Chapter Five
Morning came to the kingdom of Theodonria, but for the fourth prince, there was no peace in its light.
Inside his chamber, Prince Darien Wolmort sat on the edge of his bed, his hands buried in his hair, his eyes shadowed. He had not dared to close his eyes again after what had happened the night before—after the Devil had taken his body so completely. Sleep, once an uneasy companion, had become an enemy.
His chambers, though spacious compared to a soldier's quarters, felt like a cage. Heavy curtains blocked the morning sun, yet thin rays still managed to creep through the gaps, illuminating dust in the still air. The silence pressed against him, broken only by the pounding of his own thoughts.
The creak of the door pulled him from his misery. His personal servant, Janus, stepped inside and bowed.
"Your Highness," he greeted softly.
Darien did not respond. He only stared into the floor, his jaw tight, his breaths shallow as though even breathing carried weight.
Janus hesitated before speaking again, lowering his voice with caution. "His Majesty, the King, has summoned all princes to the throne hall. You must prepare, my lord. I will ready your bath."
Without waiting for permission, the servant moved toward the adjoining chamber. The sound of water being poured into the copper tub echoed faintly, mingling with the rustle of linens and the faint clatter of bronze basins.
Darien sat in silence, his thoughts dark. The King had summoned him. But should he tell his father what happened last night? Should he reveal that the whispers were no longer whispers, that the thing inside him had risen fully?
No. He could not. He knew too well how much his father despised him—how much he despised anything that bore the mark of the unnatural.
It was said that Darien's very birth had been shrouded in omens. The night he was born, storms raged for three days without pause. The priests, trembling, had spoken of dark portents and warned King Lucas that the child was cursed. When he turned eighteen, the priests declared him touched by the Devil himself, a vessel waiting to be claimed.
Yet the King had not executed him as he had so many other "tainted" beings. The people whispered that it was because Darien was of royal blood, that King Lucas Wolmort could not kill his own son.
But Darien knew better. He had seen the hatred in his father's eyes—the same hatred he once thought was only for the mother who had died birthing him. In time, he learned the truth: his father had despised her long before, from the moment she carried him.
And in that hatred, Darien had begun to wonder… was he truly his father's son at all?
The memory of his childhood haunted him still. While his brothers had trained in the yard with knights and tutors, he had been sent away to study in the shadowed libraries, watched carefully by priests who muttered prayers under their breath whenever he entered a room. Servants crossed themselves when he passed. Children of the court whispered "Devil's spawn" behind his back. Even his brothers mocked him openly, secure in their father's favor.
Now, at twenty-three, he wore the scars of that isolation like invisible armor. He could command armies, but not his own bloodline. He could inspire soldiers, but never loyalty within his own palace walls.
When his bath was ready, Janus returned, quiet as always. Darien rose, shedding the weight of his thoughts as he shed his nightclothes. He endured the motions—washing, dressing in the dark blue doublet embroidered with the sigil of his house, allowing the servant to bind his long black hair with a silver clasp.
He ate a quiet breakfast in his quarters—simple bread, cheese, and watered wine—as he always had. He had never been allowed to sit at the King's table since he was a child. That place was for princes the King acknowledged.
At last, when the time came, he rose. The summons of the King could not be ignored.
The walk to the throne hall was long, and each step heavy, as though walking toward a fate he already dreaded. The palace corridors stretched wide, lined with tapestries of battles won by kings past, but the grandeur did nothing to lessen the stares he received. Servants hurried out of his path, bowing low but avoiding his eyes. Guards stood straighter, their hands tightening on spear shafts, as though bracing against an unseen force.
Darien ignored them all. His boots echoed sharply against the marble floor, the sound following him like a warning drum. As he turned the last corner, he glimpsed his brothers ahead of him, striding toward the great hall.
The eldest, Crown Prince Aldric, walked with a regal air, his golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, his cloak of crimson trailing behind him. Beside him, the second prince, Marcus, laughed at some jest, his voice carrying easily. The third, Rowan, smirked as his gaze flicked back and caught sight of Darien. His whisper to Marcus was soft, but Darien's ears, sharpened by years of surviving scorn, caught the words.
"The devil walks behind us."
They laughed, not even bothering to hide it.
Darien's fists clenched at his sides, but he said nothing. He had learned long ago that silence was his only shield.
At last, they entered the throne hall. Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, casting colors across the cold marble floor. The nobles were already assembled, their eyes turning as one to watch the fourth prince enter.
Their whispers filled the air like buzzing flies.
"Look at him…"
"Those eyes—always too dark."
"I heard he doesn't bleed like other men."
Darien lifted his chin, his face a mask of stone, and walked forward to kneel before his father's throne.
The summons had begun.