CHAPTER TWENTY
Reyna descended the last flight of stairs slowly, her limp more pronounced now, the trays in her hands clutched tighter than necessary. The kitchen should have been loud at this hour—fire crackling, servants muttering, metal clinking.
Instead, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
The moment she crossed the threshold, every head turned toward her.
Then—just as quickly—eyes dropped.
Some servants turned away entirely. Others stared for half a heartbeat too long before fear chased their gazes elsewhere. The space parted as she moved forward, demons stepping aside as though she carried something contagious.
Reyna's stomach twisted.
This wasn't what she expected.
Vaelith should have been here—sharp‑tongued, smug, ready to remind her that reporting her meant nothing. She had braced herself for mockery. For punishment.
But this… this was fear.
Her limp worsened as unease crept up her spine.
Inez appeared at her side instantly.
"Reyna—are you alright?" she asked, already taking the trays from her hands. "Here, let me—"
She guided Reyna to a stool before she could protest, setting the trays aside with care. Inez knelt slightly, her eyes scanning Reyna's leg with concern.
"What happened?" Reyna asked softly, her voice tight. "Where is Vaelith? And the others?"
Inez hesitated—only for a fraction of a second.
"Prince Damiel came earlier," she said smoothly. "He… taught Vaelith a lesson."
Reyna's breath caught.
"A… lesson?"
Inez smiled gently, too gently. "Don't worry. Just enough to make her stop bothering you."
Reyna nodded, but the unease didn't leave. It only deepened.
What kind of lesson?
What had he done?
The Dungeon
Vaelith's voice was ruined.
Hoarse, shredded raw from hours of screaming, begging, promising anything—everything.
Chains held her upright, biting into her wrists and ankles. The three other demon servants hung beside her in similar restraints, their bodies trembling, heads bowed, sobs broken and wet.
The air stank of fear.
They felt him before they saw him.
The temperature dropped. The torches flickered violently as a presence heavier than the stone itself filled the dungeon.
Prince Damiel stepped out of the shadows.
All four demons thrashed instinctively, chains rattling as panic surged.
"Your Highness—please—" "We didn't mean—" "She made us—"
Damiel's silver eyes passed over the three without interest.
They stopped on Vaelith.
She stiffened.
"My Prince," she sobbed, "I beg you—"
"Silence," he said calmly.
The word crushed the dungeon flat.
He approached her slowly, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze bored into her, stripping her bare far more cruelly than chains ever could.
"You were the mind behind it," he said quietly. "The hands moved because you told them to."
"I was jealous," she gasped. "That's all—just jealous—"
Jealousy.
Damiel tilted his head slightly.
Kael and Roan stood behind him, still and silent. They exchanged brief glances—surprise flickering between them. Not at the punishment.
At why.
Protection of a human slave was… unexpected.
Roan raised a brow faintly, amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth. Kael shot him a warning look. This was not the time.
Damiel lifted his hand.
Fire bloomed—not wild, not raging.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
"No—NO—PLEASE—!"
The flame pressed against the left side of Vaelith's face.
The scream that tore from her was inhuman.
The smell of burning flesh filled the dungeon as she thrashed violently, chains screaming in protest as her body fought what it could not escape, as the other three demons watch in fear, sobbing quietly,hoping not to attract his attention.
Damiel did not flinch.
He watched.
When the fire vanished, Vaelith sagged in her restraints, sobbing brokenly, her ruined face twitching with agony, red, sour, burnt.
Her beauty—gone.
The thing she valued most—destroyed.
Damiel turned away as though bored.
"Roan. Kael."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Teach the others," he said, voice cold and precise, "what it feels like to drown. Slowly. Let them beg for air until they understand what mercy costs."
The three demons began screaming.
Damiel was already walking away.
Behind him, hatred was born.
Not towards him.
But hotter—sharper—for the human.
Reyna.
Vaelith's remaining eye burned with it.
She would make Reyna feel every breath she herself had begged for.
Night pressed against the tall windows of the throne room. Torchlight flickered over black marble and sprawling war maps. Power lingered in the room—old, patient, watching.
Queen Alvira sat before the black‑marble table, fingers drumming slowly against the surface,
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
each tap precise—measured.
Patience was a weapon she had mastered long before the crown ever touched her head.
Prince Vaelor paced the room like a caged beast, claws flexing at his sides.
"This is pointless," he snapped. "Damiel has no weakness. No vices. No lovers. No loyalty beyond the battlefield."
Alvira did not look at him.
"Every creature has a soft place," she said calmly. "Even monsters."
Prince Arkes leaned against the pillar, thoughtful, eyes narrowed, as though he remembered something.
"He brought a girl at the Feast of Selection," he said. "A human. Beautiful. Pure. Unimportant—or so it seemed."
Vaelor scoffed.
"A distraction. The werewolves were already stirring that day."
Alvira finally raised her gaze.
"Hmm, Interesting," she said softly, "A human within his walls, weak, fragile, everything he stands against."
Silence crept into the room.
"We look at him and see power," Alvira continued. "We see the general. The executioner. The thing that crawled out of hell and learned how to wear a crown."
Her lips curved faintly.
"But power always hides something fragile inside it. Otherwise it wouldn't need walls."
She rose, walking toward the map of the palace. Her finger traced Damiel's territory—slow, deliberate.
"He does not fear death," she said. "He does not fear betrayal. He does not even fear the King."
Her finger stopped.
"And yet he brought a human into his world."
Vaelor's stopped.
"So?"
"So," she said, setting the goblet down, "hell does not protect what it does not want."
Arkes exhaled slowly.
"If you're wrong—"
"I am never wrong," Alvira cut in.
She stepped closer, voice lowering.
Vaelor frowned.
"You think he cares?"
"I think," Alvira replied, "that he doesn't realize he does."
"Humans slip through cracks demons never see. Pity opens doors strength cannot. And pain…"
She paused.
"Pain makes people careless."
Vaelor's expression darkened.
"You want to use the girl."
"I want to observe the girl," Alvira corrected. "If she is nothing, we lose nothing. If she is something—"
Her smile sharpened.
Arkes straightened.
"After the execution, no one will dare approach him. The castle is sealed tighter than ever."
Alvira smiled then—cold, knowing.
"You underestimate your mother,"
She turned, eyes gleaming.
"I have set a mole within his walls, who reports to me, she said with a smile, as both Arkes and Vealor looked at each other and smiled.
"We will not strike him, not yet," she continued,"We will let him open himself."
A pause.
"And when he does," she whispered, "we will decide whether we cut out the weakness…
or carve it deeper.