"Could I entrust that to you? If they did something reckless and died because they couldn't perceive an opponent's strength, it would be their end. Better they see real strength once than remain blind forever," Dagruul said, nodding with firm resolve.
His three sons were rowdy, brash youths, echoes of his own reckless past. Deeno gave a languid smile, and Dagruul's deep rumble of agreement sealed it. They had no sense for how dangerous that decision was, how it might ignite a powder keg. Both men lacked the habit of second-guessing. Their word was enough.
◉
Far to the north, the frozen winds howled over a land carved from death and ice. At the heart of this continent rose a towering citadel: the **Snowy Ice Palace**, a structure of haunting beauty. Forged from eternal frost, its walls shimmered like crystal, and its spires clawed at the sky as if daring even the heavens to shatter them. Life could not thrive in this wasteland — the cold itself was sharper than blades, colder than death. Only demons and nightmares endured here.
It was the domain of the ancient sovereign — the demon lord known as **Guy Crimson**.
Within its endless halls, footsteps echoed softly. The man walking through carried himself like royalty, every step poised. Platinum-blond hair framed his sharp, elegant features. Blue eyes, clear as a glacier, narrowed with calm confidence. His skin was pale, his beauty nearly feminine. This was **Leon Cromwell**, the "Platinum Devil," and he strolled as though this citadel belonged to him.
At the chamber doors, daemons bowed and pulled them open. A female attendant announced with ringing clarity:
"The demon lord Leon Cromwell has arrived!"
Inside, more than two hundred Greater Daemons stood in perfect formation. Each one was Named — not fleeting summons, but beings who had carved their existence into the world itself. Their strength dwarfed normal daemons, each on par with upper-tier magickers. Even so, they seemed almost insignificant before the six Archdaemons waiting at the rear — each one strong enough to tear armies apart, each one radiating power nearly equal to a lord.
Yet even they bent their heads, silent.
At the throne's side stood two figures who commanded greater fear still: **Misery** and **Hilary**, the Daemon Lords. Their strength rivaled that of the demon lords themselves. They alone were permitted to speak freely in Guy's court.
Leon walked down the center path, sharp gaze unwavering. He stopped before the throne. Misery and Hilary, like reflections of one another, lowered to one knee.
"Leon-sama, it has been a while," their twin voices chimed, resonant and beautiful.
The throne stirred. Guy Crimson, sovereign of the frozen continent, rose. Silver stars shimmered in the depths of his crimson eyes, while his scarlet hair — darker than blood — flared like living fire. His beauty was impossible to define, a perfect balance between masculine and feminine. He descended with the grace of a predator, arms opening wide.
"It's been too long, my friend Leon. You're well, I hope? I'm grateful you answered my summons."
Guy embraced Leon without hesitation, one hand sliding across his face, and pressed his lips against him.
Leon stiffened, then shoved him back with visible disgust. His glare was sharp enough to kill.
"Enough. I told you before — I've no interest in such things. Men don't tempt me."
Guy laughed, a rich, amused sound, unbothered by the rejection. "Ah, still so cold. But if you wished, I could just become a woman, you know?" He leaned in with a serpentine smile, his tongue grazing his lips like a blade. "No matter. Let's move to a better place."
He didn't wait for an answer. Bare skin revealed beneath a loose, teasing outfit, Guy moved as if the cold did not exist. He walked ahead, and Leon — expression tight with irritation but undaunted — followed in silence.
No daemon in the chamber dared to move until both masters left. Then, only then, Misery and Hilary rose, their beautiful faces as unreadable as polished masks.
"Disperse," Hilary commanded.
The daemons obeyed at once, vanishing like shadows into the palace's many halls.
For the Daemon Lords, their true duty began now — preparing to serve their sovereign's guest. In Guy's castle, no act mattered more than attending to their master's will. And they would fulfill it perfectly, or not at all.
Beyond the frost, the storm of Walpurgis loomed. And Atem's shadow stretched nearer, a different kind of power — sovereign, unyielding, and far deadlier than Clayman could yet imagine.
Leon followed Guy up to the highest terrace of the Snowy Ice Palace. Despite being open to the sky, the terrace was perfectly free of ice and snow. The room had been conditioned that way—set up for comfort rather than the cold. Guy never let the environment force his guests to suffer. It was the kind of thoughtfulness he reserved for people he respected.
Leon sat into the chair offered to him without fuss. The seat looked like it was carved of ice, but it didn't chill him. That, too, had been arranged. He leaned forward, blunt and direct.
"And? What did you summon me for?" he asked.
Hilary moved as if she had been waiting for a cue, setting out a teapot and cups with precise, quiet movements. Misery stood at the terrace entrance without a word. Both were always on hand in service—neither spoke unless ordered. They knew their place, and so did everyone present. If either acted without permission, punishment would come swift and absolute. That was the law of Guy's court, and even if Leon wanted to strike, they would not move of their own accord.
Guy watched him with that slow, dangerous smile. "You know Walpurgis has been invoked. I was hoping you'd stop avoiding it." He folded his hands together as if discussing weather. "If you refused, I would have made you come."
Leon's lips twisted with annoyance. "You know I hate those gatherings. I only go when I have to."
"Good," Guy said, pleased. "Then you'll come this time. I'd even owe you a favor for the inconvenience—perhaps a night under my roof."
"I don't keep company with men," Leon snapped. "Even with women I'm picky. Sleeping with you would be your reward, not mine."
Guy laughed and stepped closer, unbothered. "So cold, Leon. If you wanted, I could turn myself into a woman for you." He grinned, tongue tracing his lips like a snake. "But move along. Why are you coming this time?"
Leon straightened. He never wasted words.
"Clayman invoked it," Leon said. "He's small fry. My concern is Milim's involvement. And the news about Karion's death. Clayman proposed subjugation, then Ramiris insisted the accused be present. Everything's too neat. I want to see this new demon lord for myself—the one called Atem."
Guy's eyes glittered. "Atem, huh? I thought the same. Milim's unpredictable, and Clayman is loud but limited. Ramiris chiming in made it interesting. If she's interested, there's entertainment to be had."
Leon frowned. "Ramiris teases me every time. I nearly strangle her on sight. But if she put this thing on the table, it's worth investigating."
"Don't even think about killing her," Guy said smoothly. "If you kill Ramiris, you earn my enmity."
"I gathered that," Leon replied dryly. "I don't want to die. Besides, I doubt I could beat you if we fought properly."
Guy tilted his head. "Oh? You might catch me once in a million tries, you know."
"That's not a chance I care to take," Leon said. "I pick fights I can win."
Guy's amusement deepened. "Modest, as always. Few leave a mark on me. If you have that chance, be bolder in yourself."
They fell into the easy, sharp silence of two predators testing each other's edges—until a voice colder than the terrace itself cut in.
"My, are you finished?" the voice said, clear as glass. A woman stepped onto the terrace. White hair fell around her shoulders like frost. Her skin was porcelain, her eyes blue and sharp as diamonds, and her lips crimson against all that white. She moved as if no permission was required—because she didn't need it. She was Guy's equal.
"Velzard," Guy greeted, warm in spite of himself. "You look as splendid as ever."
Velzard inclined her head only slightly. "An empty compliment flatters me strangely. Thank you."
Leon's jaw tightened at the sight of her. Velzard was not a servant—she was the Frost Dragon Velzard, Guy's partner and the only dragon-type to stand beside him. She was not a subordinate but his closest ally, the arm he trusted most. Where Misery and Hilary were tools, Velzard was a counterweight.
Guy looked between them and sighed. "You two are still so cold to each other."
They would normally trade barbs here, but Velzard moved on. Her voice dropped and carried an edge.
"My 'little brother' appears to have awakened," she said casually—an explosive statement delivered as if it were weather news.
The terrace went quiet. Leon's expression sharpened. Guy's smile shifted into something harder. Velzard's eyes held a rare, distant light.
"Is that so?" Guy asked, slow. "That explains the stir. Awakening such a force changes the balance."
Leon's interest was outwardly minimal, but his mind was already working. Atem's name had been spoken in other courts. Rumors had circulated like frost-patterned glass: a sovereign who moved with law and judgment, who wielded power that did not roar but simply existed, absolute and precise. If Atem had awakened something—someone—then Walpurgis would not be Clayman's noisy attempt at domination; it would be a stage where more dangerous forces would meet.
Velzard watched Leon, then tilted her head to Guy. "This Walpurgis will be more interesting than a parade." There was satisfaction in her voice that was almost dangerous.
Guy's hands folded together. "Then we'll watch. And when the time comes, we'll act."
The three of them sat beneath a sky that bled into the cold horizon. Plans were quieted but not stopped, each word chosen for effect. The Snowy Ice Palace did not tremble; it listened. Outside, the world folded tighter around the coming feast, and the names—Atem, Milim, Clayman—glinted like knives in the dark.