The old man's hands wouldn't stop shaking. His voice cracked under the weight of fear.
"A-Are you... the prince? The one from Varyndor?"
His knees hit the floor with a hard thud.
"If so, I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness... My son—he's a fool. I never should've let him near Varyndor... never."
Daemon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"It's a little late for begging, old man. But you can start by answering one thing — the casino. What's the dress code? How do I get in?"
His voice was calm, like he was asking about the weather.
The old man wiped his clammy hands against his apron, trying to steady his breath.
"I... I've never been inside, but my son goes often. Always with a mask." He swallowed hard. "It's... mandatory. For all guests. Masks."
The room wasn't quiet. The tension had drawn attention, whispers filling the air like smoke.
A young man at the back of the inn stood from his chair.
"Old man P... You alright? You're shaking."
Daemon let out a tired sigh, leaning back lazily in his chair.
"Nyxtriel."
"Yes, Father?"
"Kill everyone in this room. Except the old man."
Without another word, her human form blurred, arms morphing into razor-edged blades. The sound of steel slicing through air came first — then wet, heavy thuds as heads hit the floor. Blood soaked the wooden boards, dripping and pooling at Daemon's boots.
The cries and gasps didn't last long. Silence swallowed the room whole.
The old man dropped fully to the floor, hands pressed together in pleading.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry! Spare me — spare my children — please, I beg you!"
The door behind the counter creaked open. Jane stepped out first, her eyes widening at the sight. Toni stumbled out after her, his drunken haze burning away in an instant as he froze.
"...Grandpa?" His voice cracked when he saw the old man kneeling, the bodies scattered like discarded trash, and then his eyes locked on Daemon's.
The crimson glow of Daemon's eyes.
"The prince..." Toni whispered, his blood draining from his face.
Jane's voice broke the silence, sharp and defiant.
"You... you think killing people like this is fun? Just because you can? Someone will stop you! I'll report you to the guards, to the—"
SLAP!
The sound echoed. Her grandfather's hand still hung in the air, trembling.
"Are you stupid?" the old man barked. His voice cracked, thick with grief and desperation. "You want to die like the rest of them? Stay quiet."
Daemon stood slowly, the needle and thread glinting faintly in his fingers.
"Toni," he said flatly. "You sold the kingdom's information to your king. I don't care about that. But you went further. You sketched my face. You sold my story. That's the part I can't forgive."
Toni staggered back, pale as ash.
"I-I didn't sell it yet! I swear, I didn't! I was going to—but I didn't! Spare me! I'll tell them it was a lie, I'll fix it—"
Daemon's voice cut through his panic like a blade.
"Fix it? The day I was born, the eclipse painted the sky black. Everyone knows it. A lie won't save you." He rolled the thread between his fingers. "Let's not waste each other's time."
The old man broke, folding himself deeper in his bow.
"Toni — for the love of the gods, tell him! Tell him about the casino. Tell him the rules, the dress code, everything! Maybe he'll spare us if you do!"
Toni's mouth quivered as he stared at Daemon's expression. There was no mercy in those eyes. Only the thin line between life and death — and Toni knew which side he was standing on.
He sat frozen. His mouth opened, but no words came. The stench of blood and the heavy silence wrapped around his throat tighter than any noose.
"Toni!" The old man's voice cracked from where he knelt, tears spilling down his wrinkled face. "Tell him — please! Just tell him!"
Finally, with a voice as thin as paper, Toni whispered:
"Th-the dress code... It's a mask. A suit. You can't step inside without both. But I only got in because of an invitation — one signed by the king himself. He liked the stories I fed him. Especially the one about you... the prince. The eclipse. Your birth."
Daemon said nothing.
The weight of his silence alone made the air feel like glass — ready to shatter.
Toni's words hung in the room, brittle and hopeless.
Daemon's fingers flexed once. Nyxtriel, still in sword form, glided through the air and landed neatly in his outstretched hand. The blade gleamed, black and red.
"So," Daemon finally spoke, his voice flat. "You sold my name for pocket change. I can forgive rumors. They travel faster than blades. But drawing my face? Selling it like art?" His lips twitched into a cold smile. "That's another story."
Without hesitation, Daemon swung the blade. The old man's head dropped clean from his shoulders.
Toni's scream ripped through the room.
"NO! Grandpa!"
Jane bolted for the door, panic in her steps. "You monster— I'll call the guards, I swear I'll—"
A sharp whistle of steel. Nyxtriel's blade shot from Daemon's hand, piercing clean through her back. She crumpled mid-stride, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.
Only Toni remained.
His mind snapped. His body folded on its own, falling to his knees, too stunned to sob, too numb to run.
Daemon strolled toward him, slow and deliberate. He grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him like a sack of meat toward the pile of corpses.
With a shove, he dumped him on top of the bodies.
"Consider yourself lucky, Toni." His voice was eerily soft. "I'm not killing you yet. You'll follow me for a little while longer. I still need a dog to walk behind me."
Toni, shivering, let out an involuntary laugh — broken, unhinged.
Daemon tilted his head, mockingly.
"Tsk. Tsk. Your grandfather's blood isn't even dry, and you're already smiling? What a bad child you are."
Daemon crouched low, pulling a needle and black thread from his pocket.
Toni's pupils shrank.
"W-what are you doing?"
Daemon smiled.
"Oh this? Just helping you keep your mouth shut, since it's done enough damage already."
Without waiting for another word, Daemon grabbed his jaw, forcing it shut. The needle pierced through flesh, weaving the boy's lips together, stitch by stitch. Toni thrashed, muffled screams clawing at his throat — but Daemon's hands were steady, like a craftsman finishing his masterpiece.
When the last stitch was tied off, Daemon wiped the bloodied needle clean.
"Much better," he muttered. "Silence suits you."