Twelve years passed like a season drawn long, and Elise Nightwalker became more than a graduate of Nevermore. She became a legend.
NightCorp, her creation, grew from a single investment into a sprawling empire. Its name gleamed on silver towers in New York, shimmered on billboards in Los Angeles, whispered from glossy magazines in Paris. Outcasts called it their shield and their door—NightCorp gave them jobs when human companies turned them away. Supes worked in its studios, its factories, its offices. Humans consumed its food, its music, its movies, never knowing whose hands had made them.
At boardroom tables, Elise wore gowns black as night, lips red as fresh blood, sapphire eyes cutting through executives like knives. The world bent. Governments made space for her. Rivals tried and failed to topple her.
And yet, even in her finest moments, the bargain whispered. She felt it in her bones, in the tick of every clock, in the way Mammon's shadow seemed to lengthen behind her success.
When she turned thirty, the price came due.
Her pregnancy was marked by omens. The sky over New York flared white during storms. Flames appeared in mirrors, flickering without source. Doctors swore her heartbeat echoed like two drums. The witches in her circle bowed their heads; they knew no ritual could shield her from what she had invited into the world.
When the child came, the house shook. Glass shattered, wards screamed, and every candle in the manor guttered white before exploding into smoke.
Justin Nightwalker was born with hair pale as frost, eyes dark as the abyss. In the center of each iris burned a thin ring of white fire, shifting as though alive.
The nurses crossed themselves. The midwives whispered prayers. But Elise only gathered him into her arms, pressing him close.
"My son," she whispered, her voice breaking for the first time in years. "Not Mammon's. Mine."
Somewhere deep in the dark, Mammon laughed. But Elise only held Justin tighter.
And in that moment, love burned brighter than any bargain.