The wax seal on the report had already softened when the temperature dropped.
Not gradually. Not naturally.
One moment, the air in my study was warm from the hearth. The next, it pressed against my skin like cold water. Heavy. Expectant.
I stopped reading.
Slowly, I slid the parchment aside and opened the drawer beneath my desk. My fingers closed around the hilt of the ceremonial dagger inside—not because I expected steel to save me, but because authority meant nothing if you hesitated to enforce it.
The candles went out.
Not flickered.
Not dimmed.
Extinguished. All at once.
"Commander Valeira."
The voice didn't come from any single direction. It settled into the room as if the walls themselves had spoken—smooth, calm, utterly unhurried.
"You've been expecting me."
I raised my head without changing my posture.
"I've been expecting something," I replied evenly. "Whether that something is you depends on what you do next."
Silence.
Then the shadows in the far corner shifted.
Not moved—thickened. As if darkness itself had gained weight.
A man emerged from it.
Tall. Dark-haired. Dressed too simply for nobility, too finely for a soldier. His presence distorted the room in subtle ways—the space around him felt wrong, stretched thin like glass under pressure.
Human. That was the first lie my instincts rejected.
"You're calm," he observed.
"I stopped panicking after the third demon incursion," I said. "You're either here to kill me, threaten me, or manipulate me. Pick one."
"None."
"Then you're interrupting government work."
He crossed the room in three measured steps.
Too few.
He stopped an arm's length away. Close enough that I could see myself reflected in his eyes—black, bottomless, with something moving beneath the surface.
Then—
He knelt.
Not a courtesy bow.
Not a symbolic gesture.
A full kneel.
One knee to the stone. Head lowered. Fist pressed to his chest in a salute so old it only existed in forbidden texts.
"I am here to serve you," he said.
Then, softly, deliberately—
"Master."
The word landed like a blade.
My hand hovered near the dagger, but I didn't reach for it.
"Stand," I ordered.
He rose instantly.
Too instantly.
"Names," I said. "Now."
"The one I once used has lost its meaning," he replied. "You may give me another."
"That's not how introductions work."
A faint smile touched his lips. Not warmth. Recognition.
"You already know what I am," he said. "You're deciding what to do with me."
That was true. I didn't like that he knew it.
"You bypassed Council wards," I said. "Imperial seals. Blood barriers. Explain."
"I was invited."
"I didn't invite you."
"You did," he corrected gently. "Just not consciously."
That was worse.
I stood, circling the desk to face him fully. He didn't move—just tracked me, predatory patience in every line of his body.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you do not kneel," he answered. "Not to kings. Not to councils. Not to gods."
My jaw tightened.
He continued, voice unhurried. "Because you choose duty over comfort. Because you would rather be feared than adored. Because you will burn the world down if it means protecting it."
"And that makes me special?"
"That makes you dangerous."
I exhaled slowly. "You're well-informed."
"I've watched you," he said without shame. "Longer than you would like."
Cold settled in my spine.
"Why now?"
"Because the seals are failing," he replied. "Because your Council is already choosing who to sacrifice. Because in six weeks, something older than both of us will tear through the Ashen Wastes."
"And you," I said flatly, "are the solution."
"I am a weapon," he corrected. "One that chooses its wielder."
That, finally, made my pulse spike.
"I don't accept blind loyalty," I said. "And I don't trust beings who kneel without chains."
His gaze sharpened.
"I kneel because I want to," he said. "Not because I am bound."
That should have frightened me more than any threat.
"I want proof," I said. "Something verifiable. Something you can't fake."
"Name it."
I didn't hesitate. "A missing supply caravan. Northern route. Three days overdue."
His eyes flickered—not uncertainty, but calculation.
"By dawn," he said.
"That's impossible."
"Nothing about me is possible."
He turned toward the window, then paused.
"When I return," he added, "your Council will know of me."
"They won't."
"They will," he said softly. "I no longer hide."
Then he vanished.
Not escaped.
Not teleported.
Simply… ceased.
The candles relit themselves.
I stared at the scorch mark burned into the stone where he had knelt.
Still warm.
Later, I unlocked a drawer I hadn't touched in years.
The forbidden texts smelled of dust and old ink. I flipped pages until I found the symbol.
The same mark.
The Seal of the Willing Damned.
Those who serve by choice.
Those who kneel without chains.
My throat tightened.
Midnight bells tolled.
I had barely returned to my desk when the air shifted again.
"You're early," I said without looking up.
"I'm thorough."
He stood by the window, holding a bloodstained ring.
"Caravan master Torvin Greiss," he said. "Alive. Wounded. His men are being ransomed at the eastern docks."
He placed the ring on my desk.
I picked it up. The seal was authentic. The blood fresh.
"Location," I said quietly.
He gave it.
I met his gaze. "Your name."
The smile vanished.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Names bind."
"I don't command what I don't understand."
For a long moment, he studied me.
Then—
He knelt again.
The walls trembled.
"I am the king who burned empires," he said. "The one your ancestors sealed away in terror."
Fire bloomed in his eyes.
"I am the Demon King."
He lifted his head.
"And I kneel," he said, voice reverent and lethal,
"because you are the only one I will ever obey."
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