Alexander woke on the cold stone floor. His body was a live wire.
A new energy coursed through him, a deep, resonant hum where there had only been silence. It was a bottomless well of potential, terrifying and intoxicating.
The events of the Hall crashed down on him. The Goddess's verdict. The pact.
"The connection is stable," Crimson's voice became a clearer, sharper presence in Alexander's mind. No longer a distant whisper. It was resonant. It felt like a shard of obsidian lodged behind his eyes.
Alexander sat up, his head spinning. "What did you do to me?"
"I provided the key. You opened the door. Your body is simply adjusting to the new tenant."
Alexander looked at his hands. They were the same. Yet the air around them seemed to waver, like heat rising from summer stone.
"The Demonic Resonance is now part of your blood."
"What's Demonic Resonance? What is this feeling?" Alexander asked, his voice rough.
"That is your true potential. The well they could not empty. Now, learn to draw from it."
He stood, his movements unnaturally fluid. He felt stronger. Faster. The very air seemed to resist him less.
"Show me."
"Reach for it. Not with your hands. With your intent."
Alexander focused. He reached for the humming energy inside him. He tried to command it, to shape it.
Nothing happened.
He gritted his teeth, straining. He pushed his will against the reservoir of power. It was like trying to grab smoke. The energy slipped through his mental grasp, refusing to obey.
"You are trying to command a river with your bare hands, boy," Crimson chided. "You must first learn to cup the water."
"How?" Alexander snapped, frustration boiling over.
"Stop trying to force it. Feel it. Let the connection flow."
Alexander took a deep breath. He stopped pushing. Instead, he focused on the feeling of the energy. The constant, low hum.
He imagined not grabbing it, but inviting it.
He visualized a single spark.
A flicker of crimson light danced over his palm. It lasted a heartbeat before sputtering out.
But it was there.
"Better. Again."
He tried again. And again. Each time, the flicker lasted a nanosecond longer. Each failure was a lesson. He learned the shape of his own will, the texture of the demonic energy.
On the tenth try, a small, steady flame the size of an apple hovered above his hand. It cast a bloody, pulsating light, banishing the gloom of the Undercroft.
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
A slow, triumphant grin spread across Alexander's face. "I did it."
"Do not preen," Crimson droned, the psychic equivalent of an eyeroll. "You have managed a toddler's first step. I will reserve my applause for when you can walk and chew mana at the same time."
The flame was gentle but fierce on Alexander's palm. It didn't just emit light, it fueled itself by drinking from the surrounding light.
"The First Flame. A spark of true power, unshackled from the so-called gods."
"You don't think they're gods?" Alexander asked, the heresy feeling natural on his tongue now.
"They are imbeciles playing god with tools they barely understand," Crimson replied, his scorn a physical heat in Alexander's mind.
Alexander held the flame before his eyes and looked at the stone wall.
The world shifted.
This is not their borrowed light. This is power forged in the void between worlds. It answers to your will, not their divine permission," Crimson said, sounding excited.
The solid rock became a latticework of faint, earthy energy. The air was thick with swirling motes of power—red, blue, green—each a different type of mana, invisible to the god-touched senses of the Awakened.
He could see the vibrant life force in the moss, a complex tapestry of green light.
This was the world's true face, its divine skeleton. And he could see it.
"This is so cool!"
"A shift in perception. A worthy cost for one percent of a soul."
The cost. The wonder evaporated, replaced by a chill. He had paid for this sight with a piece of his very being.
"One percent?" Alexander muttered as a new kind of horror dawned. "Shit! I'm on a budget. A soul budget. I guess I'll need to start coupon-clipping for my own existence."
The math was terrifyingly simple. This sight costs one percent of his soul. A major battle could cost him much more.
Every decision was now a calculation of his own worth.
He tried focusing on even bigger threads of energy.
A sharp pain lanced through Alexander's skull. The vision vanished. He stumbled, catching himself against the wall.
"Your mind is weak. It cannot hold the sight for long. Yet."
A new voice echoed down the passage, shattering the moment.
"Prince Alexander? Your father is concerned."
It was Captain Elliot, the head of the royal guard. His tone was flat, devoid of respect. It was the voice of a man sent to retrieve misplaced property.
Alexander extinguished the flame. The world snapped back to mundane reality, feeling dull and fake.
His first instinct was to run. To hide this new power in the deep dark.
"No!" Crimson commanded. "They hunt a frightened rabbit. Give them one. Power is not just a sword. It is also a mask."
Understanding dawned. He was a prince. He had been trained in deception and politics since he could walk.
He rubbed dirt on his fine tunic. He ran his hands through his hair, creating a picture of disheveled panic. He let his shoulders slump, mastering the posture of defeat.
He stepped out of the shadows just as Elliott and two guards rounded the corner.
The captain was a mountain of polished steel and grim efficiency. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned Alexander.
"Prince Alexander. You've caused quite a stir."
"The… the Awakening…" Alexander stammered, putting a perfect tremor in his voice. "I was… ashamed."
Elliott's lip curled slightly. "The King has commanded your presence. The court must see that you are… unharmed."
The unspoken words hung in the air: And not ruining his image.
They led him back up into the palace. The corridors felt like a cage.
Servants and nobles alike stopped to stare. Their whispers were no longer sharp needles, but soft, pitying hammers.
"Poor boy." "To fall so far." "The King's shame." "Why couldn't he awaken much power?"
He saw his brother, Nikolai, standing with a group of young nobles. Nikolai broke away, his face a mask of brotherly concern.
"Alex! Thank the Gods." He placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "Where have you been? We were so worried."
Alexander looked into his brother's eyes. He saw the triumph hidden beneath the feigned worry. He saw the lie.
And with his new sight, he saw something else. A faint, shimmering thread of golden energy, tainted with a sickly grey, connected Nikolai to him.
It made him nauseous, a wrongness he felt in his gut. The thread felt very obscene.
"Hmm…"
"What is it, Crimson?" Alexander asked silently, alarmed by the demon's sudden shift in tone.
"An interesting anomaly, not a natural bond between twins," Crimson replied, his voice carefully neutral. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with yet. Play your part."
The moment passed, but a seed of suspicion was planted. Why would Crimson hide something?
"I just needed to be alone," Alexander mumbled, dropping his gaze.
"Of course," Nikolai said, his voice dripping with sympathy. "Come. Father is waiting."
The throne room was less crowded than the Hall of Awakening, but the audience was more potent. The King's most trusted advisors were there.
Great. The vultures gathered to see the carcass.
King Theron sat on the Sunstone Throne, his expression carved from ice.
"Alexander." The name was a dismissal in itself. "Your theatrics in the Undercroft end now. You will not compound your failure with a display of childish weakness."
Alexander kept his eyes downcast. "Yes, Father."
"The court will talk. To mitigate this… disappointment. You will cede your formal duties to Nikolai. Your focus will be on your academic studies. Out of the public eye."
It was a soft execution. He was being erased, neatly and quietly. Stripped of his future and shelved like a forgotten book. All because he couldn't awaken much power.
"I understand," Alexander whispered, the perfect picture of contrite defeat.
"Dismissed."
The words were a physical blow. He turned and walked away, feeling every stare like a brand. He did not look back.
Alexander knew too well. A weak noble was no noble.
Ceding his duties meant more than losing status. It meant losing access to the royal archives, his network of informants and so much more.
He was being systematically blinded and isolated by his father.
Well, he thought, the sarcasm was a familiar shield against the pain. "There goes my social calendar. I suppose I'm free for all those... staring-at-the-wall appointments I've been meaning to schedule."
He went to his chambers, still opulent, but which now felt like a gilded prison. Alexander finally let the mask slip.
He stood in the center of the room, his hands clenched at his sides.
The humiliation was a fire in his veins. But it was a fire he could use.
He focused inward, past the shame, to the resonant hum of his new power. He reached for it, not with the desperate grasp from before, but with a cool, controlled intent.
A crimson flame, perfect and steady, bloomed above his palm. It was bigger now. Brighter.
He held it, feeding it not with rage, but with a cold, unwavering determination.
He watched the flame dance, its light reflecting in his eyes.
They thought they had contained him. They thought he was broken.
But as he practiced his control, minute by minute, feeling the demonic energy become more and more an extension of his own will, he knew the truth.
He was not in a cage. He was in a forge.
"A forge," he mused, watching the crimson flame dance. "Let's just hope I'm the one holding the hammer, and not the nail."