The Next Morning
The dining hall smelled of roasted game and fresh-baked bread, but the air hung heavier than the plates on the table.
Deamon sat at the long polished table, his crimson eyes cool and unreadable. Across from him was King Velrick, dressed sharply, with a relaxed smile that never quite reached his eyes. Beside the king, his royal advisor sat older, sharp-boned, with pale green eyes and brown hair streaked with gray. The man's glare rarely left Deamon, as if studying every move he made.
The butler moved with precise steps, overseeing the maids as they placed the dishes neatly along the table.
Velrick was the first to speak.
"I trust the accommodations were to your liking? I hope you slept well."
Deamon offered a polite smile, lifting his glass.
"Perfectly, thanks to your majesty's hospitality."
Velrick's gaze flicked toward the empty seat beside Deamon.
"And your companion? I was expecting to see her at breakfast."
Deamon thought for a moment Nyxtriel had refused to sit at the table, let alone eat human food. Her disdain for mortals made her presence here almost impossible. But he couldn't exactly tell the king that.
"She's still asleep," Deamon answered smoothly.
The advisor's face twisted with disapproval.
"Promiscuous and disrespectful! Sleeping while the king shares his table — how crude."
Deamon's fingers twitched on his fork, but he kept his expression calm.
"She's not human, I'm afraid. Her ways are... different."
The king leaned back slightly, arching a brow.
"Not human? An elf, perhaps?"
Deamon let the smallest smirk cross his lips.
"No. She's a sword."
Velrick blinked, surprised.
"A soul weapon?" He leaned forward, genuine curiosity flickering across his face. "Could it be... the Demon King's sword?"
Deamon's reply was quiet but firm.
"Indeed. She is."
The conversation paused as servants refilled their cups, and the atmosphere shifted slightly. But one thing still gnawed at Deamon: the absence of the king's family.
He glanced around the grand dining hall, noticing for the second time the lack of any royal wife or child.
"Forgive my boldness, but... is your family not at the palace?"
Velrick's expression softened into something bittersweet.
"My wife's returned to her hometown for a while. My daughter... she's gravely ill. I've searched every corner of this continent for a cure, but I've yet to find one."
Deamon tilted his head, pretending to show sympathy, though in truth the puzzle intrigued him. A sick daughter? That wasn't something he'd heard in his past life. What was the king hiding?
Before he could dig further, the butler approached, leaning close to Velrick's ear and whispering urgently. The king stiffened, and his face darkened.
"WHAT?"
"Is something wrong?" Deamon asked, tone light but his curiosity razor-sharp.
Velrick's voice was clipped and cold.
"Two bodies were found in the palace gardens. My guard and one of the maids. Dismembered and buried like trash."
Deamon widened his eyes, feigning concern.
"How awful... Does this mean the palace has been breached?"
The king clenched his fist.
"My uncle's schemes, no doubt. I'll have the guards doubled."
"Has anything like this happened before?" Deamon asked, keeping his tone curious, almost innocent.
The king nodded slowly, eyes distant.
"Once or twice. But never this bold."
The meal resumed, though the king and his advisor ate with tension carved into their faces.
Deamon, on the other hand, calmly lifted his cup, hiding a sly smile behind the rim.
The perfect cover.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.
The heavy doors of the dining hall burst open, and a guard sprinted inside, breathless.
"My king — bad news!"
Velrick's head snapped up, his tone sharp.
"What now?"
The guard swallowed hard.
"It's your uncle, Duke Elias. He's gathered nobles at the throne room — they're demanding an audience. It's a commotion, sire."
Velrick slammed his fist against the table, rattling the silverware.
"Damn it all! I should've known that old vulture wouldn't sit quietly."
Robert, the king's advisor, quickly placed a calming hand on Velrick's shoulder.
"My king, don't lose your composure. Let's handle this with caution rushing in will only fuel his scheme."
But Velrick's rage had already spiked.
"There's no more room for patience, Robert."
Deamon, still seated and cool as ever, raised his voice gently.
"Your Majesty. Allow me to remind you... you have me on your side. Didn't I promise to help you deal with this problem?"
The king paused, exhaling, and the tension in his jaw eased slightly as he remembered their conversation the night before.
"Right... You did."
Velrick pushed back his chair and stood, straightening his coat.
"Let's go."
Deamon followed at his side, keeping his expression mild, masking the amusement rising under his skin. The fish had walked willingly into his net.
When they reached the throne room, the atmosphere hit like a brick wall. The chamber was already flooded with nobles — half in fine silk, half in armor — all glaring at the king like wolves baring their teeth.
At the front of them stood an older man, short, stocky, but radiating sheer power. His aura was sharp, pressing against the walls like an invisible blade. A 10-Star. Deamon's gaze locked onto him instantly.
Duke Elias.
The king settled into his throne, his fingers curling against the armrests as he looked over the gathered nobles — faces he'd once trusted, now twisted with disdain. His voice came low, bitter.
"I never thought I'd live to see the day my own people would turn on me."
From the crowd, a voice barked back:
"You monster! Your lies end here!"
Another noble stepped forward, bold and sharp.
"We're done bowing to your cruelty. We know the truth!"
And then the room shifted. A single man
stepped from the crowd — Duke Elias. Short, stout, but cloaked in raw power. His aura spread like a slow, crushing tide.
He locked eyes with Velrick, lips curling into a smirk.
"As you can see, my king, these fine nobles stand with me. We're here to expose your sins — and to take back the seat you've stolen."
His finger pointed lazily to the throne.
"That chair belongs to me."
Robert, the advisor, stepped forward, furious.
"How dare you, Elias! You speak treason in the king's own hall!"
But the Duke's gaze turned sharp, his aura flaring.
"Silence, worm. You'll be the first I cut down if you don't learn your place."
Through it all, Deamon stood quietly by the side, watching — until something unexpected caught his eye. The king's hands. They trembled, barely noticeable, but enough.
He's afraid, Deamon thought. So the fearless King Velrick is human after all.
But the real prize wasn't the king's weakness — it was the chaos. An opening. A new role to play.
Deamon let out a soft, patient sigh, stepping forward. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"I have something to say."
The nobles turned, frowning in confusion.
"Who's that brat?"
"Is he a servant?"
Elias cocked his head, eyeing him.
"And who might you be, boy?"
Deamon's lips pulled into a sharp, easy smirk.
"Deamon Dominick. The king's friend."
And just like that, the hall grew still — the air heavy with new suspicion.
And Deamon thought, smiling inwardly:
Now the real game begins.