Chapter 8: Grandfather's Sanctuary.
The towering obsidian gates of the Nightwhisper stronghold loomed before Xolvion like a mirage in the crimson-tinged landscape, their ancient runes pulsing with protective magic that made the very air shimmer with power. After three days of trudging through the demon realm's most treacherous wilderness, dodging monsters, sleeping in caves, and surviving on whatever edible plants he could identify, the sight of his grandfather's territory was almost too good to be true.
"So hungry... So thirsty..." Xolvion said as he forced himself to keep moving.
His legs trembled with each step as he approached the gates, his makeshift bandages now little more than blood-soaked rags clinging to his wounds. The gash across his shoulder had reopened twice during his journey, and the welt from the imp's barbed tail had developed an angry infection that sent waves of fever through his body. Only sheer determination and the desperate need to reach safety had kept him moving.
The guards stationed at the gate noticed his approach long before he reached them, their hands moving instinctively to their weapons as they observed the bedraggled figure stumbling towards their lord's domain. They were impressive specimens of demon nobility, tall and powerfully built, with the distinctive midnight-blue skin and silver eyes that marked them as members of the Nightwhisper clan's elite guard.
"Halt!" The captain called out.
"State your name and business, stranger. Lord Zarathos sees no visitors without prior arrangement."
Xolvion raised his head with tremendous effort, his red eyes struggling to focus on the guards through the haze of exhaustion and pain. "I am... I am Xolvion Valous," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Grandson to Lord Zarathos Nightwhisper. I seek... I seek sanctuary."
The guards exchanged sceptical glances. The figure before them looked nothing like the pampered prince they might have expected. His once-fine clothes were torn and filthy, his silver hair matted with blood and dirt, and his pale skin bore the unmistakable marks of combat and hardship.
"You claim to be the prince?" The captain's tone carried obvious disbelief. "The one who went missing from Castle Valous three days ago? Word has already reached us that Xolvion Valous is presumed dead, killed during a hunting accident on his coming-of-age ceremony."
"That's what... what they want everyone to believe," Xolvion gasped, swaying on his feet. "Please... I need to see my grandfather. I need to tell him... about my siblings... about what they..." He reached out desperately towards the gates. "Please, I'm telling the truth. I am Lyralei's son. I am—"
The world tilted dangerously, and Xolvion felt his knees. The last thing he remembered was the hard obsidian ground rushing up to meet him and the sound of armoured boots running in his direction as his world went black.
Consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up from the depths of a dark, warm sea. The first thing Xolvion noticed was the absence of pain. For the first time in days, his shoulder didn't throb with every heartbeat, and the burning sensation across his back had faded to nothing more than a dull memory.
"I'm healed..." He said, feeling his strength having returned.
The second thing he noticed was the bed. Soft silk sheets, probably worth more than most demons saw in a lifetime, surrounded him in luxurious comfort. The chamber itself was elegant in its simplicity, carved from single pieces of black marble and decorated with tapestries depicting the Nightwhisper family's long and illustrious history.
"Ah, you're awake at last."
The voice was warm, cultured, and carried the unmistakable accent of old demon nobility. Xolvion turned his head towards the doorway and found himself looking at none other than his grandfather.
Zarathos Nightwhisper stood just over six feet tall, with an ageless quality that spoke of strong magical power carefully controlled. His silver hair, so similar to Xolvion's own, was swept back in an elegant style, and his violet eyes, his daughter's eyes, twinkled with intelligence and genuine warmth. Unlike the ostentatious displays of power favoured by most demon lords, Zarathos dressed simply in well-tailored robes of midnight blue that spoke of understated wealth and confidence.
"Grandfather?" Xolvion's voice was still rough, though considerably stronger than it had been at the gates.
"Indeed, my boy." Zarathos approached the bed with a gentle smile, settling into a chair that had been positioned nearby. "Though I must say, you gave my guards quite a fright. They weren't entirely convinced of your identity until our healers examined your wounds and confirmed your heritage through their magical analysis. How are you feeling, boy?"
Xolvion struggled to sit up, marvelling at how much better he felt. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Two days," Zarathos replied. "You were quite thoroughly exhausted, and that infection in your back wound was rather more serious than you probably realised. Our healers worked around the clock to ensure your recovery."
"Two days?" Panic flared in Xolvion's chest. "Then they know I'm here. My siblings will—"
"Calm yourself, grandson," Zarathos said, raising a calming hand. "They believe you to be dead. In fact, the entire demon realm believes you to be dead. Your father has even issued search parties, of course, but they're looking for a body, not a living prince."
The words hit Xolvion like a physical blow. "Father thinks I'm dead?"
"I'm afraid so. The official story is that you were killed during your coming-of-age hunt, torn apart by dire hellhounds whilst attempting to prove your worth. Your siblings returned with appropriately bloodstained clothing and tales of your brave but futile final battle." The old demon said with narrowing eyes.
Zarathos's expression darkened slightly. "They put on quite the performance, by all accounts. Grief-stricken siblings mourning their beloved brother, devastated by their inability to save you. Even brought back some of your blood as 'proof' of your demise."
"Bastards," Xolvion snarled, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. "They planned it all. Every detail, every lie."
"Tell me what happened," Zarathos said. "From the beginning."
For the next hour, Xolvion related the entire story—his siblings' confrontation in his chambers, their threats, his father's convenient absence, and his desperate flight through the castle's hidden passages. He spoke of his encounter with the imp, the Shadow Stalker's bargain, and his harrowing journey through the wilderness.
Throughout his tale, Zarathos listened without interruption, his violet eyes growing steadily darker as the full scope of his grandson's betrayal became clear.
"I always feared this day might come," the older demon said quietly when Xolvion finished. "Your father's favouritism towards you was obvious to anyone with eyes, and your siblings... well, they are their mothers' children in the worst possible ways."
"What do you mean?"
"Ambition without wisdom, power without restraint. They see strength only in terms of magical might and political influence, never understanding the subtler forms of power that your mother possessed." Zarathos leaned forward, studying his grandson's face. "Tell me, Xolvion, what do you intend to do now? You cannot return to Castle Valous—your official death provides perfect cover for your siblings to eliminate you permanently should you reappear."
"I don't know," Xolvion admitted. "I came here hoping you might have answers, or perhaps offer me sanctuary until Father returns and I can tell him the truth."
"And what do you think would happen then?" Zarathos's tone was gentle but probing. "Even if Malphas believed your story, even if he punished your siblings for their betrayal, what then? You would still be the powerless prince, still be seen as weak by the demon nobility, still be a target for any ambitious demon looking to curry favour with your siblings."
The harsh truth of his grandfather's words settled over Xolvion like a shroud. "Then what choice do I have?"
"The same choice I faced when I was young and powerless," Zarathos said, rising from his chair to pace to the window. "The choice to forge your own path, to discover your own destiny, to become more than what others ever expect of you."
Xolvion looked at his grandfather in awe. "But how? I have no real power, no magical abilities worth mentioning. I'm exactly what they say I am, a bastard with a talent for seduction that's otherwise useless on anyone stronger than me."
Zarathos turned back to him with a knowing smile. "Is it, though? Tell me, grandson, what do you really know about your abilities? Have you ever truly tested their limits?"
"I can make women find me attractive and do my bidding, make them... Do anything I want them to." He said, a lewd thought crossing his mind.
"But it's just basic succubus magic, nothing more."
"Nothing more?" Zarathos laughed, though not unkindly. "My dear boy, you have no idea what you're truly capable of. Your mother, my daughter, was far more than a 'low-ranking succubus,' despite what the court whispers claimed. Our bloodline traces back to some of the oldest and most powerful demons in our realm's history."
Xolvion looked shocked at his grandfather's words.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that your power is dormant, not absent. Suppressed by the expectations of others and your own lack of understanding." Zarathos moved to an ornate desk and began writing on a piece of parchment. "You need to discover what you truly are, and you cannot do that here, surrounded by the prejudices and limitations of demon society."
He sealed the letter with his personal sigil and handed it to Xolvion. "This is a letter of introduction to certain contacts I have maintained in the human kingdom. They will provide you with assistance in establishing yourself there."
"The human kingdom?" Xolvion stared at the letter in shock. "You want me to flee to the human world?"
"I want you to go where your talents will be appreciated rather than dismissed, where your appearance will be an advantage rather than a mark of shame. Humans value cunning, charm, and intelligence. Qualities you possess in abundance."
"But how does that help me gain the power I need to reclaim my birthright?"
Zarathos's smile was enigmatic. "Because, my dear grandson, the human kingdom is where you will discover that seduction is only the beginning of your abilities. There, free from the limitations of demon society, you will learn what it truly means to be an Incubus demon."
"I don't understand."
"You will," Zarathos said, walking over to him, before he placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "Trust in yourself, Xolvion. Trust in the blood that flows through your veins. And remember—sometimes the greatest power comes not from what you can destroy, but from what you can create, influence, and ultimately... possess."
The older demon's words sent a shiver down Xolvion's spine, though he couldn't quite say why. There was something in his grandfather's tone, a hint of knowledge deliberately withheld, that both intrigued and unnerved him.
"When do I leave?"
"Tonight, whilst the realm still mourns your supposed death. My people will provide you with everything you need. Clothing, some human gold, and safe passage to the human border. After that..." Zarathos shrugged elegantly. "After that, you write your own destiny, my boy." Zarathos said with a smirk on his face.
Xolvion didn't understand. But he knew that his grandfather was right. He couldn't stay in the demon realm, and fleeing to the human world was his best bet if he wanted to survive. After all, everyone had always said he looked more like a human than a demon.
All he could do now was trust in his grandfather and his own abilities.
Who knows... Maybe my charm abilities will work better on humans than they do on demons.