The wind howled through the palace's high stone arches, carrying with it the scent of distant storms and the faint, metallic tang of blood from the training yards below. The royal banners—once vibrant crimson and gold, now faded to the color of old wounds—stirred listlessly in the draft.
Aleron paced the length of the throne room, his armored boots striking the marble with a rhythm like a war drum. His fingers flexed at his sides, void energy crackling in restless arcs around his knuckles. The remnants of his last outburst still scarred the room: a shattered mirror, its shards glinting like fallen stars; deep gouges in the obsidian table where his claws had raked through stone as easily as flesh.
At the far end of the hall, King Aric stood before the towering stained-glass windows, his silhouette framed by the dying light. The panes depicted the kingdom's founding—mythic warriors slaying beasts, their faces eerily resembling Aric's own sharp features. He did not turn as Aleron's pacing grew more erratic. He didn't need to.
Queen Selene sat beside the throne, her posture regal, her hands folded in her lap like a priestess at prayer. Her silver-threaded gown pooled around her, shimmering faintly, as if woven from moonlight itself. Her eyes, the pale blue of winter frost, flicked toward Aleron only once—a silent warning.
Then Aric spoke.
"We will use Dragonlord's strength."
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Aleron whirled, his voice a snarl. "For what? To humiliate me again?" The last word cracked, raw with something too close to pain. He hated the way it sounded. Hated that it had escaped him at all.
Aric turned slowly, his gaze sharp as a honed dagger. "To crush two threats at once. The Demon Lord and Dragonlord himself." A pause, deliberate. "One stone. Two dragons felled."
Aleron stilled. The audacity of it settled over him, cold and calculating. The Demon Lord was a scourge, a being who had broken entire nations beneath his heel. And Dragonlord? Dragonlord was a force beyond reckoning. To pit them against one another was madness. Suicide.
"You'd sacrifice an army to make this work?" Aleron scoffed.
Aric's lips curled, just slightly. "We won't send an army. A few hundred men. A trifling loss, if it means both beasts tear each other apart."
Aleron barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "And who in the Nine Hells would march a handful of soldiers against a Demon Lord?"
"Your brother will."
The word struck like a slap. "Brother?" Aleron's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Don't call that slave my kin."
Aric inclined his head, the barest mockery of apology. "My mistake."
Aleron's claws unsheathed, void-dark and humming with barely restrained power. "Even if he kills the Demon Lord, how do we kill him? You know what he is. What he can do."
"Every battle, he vanishes," Aric mused. "Some hidden sanctuary where he heals beyond our reach."
"Exactly. No one can touch him there."
Aric's gaze slid to the shadows near the pillars. "That," he said, "is where your sister comes in."
A figure detached itself from the gloom. Seraphina stepped forward, her arms crossed, her expression one of practiced boredom. But her fingers—fine-boned and usually so still—tapped a restless rhythm against her sleeve.
"Just say it, Father," she drawled. "What do you need me to do? Let's end this charade."
As she spoke, a tightness coiled in her chest. She told herself it was irritation. Annoyance at being summoned like some common retainer. But beneath that, deeper, something else flickered—the memory of Dragonlord's quiet gaze, the way he had once looked at her before she taught herself to look away.
"After Dragonlord defeats the Demon Lord," Aric said, "we will summon him here. We'll say his dear sister has something to tell him."
Seraphina's eyebrow arched. "You think he'll come running just because I call? Like some loyal hound?"
Aric's chuckle was low, predatory. "You'll see."
She rolled her eyes, but the motion was too sharp, too forced. "Fine. Let me guess—you want me to block his healing."
Before Aric could respond, Aleron cut in, his voice edged with frustration. "Even weakened, he's a monster. I could strike him then, but I'd be torn apart. I don't regrow limbs in a day."
"Why risk yourself?" Aric's smile was a blade. "Once Seraphina seals his healing, the soldiers will finish him."
Aleron frowned. "The soldiers? They worship him. They'd sooner cut their own throats than raise a sword to him."
Queen Selene's voice, cool and precise, slithered into the conversation. "They avoid his gaze because they fear him. But fear is malleable." Her fingers traced the armrest of the throne, leaving faint trails of frost in their wake. "My power has already woven into their minds. The deeper their dread, the easier they are to bend."
Her lips curved. "Without his healing, he'll be no god—just a man. And I will turn their fear to fury."
Aleron's eyes flickered—uncertainty, then resolve. "If the soldiers turn… and I strike at the right moment…" He trailed off, nodding slowly. "It could work."
The plan hung between them, delicate as a blade balanced on a single thread.
Aleron and Seraphina both knew the flaws. Dragonlord would never march with a handful of men against a Demon Lord. It was beneath him. Insulting, even. The king's own generals would protest—no sane commander would throw away lives like dice in a gambler's game.
And even if, by some madness, he agreed… why would he come to the throne room afterward? After every battle, he vanished like a ghost, retreating to whatever hidden sanctuary kept him beyond their reach. Why would this time be different?
But there was no risk in trying. If he came, the trap would spring. If not, they would feign ignorance. A gamble, nothing more.King Aric, however, was certain. Not because of faith or strategy, but because of his gift—the fleeting visions that had never once led him astray. He had seen it. Dragonlord, bloodied but unbowed, kneeling in the throne room. The rest was smoke.
Queen Selene, ever his shadow, needed no further convincing. She had stood beside him for decades. He had never been wrong.
The betrayal was already in motion.
And somewhere, far from the scheming and the poisoned words, Dragonlord stood in a valley of iridescent flowers, unaware that the only family he had ever known was sharpening a knife for his back.
[Chapter 3 End]