any means.

But would torturing him even help? What if he knew as little as he claimed to know?

"He hasn't given much yet," I admitted. "He's...weakening. The cuffs are killing him."

Rakimar furrowed her brow and steepled her fingers on the table before her. "Killing him?"

"He claims two cuffs would stop even the High Demon Prince, and while I know better than to trust his word, I believe our intel agrees." I shot a glance at Borgal, who nodded. "So why do we have this younger prince in four cuffs? It's too much."

Marqan bared his teeth. "Remgar, you are far too sensitive. Such risks mean nothing in the light of possible gain."

"But we gain nothing if our prisoner dies," I said.

Marqan scowled. "If I am allowed to interrogate another Demon, I will be more careful than I was last time."

Fraschkit, another member of the Guardian Council, snorted. "Remgar is right." Her burgundy curls bounced, and her dark eyes smoldered. "We can't risk Marqan killing another Demon before we learn anything. Besides, we don't even know if this prisoner has committed any atrocities. If we torture and kill him, what sets us apart from the Demons?"

Fraschkit was my closest friend, apart from Borgal. Years ago, she had professed her love for me. If I had said yes—if I could return her affections and produce Guardian grandchildren—my father might have loved me half as much as he had loved Hefgar.

But I couldn't.

I flashed her a grateful smile, but her eyes now fixed on her new fancy. She had moved on to pining over an equally unattainable Rakimar.

Marqan barked a laugh. "This is what the Demons want—to make us all soft. 'Oh, the poor baby Demon.'" He faked a sniffle. "'I know he has killed thousands, but look how he is suffering.'"

"Has he, though?" I demanded. "Has he killed anyone? What do we know about him?"

My gaze trailed around the room, willing anyone to contradict me. They exchanged glances in silence.

Borgal was the first to speak. "Even I know very little about this younger prince."

Rakimar sighed. "Remgar, I will give you two more days with this Demon prisoner before we resort to Marqan's more extreme methods. You may remove two of his cuffs, but only two."

Marqan smacked a palm to his forehead. "Leader Rakimar, don't tell me you also pity this monster. How can we afford to waste time coddling? I can get answers fast!"

Her eyes narrowed. "I spare no pity for Demons, Marqan, but the fastest answers are not always the correct ones." She turned toward me. "Remgar, when you take off those two cuffs, you will give the Demon a drink laced with zaikut. Let's find out what he says when his tongue is loosened."