The king leaned back, swirling the last of his wine as if it were just another night in the comfort of his palace. His voice was low, almost conversational, but sharp beneath the surface.
"You see, Daemon — I'm sure you've heard the pretty little story. The orphan boy-king, crowned at ten after losing his parents to a 'tragic accident.' The loyal uncle stepping in to guide him. A perfect tale, isn't it?"
Daemon tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed.
"Stories are for fools. What's the truth?"
Velrick let out a bitter laugh.
"The truth is my uncle has wanted me dead since the day I put on the crown. But not for power — not in the simple sense. He's after my Astra Core."
Daemon raised a brow, interest flickering.
"Your core?"
Velrick nodded, voice lowering further.
"When we forge our Astra Cores, we pour years of energy into them, feeding them until they grow beyond mortal limits. But have you ever wondered what would happen... if one core was fused into another?"
Daemon stilled.
Fusing Astra cores. He'd never once heard of such madness, even in his past life.
"I didn't know such a thing was possible," he muttered.
"Anything's possible, if you're desperate enough." Velrick's eyes gleamed under the dim light. "But there's a cost. The body... rejects it. Breaks apart. Explodes, more often than not. My uncle's experiments wiped out entire villages, using his own people as test subjects."
Daemon's mind turned cold, calculating.
"But there's a loophole," Velrick added softly, lifting the small wooden box the servant had brought. "A dragon heart. It acts as a stabilizer. With one, the fusion becomes possible."
Daemon's gaze sharpened, staring at the box.
So that's what this was really about. A dragon's heart wasn't just rare — it was a ticket to becoming something beyond human.
Velrick offered him the box, voice calm but firm.
"And now, I'm giving it to you. You need it more than I do — and having it here only makes me more of a target. I'd rather you take it... and repay the favor."
Daemon's fingers hovered over the box, his lips curling into a slow, measured smile.
"And you want your uncle dead."
"More than dead," Velrick whispered. "I want him erased."
Daemon closed the box with a soft click.
"I'll handle it. You've bought yourself a devil, Velrick."
The king let out a breath, some tension melting from his frame.
"Then allow me to host you at the palace. You'll need preparation, and I'll make sure you have everything."
Daemon rose from his seat, glancing once toward Nyxtriel, who stood silent at his side — but her faint smirk said it all.
Fools.
As the king called for his servants and led them out of the casino, Daemon's mind was already five steps ahead.
A gift like this? No one gives something so valuable without a noose hidden behind it.
But I'll play the part of the grateful pawn... until it's time to cut the king's throat myself.
The carriage that carried Daemon, Nyxtriel, and the king wound through the velvet-lit streets of Aurelian until the palace finally came into view.
Unlike Varyndor's cold, stone fortress, this one stood like a monument to pride — polished white walls, sharp spires that glinted under moonlight, and gardens that stretched with unnatural symmetry. Every bush trimmed to perfection. Every flower in bloom, not a single petal out of place.
Aurelian was too perfect. And perfection was always unnatural.
Once inside, Velrick wasted no time. He waved at the butlers and guards, smiling like a man who owned the world — or pretended to.
"Show the prince and his companion to their rooms," the king ordered smoothly, tossing off his cloak as if the night's dealings were already behind him.
A young maid stepped forward, bowing so stiffly she nearly lost her balance. "Y-yes, your majesty. Please, follow me."
As the king disappeared down another wing of the palace, Daemon's eyes wandered across the grand hall. The other maids stood in rows like dolls. Their faces were blank, their posture too rigid, too perfect — not a trace of exhaustion or human emotion behind their eyes.
Lifeless.
It wasn't the usual strict palace etiquette either. This was something else.
But the one who guided them? She was different. Clumsy. Too human. Her hands trembled slightly as she led them up the staircase, as if still getting used to the uniform, or the palace itself.
When they reached the guest wing, she turned with a polite, shaky smile.
"Your Highness, I'll prepare two rooms for you and your companion—"
"No need." Daemon cut her off, voice sharp but calm. "One room will do. She stays with me."
The maid blinked, startled. "I-I understand, my lord. Right this way."
Nyxtriel walked behind him, glancing at the walls — her senses sharp. Even she had noticed it.
"This palace," she whispered under her breath, "the scent of blood is old. Faded, but still here. Like the walls are holding their breath."
Daemon said nothing. His gaze flicked from the silent maids to the endless polished marble. Something wasn't right.
Once inside the room, Nyxtriel sat by the wide window, her crimson eyes watching the moonlit city.
Daemon loosened his cloak, his thoughts racing faster than his heartbeat.
The king's charity. The lifeless servants. The gift of a dragon's heart.
Everything smelled of a trap — but a clever one.
And the real game hadn't even started.