CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The execution ground did not quiet when Damiel left.
The screams lingered—clinging to stone, to iron, to the air itself. Even hours later, the scent of burned flesh and ash hung over Avalon like a curse that refused to lift.
Demons whispered.
Slaves and servants fear grew.
And Reyna could not stop shaking.
She had stood among the servants, head bowed, hands clenched so tightly together her nails bit into her palms. She had not screamed. Had not cried.
Watched as bodies burned from the inside out.
Watched as demons begged and were answered with silence.
Watched as Prince Damiel stood unmoved, silver eyes blazing with hellfire, unflinching as lives were erased beneath his gaze.
That was when she understood.
Prince Damiel was not cruel in anger.
He was cruel in calm.
Now, hours later, the palace felt… wrong.
Too quiet.
Too careful.
Reyna moved through the halls with her head down, carrying folded linens, her steps light and quick. The bullying had not stopped—it had evolved, it felt like they were trying to pacify their anger out on her.
A shoulder slammed into her as she passed.
"Watch where you're going, human." A servant said, they made it seem, as though being a human is worst than a slave.
A tray was knocked from her hands in the corridor. No one helped her pick it up.
In the kitchen, a maid hissed under her breath, "It would have been better if you were the one executed today,?" Vaelith said, loudly, as the whole kitchen seem to agree, to her.
Reyna said nothing, even though it hurt her deeply, at the far end of the kitchen she saw a servant who stared at her simply and turned forward, she was always quiet and didn't agree with the rest, but she didn't say anything either.
She never did.
Reyna bruises were hidden now—carefully placed where no one would see. Beneath her sleeves. Along her ribs. A dark mark blooming high on her thigh where a bucket had been kicked at her.
They were careful, they didn't let it show, on her body, it was
Something quieter.
Something that left no witnesses.
Prince Damiel barely summoned her.
That alone unsettled her more than anything else.
By evening, the palace servants knew better than to speak his name aloud. The execution had reminded them all of one simple truth:
Damiel did not forgive.
Damiel did not forget.
And Damiel did not need permission.
Damiel returned to the inner palace without ceremony, his guards—Roan and Kael—flanking him in silence. The halls parted for him as if the stone itself feared his presence.
Roan broke the quiet once.
"The council is restless," he said carefully. "Your stepmother has locked herself away. Your brothers—"
"I am not interested," Damiel interrupted coldly.
Kael glanced at him. "Words about today execution been spread across all realms.The realms are afraid."
"Good, as they should be."
They stopped outside his chambers.
Damiel dismissed them with a flick of his hand.
The moment the doors closed behind him, the weight descended.
Not the weight of guilt.
Never that.
This was older.
Deeper.
His vision blurred for half a heartbeat.
Damiel pressed a hand to his chest, jaw tightening as he forced the sensation down. The burning twist in his heart receded—but not completely.
His demon stirred uneasily.
It's getting worse, the voice murmured from within.
Damiel ignored it.
He moved toward the bell.
Then stopped.
Why did his hand hesitate?
Why did the thought of seeing her feel like both relief and threat?
He turned away sharply.
No.
He would not summon Reyna.
He had already seen what weakness cost.
He removed his armor alone, each piece hitting the stone floor with a dull clang. The scent of ash still clung to him. Fire always left a mark.
Damiel sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed.
That was when it came.
A whisper.
Not sound—but pressure.
Like something brushing the inside of his skull.
Damiel…
His fingers curled into fists.
Not again.
Shadows crept at the edges of his vision. His silver eyes darkened, the familiar ache blooming behind them—slow at first, then sharp.
He rose abruptly.
"Enough," he muttered.
But the presence did not retreat.
It never did.
Somewhere deep within, his demon growled—not in challenge, but in warning.
You cannot keep burying this.
Damiel clenched his jaw.
"I have no choice."
The room felt suddenly too small.
Too close.
Too quiet.
And for the first time since the execution, Prince Damiel—terror of Avalon, heir forged in hellfire—felt something dangerously unfamiliar coil in his chest.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Anticipation.
Within the castle, Reyna moved quietly through the corridor, unaware that fate was already turning its gaze toward her.
The night had not finished with either of them yet.