Lith limped through the ruined corridors, each step dragging a trail of pain behind him. His body was barely holding itself together, shoulder torn, ribs fractured, vision still flickering at the edges. He followed Syrax by scent alone now, that faint familiar trace cutting through the ash and blood of the collapsing castle like a guiding thread.
No enemies.
No guards.
No resistance.
Just silence.
Too much of it.
The deeper the prince went, the more wrong it felt, like the war itself had stopped bothering to exist in this part of the palace.
Eventually, he reached it.
A towering crimson door.
Unmarked. Unbroken. Waiting.
He stopped in front of it.
For a moment, his breath caught.
His mind slipped.
Crystal.
Her face behind it.
Still.
Gone.
The memory hit harder than any blow he had taken that day. His hands trembled as they lifted slightly, hovering near the door, not quite touching it.
"…no," he muttered under his breath. "Not again."
His jaw tightened.
The pain, the rage, the helplessness, all of it coiled together until there was nothing left but a single point of resolve.
If this was what it came to.
If this was where it ended.
Then so be it.
Syrax exhaled sharply.
And drove his fist forward.
The crimson door exploded off its hinges in a violent burst of shattered wood and stone, crashing into the chamber beyond with enough force to shake the walls.
Inside was vast.
A throne chamber carved in dark stone and deep red light, banners hanging still despite the distant chaos of war. At its center stood a man.
Lukon.
White hair fell loosely around his face, contrasting sharply against dark brown skin marked by age and conflict. Curled horns rose from his head like a crown worn through battle rather than ceremony.
He wore simple warrior garments, practical and worn, the kind that spoke more of movement than rule. At his side rested a longsword, unadorned but heavy with presence, as if it had ended more wars than it had ever been drawn for display.
He did not move when the door shattered.
Did not even turn immediately.
Only after the dust settled did he tilt his head slightly, acknowledging the presence behind him.
Then a voice filled the chamber.
Not from one place.
From everywhere.
A thundering whisper layered over itself, as if dozens of voices spoke in perfect unison, bending sound into something almost sacred.
"Welcome home son."
Syrax never took his eyes off Lukon.
The throne chamber felt smaller the closer he walked, like the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. Each step was steady, controlled, but the air around him carried something sharp enough to cut through the silence. Rage, yes. But focused. Contained. Dangerous in a way noise never could be.
He stopped a foot away from the throne.
Close enough to see the changes clearly.
Lukon still wore the shape of a king, but only in silhouette. Red tendrils coiled through the throne like living veins, pulsing with a wet, rhythmic motion. A dark liquid seeped through the cracks in the stone beneath it, the metallic scent thick enough to cling to the throat. Whatever sat there now was not entirely what it had been before.
Syrax's face mirrored his father's in structure, in presence, in the quiet weight of command.
But where Lukon had rot creeping through his expression, Syrax carried something else entirely.
Red veins pulsed faintly beneath his skin.
And a dark, unsettling smile now sat where grief used to live.
"Where is she?" Syrax asked.
His voice did not rise.
It did not need to.
The question landed like a blade.
Lukon leaned forward slightly, studying him with something between amusement and disgust. Then he snorted, a low, guttural sound, before rising from the throne.
He stepped down slowly, red tendrils retracting and stretching in lazy motion behind him as he moved.
"Whoa there, kid," Lukon said, voice thick with mockery. "You finally grew some balls after cuddling with the humans, didn't you?"
Syrax did not blink.
Did not move.
Did not react.
The air around him tightened.
His silver eyes shifted.
Then fully bled into red.
Calmly.
Completely.
"…Where is she?" he repeated.
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Lukon tilted his head, grin widening as he walked back toward the throne, almost casually, as if the tension meant nothing at all. He lowered himself onto it again, resting an arm on the armrest as the red growths beneath him pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
"Well," he said, voice dropping into something almost conversational, "we think there's no harm in telling you the truth."
A pause.
The liquid beneath the throne rippled.
"After all," Lukon continued, eyes half-lidded, "you will die here. As all the others."
Lukon's smile didn't change when he spoke.
It only deepened.
And when he finally answered Syrax, it wasn't with anger or denial. It was with history.
"Long ago," he began, voice spreading through the chamber like something that didn't belong in one body anymore, "before this planet had civilization, there was us. The Golthraki."
The air around him darkened slightly as the name settled.
"I believe they used to call us Vampires," he added almost casually, as if explaining something simple. "We called it a beautiful time."
Syrax did not move.
Lukon continued, pacing slowly now in front of the throne as the red tendrils pulsed behind him.
"The humans, demons, beasts… all too busy tearing each other apart to notice us. We hunted them in their sleep. It was war, after all. No one notices a missing soldier or two. And if they did," he gave a small shrug, "it was blamed on the enemy."
The metallic scent in the room grew heavier.
"When we finally took over, there was no one left who could stand against us. Blood ran thick. Sweet."
His tone shifted slightly.
Not nostalgic.
Hungry.
"Until they rebelled."
A faint tightening in the air.
"The humans and their ether. The panthers with their sunfire. They fought well. Three generations was all it took to overthrow us."
A pause.
"Pathetic, really."
Syrax's hand twitched near his side, but he still did not speak.
Lukon stopped walking.
"And so we ran," he continued. "We sealed ourselves in a dark dimension. Waiting. Watching."
The throne behind him creaked softly as the red growths pulsed.
"Centuries passed. Then we made a breakthrough."
His eyes flicked toward Syrax now.
"A child of our blood. One who could walk in sunfire without burning."
Silence tightened.
"So we let him loose," Lukon said, almost gently now. "Dropped him into the one place he could survive without suspicion. Demon territory."
A faint chuckle.
"From what we saw… no one remembered the Age of Blood anymore. Which made things easier."
Syrax's expression finally shifted slightly.
Not fear.
Recognition forming into something colder.
Lukon's smile widened.
"When we saw the power of the queen," he said, voice lowering, "we pushed the boy closer. Into the house. Into her orbit. We guided him subconsciously. Nudged him. Until he found himself in her daughters bed."
The words landed heavier than any attack.
"And now," Lukon continued, "with her power absorbed and channeled through us, the plan moves ahead decades faster than expected."
The red liquid beneath the throne rippled again.
Lukon tilted his head.
"But now…" he said, studying Syrax properly, "we may have a place for you."
A pause.
"Child of demon and Golthraki blood. An exceptional combination."
His smile sharpened.
"So we say this only once, boy."
The entire chamber seemed to contract around the sentence.
"Join us… or die."
Syrax let out a short laugh.
Not amused.
Relieved.
"Thank you," he said simply, eyes still locked on Lukon. "That answers everything I needed."
Lukon's smile didn't move.
"Yes," the thing wearing his father replied calmly. "The child is quite fond of you. Even now, in his deep sleep, he resists us. But with so many voices present, he has no hope of waking unless we allow it."
His head tilted slightly.
"If you choose to help us, you may save him. When we return, you and your father can reunite… and join our empire."
Syrax's gaze sharpened.
"…and my mother?"
For the first time, Lukon hesitated.
The smile flickered.
Something behind his eyes shifted, just for a moment, like a reflection of someone else trying to surface through deep water.
A single tear of blood rolled down his cheek.
"Unfortunately," he said quietly, "we do not believe the queen would survive this."
Silence snapped tight.
Then Syrax moved.
He crossed the distance in an instant and drove a punch into Lukon's face.
The impact detonated outward with overwhelming force, blowing his hair back, cracking the air itself, shaking the throne room walls.
But Lukon didn't budge.
Not even a step.
His head turned slightly back into place, smile returning as if nothing had happened at all.
"Ah," he said softly. "So you've decided."
Syrax's stance tightened again, but before he could follow up, Lukon blurred.
A hand wrapped around his throat.
Too fast to track.
Too strong to resist.
Syrax was lifted clean off the ground until they were eye to eye, Lukon studying him with quiet disappointment.
"Such a waste," Lukon murmured.
Then he struck him.
A single backhand sent Syrax flying through the chamber like a broken arrow, air ripping around him as he was hurled toward the far wall.
Syrax steadied his mind mid-flight.
Dust cloud. Timing. Counterstrike.
He prepared to vanish into it the moment he hit.
Except he never hit the wall.
Something caught him.
Strong arm. Steady grip.
Syrax's breath caught as he was pulled out of the impact line entirely.
He looked up.
Lith.
Barely recognizable.
Broken.
Bloodied.
One shoulder torn open, flesh missing, black and gold form barely holding together.
"…glad I'm not late," Lith said with a crooked grin, as if this was just another inconvenient appointment.
Syrax blinked once.
Then exhaled slowly.
"…you look terrible," he muttered.
Lith shifted him upright slightly, keeping his stance steady despite everything.
"Yeah," Lith replied. "Your family reunion looks worse."
Behind them, Lukon straightened slowly on the far side of the throne room, watching the two of them now with mild curiosity.
Lith rolled his shoulder once, eyes locking onto him.
"…so that's your dad?" he asked Syrax quietly.
Syrax didn't look away from Lukon.
"…not anymore," he said.
Lith's grin sharpened.
"Good."
And for the first time since this all began, Syrax wasn't standing alone in front of something that felt impossible.