Raezion arrived in a valley where the sun rarely touched the ground.
Jagged mountains coiled around black forests. Crimson rivers of molten mana flowed like veins across volcanic stone. Obsidian towers rose like fangs—each carved with infernal runes and warded against light.
This was Val'Kareth Hold, seat of House Vireon Val'Kareth, the noble demon house that served Thaloria as its quiet shadow.
And at its heart stood Vireon himself.
The demon lord was tall, sculpted of muscle and menace, clad in a regal black coat traced with gold. His obsidian horns curved back from his temples. His eyes, a searing amber, held an intensity that never flickered.
But he did not roar.
He did not sneer.
He simply studied Raezion in silence for several long seconds before nodding once.
> "So this is the boy who shook the altar of dragons," he said, his voice like forged iron. "You look smaller than the stories."
Raezion didn't flinch. "Stories often lie."
A corner of Vireon's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "Good. You'll need that spine."
And so, Raezion's life began anew.
Each morning, he rose before the sun—or what little light passed for it in the demon lands.
Vireon trained him personally: martial forms carved from abyssal war traditions, mental exercises used to resist soul corruption, and lectures on court dynamics, power perception, and political warfare.
His words were sharp. His discipline, harsher.
Failure was never punished with cruelty—but never ignored.
Raezion bled. Ached. Repeated drills for hours.
But he never gave up.
And Vireon watched.
Watched as the boy began adapting, shifting his sword grip on instinct, countering moves before they were even taught. Watched as Raezion solved logic traps meant for demon tacticians. Watched as he meditated beside hellfire without blinking.
"You are not normal," the demon lord whispered once beneath his breath. "And neither is what sleeps inside you."
Draemax, growing fast, often perched atop the keep's roof during training—watching, mimicking forms with her wings, practicing small bursts of fire under Raezion's silent encouragement.
The bond between them grew beyond magic. It was unity in motion, thought, and instinct.
In time, even the guards of House Val'Kareth came to respect the boy. Not because of his title. Not even because of his strength.
But because he earned it.
With sweat. With silence. With will.
---
And so began Raezion's eight-year exile.
Not as a punishment.
But as forging.
A blade meant for war must first be tempered in flame.
Even if it was once the edge that ended everything.