Chapter Three
Darien sat upright on his bed, the lingering heat of the nightmare still clinging to his skin. His breath was steady, but his eyes gleamed with a crimson glow that did not belong to the prince.
Slowly, he rose and crossed the chamber, his bare feet silent against the marble floor. He stopped before the window and pushed the heavy curtains aside.
The night was empty. The moon was veiled, hidden, as though refusing to shine.
Darien's lips curved into a dark smile. "Scared to show yourself? Of course you should be," he murmured, his voice laced with mockery.
Turning from the window, he moved to the tall mirror that stood at the corner of his room. There, his reflection stared back at him—every line of his face carved with perfection, his body a flawless vessel.
"A perfect appearance," he whispered, almost in admiration. Yet even as he looked at himself, his mind wandered elsewhere.
He remembered.
He was supposed to awaken fully the moment she was born. That was the pact, the prophecy, the curse. But for eighteen years he had felt nothing—only silence.
Until now.
Now, he felt her.
A presence like moonlight threading through the darkness of his soul.
His lips twisted into an evil smirk. "At last… you are of age."
The words echoed in the chamber, cold and final. But as he spoke them, a sharp pain stabbed through his head. He staggered, gripping the edge of the mirror.
A voice rose inside him—not his own, but the true prince, struggling to claw his way back to the surface.
Darien's smirk faltered, his crimson eyes flickering faintly blue.
No… the prince's voice strained, desperate. This is my body. My life. You cannot have it.
The devil's laugh echoed in his mind, low and merciless.
"Stubborn fool. Stop resisting. We are both one. But I am the one in control."
Darien's body shook, caught between two wills, two souls locked in endless war. One—human, fighting to remain himself. The other—devil, hungry to consume.
And for the first time in years, the balance threatened to break.
Outside the fourth prince's chamber, two guards stood at their post as they had every night. They were accustomed to the sounds within—the restless movements, the murmurs of nightmares, the whispers that no one dared speak of aloud. Prince Darien's nights were never peaceful.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the murmuring lasted longer, harsher, as though he wrestled with something unseen. And when it finally ended, the silence was broken by his voice—clear, sharp, almost as if he was speaking to someone. Yet there was no one else in the room.
The two guards exchanged a glance. At last, one of them, his face pale with worry, dared to push the chamber door open.
"Your Highness?" he called softly.
Inside, he found Darien standing before the mirror, bare-chested, his left hand pressed hard against his temple. His shoulders trembled slightly, his breath uneven.
"My prince," the guard ventured, stepping forward, "I heard your voice. Do you… do you need something?"
Darien did not turn. His crimson reflection in the glass smirked back at him, though his real lips were pressed in silence. At last, he spoke, his voice low, edged with a dangerous calm.
"I do not recall calling for you," he said. "Get out… if you want to keep your head intact."
The guard froze, terror striking through him like lightning. Never had the prince spoken so coldly, never with such a threat.
"I–I beg your pardon, Your Highness!" the guard stammered, bowing quickly before retreating. He shut the door behind him and nearly collapsed against the wall, his face drained of color.
The other guard glanced at him sharply. "What happened? Is he well?"
The shaken man could only nod, though his heart thundered. "I… I do not know. But something about him tonight… it isn't the prince we serve."
He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Our fourth prince has always been brave… gentle, even kind. But the man I just saw—he wasn't gentle. His presence… it felt heavy. Dark. Like standing before a predator."
The second guard stiffened, eyes darting to the closed chamber door. Both men fell silent after that, standing rigid at their posts, but neither could shake the same thought.
Something had changed inside their prince tonight.
Something they could not understand… and dared not speak of.
After the guard fled, silence filled the chamber once more. Darien turned back to the mirror, crimson eyes gleaming with an unholy light. His lips curved into a smirk.
"Seems you still think you can take this body back whenever you wish," he murmured. "But tonight, it belongs to me."
He reached for the dark robe laid beside him, slipping it over his bare shoulders. The air in the chamber seemed to shiver as shadows curled around his form—until, in a blink, he vanished.
When his eyes opened again, he was no longer in the palace. He stood beneath a twisted canopy of trees, the scent of earth and night heavy around him. His ears caught the sound of hurried footsteps—soft, desperate, fleeing.
A thrill coursed through him.
"There she is…" he whispered.
His gaze fixed on the figure ahead. A girl with flowing silver hair, running, stumbling through the dark. She was fast, but she could not outrun him. She belonged to him.
He gave chase.
Branches clawed at her gown as she fled, her breath breaking, her lips trembling in terror. But at last, her body faltered and she fell to the ground. Slowly, she turned—her wide eyes meeting his crimson gaze. Fear clung to her like a second skin.
Darien stepped forward, his smirk widening.
"Why are you running," his voice rumbled, low and haunting, "when you cannot escape me?"
His shadow loomed over her as he extended his hand, fingers stretching to claim her face. She felt it then—the pull, the inevitability, as though her very soul was already his.
But just as his touch neared her—
He vanished.
Back in the chamber, Darien stood smirking into the darkness. "Now you know…" he whispered. "I am coming for you."
And with that, he collapsed to his knees. His crimson eyes flickered violently, then dulled into deep blue once more.
The fourth prince had taken back his body.
Darien gasped for air, clutching at his chest, his mind spinning with fragments of terror. He remembered the forest. He remembered the silver-haired girl. He remembered her perfect face.
And though he sat alone in his chamber, a single truth echoed inside him—
The devil was no longer waiting.
He was moving.