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“I was doing my hair,” he announces, to the room in general. His purple eyes flick round the six of us with theatrical outrage, then settle, one by one, with visibly increasing delight. “Hello, former betrothed.” A nod to Hex. “Former betrothed.” A nod to Dis. “And oh, look at this, soon-to-be betrothed.” His gaze lands on Dark last, lingering. “And where,” Fiend says, glancing round now, “is my favourite former betrothed? Don’t tell me abdicating made him shy.”

“Night is too ashamed of the trouble he caused to show his face,” Dis says, arms already folding.

“How very unlike him, feeling shame about anything.” Fiend examines his own nails. “I almost admire the growth.”

“You only liked him because he was king,” Dis says, stiffly.

“Dark is the king, and you were also king, darling, when I was betrothed to you,” Fiend says, without missing a beat. “Must I remind you that title’s never once been the deciding factor in my affections?”

Dis’s jaw does the thing it does when he’s decided not to dignify something with a response.

“I have a proposal,” Dark says, into the small pause that follows. I feel my whole chest go tight watching him say it, watching the actual thing we’ve spent days building towards finally leave his mouth.

Fiend goes very still, both hands coming up as if to physically ward it off. “Please. No. Not another one.”

“Hear him out,” Hex says, arms crossed, something almost gentle underneath the usual amusement in his voice. “Your bloodline’s older than any of ours, Fiend.”

“Obviously,” Fiend says, rolling his eyes with the particular weariness of someone stating a fact he’s tired of no one else acting on.

Dark steps forward. Something in his posture straightens, the last traces of hesitation falling away entirely. “The old law bars anyone capable of bearing an heir from sitting on the throne themselves. It was written so no consort could ever outmanoeuvre the crown.” Dark pauses. “You were always the strongest claim in every room you’ve ever stood in, Fiend. But the law made certain that claim could never be worth more than being lent out to whoever needed it most.”

Fiend doesn’t have an immediate quip ready. Something flickers behind the purple, quick and unguarded, gone before I can name it.

Dark continues steadily, “I have spent this last week considerably more popular than any king the realm’s had in living memory. For the simple reason that I am the one who stopped it ending exactly the way the prophecy said it would. That is the kind of popularity that buys a man room to rewrite a law nobody’s had the nerve to touch in centuries. I intend to use it. Change the law of succession. Enable you to be put on the throne outright, not as a consort wielding what power you can from the marriage bed. And then I intend to abdicate.”

The silence that follows is enormous.

“Well,” Fiend says eventually, examining his nails with elaborate unconcern that fools absolutely nobody in the room. “That took you all considerably longer to work out than it should have.”

“Is that a yes?” Dark asks.

“It’s an obviously,” Fiend says, sniffing, though his voice has gone thin. “I’ve wanted the throne long before I was offered to any of you. I’m hardly going to turn it down out of politeness.”

Dark takes a steadying breath. “It is not possible to be popular enough to remove the edict that a king must have an heir.”

Fiend’s purple eyes narrow.

Dark continues. “You will need to marry someone of your choosing and have a child.”

The expression that flashes over Fiend’s perfect face is impossible to read.

“Would you be happy with this plan?” Dark asks, and there’s real weight in the question, no performance in it at all.

Fiend looks at him for a long moment, purple eyes unusually still. “Happier,” he says, “than several centuries of being handed to other people ever managed to make me, which I’ll admit is a rather low bar, but there it is.” He straightens, tossing his hair back. “Don’t expect a thank you card.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dark says.

“You should come to game night sometime,” I say. “Properly. Not just for summonings.”

Fiend looks at me like I’ve suggested something faintly obscene. “Game night,” he repeats, flat. “With humans. Playing cards, I assume, or some other charmingly primitive pastime. I can think of very little I’d find less appealing.”

“There’s usually cake,” I offer.

Something flickers behind the purple, quick, there and gone. For half a second his voice loses its usual polish entirely. “What kind?”

Then, as if catching himself, he waves a hand dismissively, already reassembling the performance. “Not that it matters. I have considerably better things to do with my evenings than watch mortals lose at board games.”

“The offer stands,” I say.