The world smelled of burnt stone and blood.
Kael drifted in and out of dark dreams—visions of fire swallowing the Keep, his mother's hand slipping from his grasp, and the hollow scream that never left his throat.
Then... silence.
And then... heat.
But not the pain of flame—no, this was something older. Deeper. A heat of remembrance.
His eyes opened slowly.
He wasn't in Blackthorn Keep anymore.
He lay on a stone bed carved from obsidian, surrounded by walls that shimmered like smoke. The room was lit by a low, steady fire that never flickered, glowing from a rune-crusted brazier in the center. Every breath he took tasted like firewood and forgotten magic.
A low voice broke the quiet.
"You heal slower than I expected."
Kael sat up too fast, and pain flared in his side—but it was already dulling, a bruise in retreat.
The speaker stood at the edge of the brazier's glow.
Askarion.
He wore a long dark coat with crimson embroidery, no crown, no armor—just power. It rolled off him like waves.
Kael stared. "You're real."
Askarion crossed the room slowly. "Yes. And so are you, at last."
"What is this place?"
"My forge." He gestured to the anvil and the smelting furnace in the next chamber. "Hidden deep within the mountains, behind three sealed gates. No Court magic can find you here."
Kael tried to swing his legs off the bed. "I have to go back—Seraphine—"
"She escaped the Keep. Barely."
Kael froze. "You're sure?"
Askarion gave a nod. "Your wife is smarter than most give her credit for. She fled during the collapse. The wolves are hunting her as we speak."
Kael surged to his feet. "Then we have to find her—!"
Askarion caught his arm. "You're not ready."
Kael snarled. "Don't touch me."
The older demon looked amused. "Good. You're angry. You should be. But rage without control is ash in the wind."
Kael tore his arm free. "Why did you leave her? My mother needed you. I needed you."
There was a pause.
Askarion's expression didn't change, but his voice lowered. "The Court made it clear—they would slaughter her if I stayed. She was pregnant with you when I left. I made the only choice I could."
Kael's fists clenched. "And what am I supposed to be, then? Half-wolf, half-demon? A walking contradiction?"
"You are more than that. You are the bridge between two worlds. The heir to a power none of them understand."
Kael staggered back, the weight of it pressing into his bones. "She's dead because of me."
"No," Askarion said. "She died because they feared what you might become."
Far from the forge, across the dark forests of Vareth, Seraphine ran.
The cold bit her lungs with every breath, but she dared not stop.
Blackthorn Keep had burned through the night, and by morning, its towers were crumbling ruins. The King declared Kael a traitor—consumed by demon fire—and Seraphine was to be detained for treason.
She knew if she stayed, she'd vanish like the rest. A "convenient" disappearance.
So she had run.
Through the secret tunnel Elenara once showed her. Through the old crypt gate, into the woods that drank sound and spat it back twisted.
Now she ran alone, no horse, no food, only the silver rose Kael gave her and a dagger no longer than her palm.
Behind her, wolves howled.
Not real ones.
Not the kind with fur and fang.
These were the wolves wearing armor.
Hunters of the Eclipse Court.
She stumbled into a clearing just as dusk fell. The moon was a thin slice in the sky, barely enough to see. She knelt beside the stream and splashed cold water on her face, her breath hitching.
"I have to find him," she whispered. "He's not dead. He's not. I felt him still breathing."
Branches cracked behind her.
She turned, knife ready.
A figure stepped forward—hooded, tall, lean.
Not a soldier.
Not a wolf.
But a woman. Eyes bright like gold, skin marked with tattoos of ancient ink.
"You are Seraphine, wife of the demon prince," the woman said.
Seraphine tightened her grip. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Veyra. I was sworn to Queen Elenara before she died. She sent me to find you—should the worst happen."
Seraphine's knees weakened.
"She's really… gone?"
Veyra nodded. "And they will come for you next. Unless we move."
Seraphine lowered the blade.
"Then take me to someone who can help," she said.
Veyra smiled faintly. "I already have. You just don't know who you are yet."
Back in the forge, Kael stood before a mirror—though it did not show his reflection.
Instead, it showed what slept beneath his skin.
His eyes were burning red now, the gold drowned in ember. Curved horns had begun to push through his hair. His skin shimmered faintly when he moved, like shadow clinging to light.
Askarion handed him a blade—a jagged, black-forged sword with no name. Its edge glowed faintly with crimson runes.
"What is this?" Kael asked.
"A gift," Askarion said. "Made from the same ore that sealed the Seven Gates. Laced with your blood. It will obey only you."
Kael stared at the weapon, then back at the mirror.
"I don't know if I'm ready for this."
"No one ever is," Askarion said. "But war does not wait for readiness."
Kael closed his eyes.
And for the first time in his life… he let go.
The fire inside him rose—not to burn, but to shape. The shadows curled around him, a cloak without weight, and the blade pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
He opened his eyes again.
The prince was gone.
The heir had awoken.