As the servant closed the door behind her, Daemon lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the wooden panels. Why had his father summoned him?
It was rare enough for them to speak at all. Whether due to his stepmother's influence or the circumstances of his birth, Daemon had always been treated as an outcast.
He was born to a nameless woman—someone his father had bedded during a trip to the western provinces. She died giving birth to him, and with her death went any claim to status or protection. From the moment he opened his eyes, Daemon was branded a stain on the royal bloodline. The fact that he was allowed to live at all was seen by many as a mercy, one that the family extended more out of duty than affection.
Still, the summons was real. And so, without further delay, he stepped out and began making his way toward the royal library.
The halls of the estate were as pristine as ever. Every wall was gleaming white, adorned with golden filigree and intricate symbols etched from a time when the royal bloodline still commanded reverence. A rich red carpet stretched beneath his boots, leading him forward like a guiding path. Above, crystal chandeliers hung in perfect symmetry, their pale glow illuminating every corner with measured elegance.
As Daemon approached the library, he noticed the door was already ajar. Inside stood a tall figure, unmistakable even at a glance.
His father.
The King of East Elariya.
He was a man carved by war—tall and imposing, with a frame that exuded both power and discipline. His tunic, though formal, clung to a body hardened by countless battles. Scars crossed his arms and neck like faded memories. His short blond hair framed a chiselled face that rarely showed emotion, save for a certain intensity in his icy blue eyes.
Despite having long since shifted from warrior to ruler, the King had never abandoned his martial roots. He was an Ascended—a man not only to be respected, but feared.
The King turned, his eyes locking onto Daemon with quiet authority. His voice cut through the silence like a drawn blade.
"You've arrived."
"You requested my presence," Daemon replied evenly.
"Yes. Let's sit."
His father gestured to a pair of leather chairs positioned beneath one of the tall windows. Without a word, Daemon followed, every motion measured. Under his father's gaze, even a misplaced breath could be judged. This wasn't simply a conversation—it was a test.
The two of them sat. One stiff with unease, the other unreadable.
"The news from your brother's expedition arrived earlier than expected," the King said, his gaze drifting toward the window.
For a moment, his voice softened. His sharp eyes seemed distant, as if seeing through the glass and into some distant memory. Then the coldness returned.
"Ezran and all his companions were killed within the Fourth Barrier. Slain by what the report calls an 'Unhallowed Monster.'"
Daemon froze.
His mind rebelled against the words. He wanted to argue, to deny it. But he couldn't. His father was many things—harsh, distant, pragmatic—but he was never careless with truth. He would not say this unless it was certain.
The weight of it sank in like a stone. Daemon stared at the floor, thoughts spiralling. How could this have happened?
Ezran was an Ascended. A prodigy. Even if an Unhallowed had broken through, he should've been able to hold his own, at least long enough for reinforcements. And he wouldn't have gone down without taking the beast with him.
But it wasn't just Ezran. His companions, handpicked royal guards assigned to protect the heir, had perished too. Soldiers trained for this very threat. Something didn't add up.
Suspicion crept into Daemon's mind.
And then came the blow.
"They were assassinated," his father said, voice as flat as ever.
Daemon's head snapped up. "H-huh?!"
His father's lip curled slightly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "Unhallowed Monster?" he scoffed. "Whoever wrote that drivel was either panicked or bought."
Daemon's thoughts raced.
"...But who would want to assassinate the heir?"
The King went silent, his jaw tightening. He looked out the window again, but this time, there was something else in his expression. Regret? Anger? Daemon couldn't tell. The mask never cracked—not fully. But something flickered behind those cold eyes.
The room grew heavy with unspoken words.
This had never happened before. Not even during the worst tensions between East and West Elariya. Political games? Sure. Trade disputes? Constant. But the assassination of the eldest prince? That was an act of war.
Daemon wanted to press for answers. To know who had done it, and why. But before he could speak, his father cut through the silence once more.
"Get ready to leave."
Daemon blinked. "What?"
"You'll go with Veymar. We've arranged for you to hide in one of our safehouses inside the Third Barrier."
"What? Hide? Why would I—"
The King didn't speak.
Instead, he turned and shot Daemon a glare—cold, sharp, and unrelenting. It spoke louder than any words could. A command. A warning. A truth that Daemon wasn't ready to face.
And in that silence, Daemon understood.