In the long corridor carved directly into the rock, the Empress walked at a steady pace behind the guard who guided them forward.
The walls were bare, stripped of banners or ornamentation, reinforced only by metal beams darkened by age. The air was more bearable than outside, yet the cold remained—dry and constant. It did not affect her. She simply registered it as one more variable among many.
The clan chief's authorization had been delivered before they were allowed into the fortress. Nothing had been improvised. And yet the guard did not speak. He walked upright without once turning back, as if local etiquette forbade any comment on matters concerning authority.
They stopped before a pair of massive wooden doors banded in iron. As they approached, the doors opened slowly, revealing a vast and austere chamber. There was no trace here of the Demon Palace's splendor. The walls were lined with hunting trophies: bleached skulls, massive horns, thick hides stretched across wooden frames. Each object spoke of victory, not wealth.
Around a dozen demons stood within the room, spaced apart yet alert. Their stances were grounded and solid. These are the confirmed members, she thought. Those who survived the ritual.
She stepped forward without hesitation. Lily walked at her left, silent, her gaze assessing every presence. Ophar stood slightly behind her to the right, upright and motionless. The twins followed, carrying the cases with flawless discipline. No unnecessary noise. No wasted movement.
The stone throne at the back of the hall stood empty.
Seated cross-legged on the ground before it was a demon whose stature surpassed all others. Even sitting, he stood over three meters tall, broad and dense in build. His white beard and hair were braided into two heavy plaits that framed his face. A monster's skull rested upon his head, integrated into a thick black fur headdress that draped over his shoulders.
He had not taken the throne. Nor had he stepped aside from its axis.
She understood immediately. He was not openly defying her authority by occupying the seat. Yet by sitting on the ground before it, he blocked access to it. He did not fully recognize the new Empress.
I was right to come, she thought.
Without slowing, she stopped a few steps from him and sat down on the ground opposite him. The movement was smooth, devoid of tension. Behind her, Lily, Ophar, and the twins mirrored her posture without question. The hall watched in silence.
The demon raised his eyes to meet hers.
"I, Skarn Valdrökk, Chief of the White Fangs, humbly greet the new Empress."
His voice was deep and measured, without provocation.
Guül and Gaäl exchanged a brief, nearly imperceptible glance. Their jaws tightened for a fraction of a second before they returned to perfect stillness—surprised to hear her acknowledged as Empress, yet far from foolish enough to interfere in such a discussion.
She did not look away.
"And yet you did not allow me to sit upon the throne that is mine."
Her voice was calm, without reproach. A simple observation.
A faint smile appeared on the chief's weathered face.
"I cannot rest upon a dream some brat had on his deathbed."
The word was deliberate. Brat.
He had known the former Demon King. Known him well enough to speak of him that way.
"Then what can you rest upon?" she asked.
Skarn straightened slightly. His gaze hardened.
"The White Fangs, since the beginning of time, have rested upon only one thing. To become chief. To be confirmed as a member. To rise in stature. Here, only strength matters. Strength—and nothing else. Thus stand the peaks."
The final words were echoed quietly by several clan members.
"Thus stand the peaks."
Anastasia registered the expression without comment. It was one of those things that could not be learned from a book.
"Very well," she replied. "Then I will prove mine."
She did not raise her voice, yet her words carried clearly across the chamber.
"Tonight, I will undergo your confirmation ritual. I will prove my worth to all of you."
Lily felt the tension rise in the room. Ophar remained perfectly still. He neither sought to intervene nor to impose himself. This was a matter of clan tradition.
A genuine smile spread across Skarn's face.
"So be it! I will pray to Ghor'Mael for your success."
Several members inclined their heads at the mention of the god of the hunt.
"I appreciate it," she replied.
She held his gaze for several seconds before continuing, her tone unchanged.
"I assume that is not the only reason for this invitation."
Skarn slowly stroked his beard, fingers sliding along the thick braids as if weighing his words. His expression was neither hostile nor conciliatory—merely cautious.
"I have heard from the scholars recently sent to our lands," he said, "that you intend to implement intensive monster farming here, and across the entire Demon Empire. That would greatly reduce hunting. And indirectly, it would bring harm to our god, Ghor'Mael."
Several clan members nodded in silence. For them, this was not an economic matter. It was spiritual.
So that is the true reason, she thought.
"Intensive monster farming will be implemented," she answered without hesitation. "Meat is already scarce in several regions. When the war begins, trade routes will be disrupted, roads will grow more dangerous, and reserves will be harder to maintain. If we do nothing, meat will become a luxury commodity. Inflation will strike the lower classes first, and eventually destabilize the entire Empire."
Skarn opened his mouth to respond.
"But—"
She raised her hand slightly and continued, without raising her voice.
"I have studied the customs of the Empire, as well as the deities of the ancient demon world. Their roles. Their symbolism. Their expectations. Thanks to my memory and the imperial library, I now understand these matters as thoroughly as any scholar."
Her eyes never left his.
"For Ghor'Mael, the number of hunts matters less than the intention behind them. The pursuit must be worthy. The offering must have meaning."
She paused briefly to let the words settle.
Then she extended her hand toward Guül. The twin stepped forward at once and handed her one of the cases. She indicated another, opened it, and withdrew a stack of documents which she placed before Skarn.
"These are proposals. New traditions centered around the hunt. Seasonal rites in which the finest trophy is offered to one's beloved or family, strengthening both social bonds and devotion to Ghor'Mael. Official competitions where the victor is determined by the quality and difficulty of the prey—not by mere quantity."
Skarn lowered his gaze to the documents without touching them.
"We will also organize annual large-scale hunts across the Empire. With daily hunting reduced due to the coming war, monster populations will naturally increase. These coordinated hunts will preserve ecological balance while ensuring that each pursuit remains demanding, rare, and prestigious."
She lifted her chin slightly.
"Additional solutions are detailed here. You may implement them alone, or with the assistance of the scholars sent north."
She allowed silence to settle before addressing the central point.
"You have likely heard of the Imperial Festival and its four-year rotation. When the edition is held in Dravenholde, with Elisabeth's agreement, you may dedicate the second day to the Games of the Hunt. It will be the greatest offering ever made to Ghor'Mael. Every four years."
A brief silence followed.
Then Skarn burst into laughter.
It was loud, unrestrained, genuine. He struck the stone floor with his massive hand, the impact echoing throughout the chamber. The mounted trophies trembled slightly.
"What insight!" he exclaimed, still laughing. "I see that with you, the White Fangs—and perhaps the entire Empire—have nothing to fear."
He gradually composed himself, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I look forward to seeing your results tonight."
She did not smile.
"I will prove my strength."
Skarn inclined his head.
"Thus stand the peaks."
Several members repeated the phrase in low, steady voices.
"Thus stand the peaks."
Thus, the brief meeting between Skarn Valdrökk, Chief of the White Fangs, and the Demon Empress Anastasia Valen Keral Morne came to an end.
A few hours later, when night had fully settled over the peaks, the fortress of the White Fangs opened once more. The torches were extinguished one by one, according to tradition, so that nothing would disturb the natural darkness of the mountains. The confirmation ritual was not performed before an audience. It was endured alone.
Anastasia stepped out first.
Her mana attire formed around her with its usual precision—fitted, functional, free of unnecessary ornament. Tenkōsetsu rested in her right hand, still sheathed, not as a symbol this time, but as a tool.
Around her, the night wind swept the snow in uneven gusts, lifting white spirals that reduced visibility to only a few meters.
She walked forward without looking back.
The snow rose to her knees, each step requiring deliberate effort to free her leg before driving it forward again. For an ordinary demon, surviving a single night in these mountains would already be an ordeal. The cold seeped into joints, numbed extremities, and slowed mana circulation if it was not carefully controlled.
But the cold was only a secondary factor.
What made the ritual truly dangerous were the monsters.
When the three suns sank beyond the horizon, certain creatures altered their behavior—and sometimes even their form. Their aggression intensified, their senses sharpened, and their territory expanded to the very edges of the fortress. No unconfirmed member was permitted outside after nightfall. Only those who had proven themselves could cross the gates in darkness.
She continued through the storm, measuring the wind's force, assessing air currents, and tracking the density of her own footprints in the snow.
For any other demon, this night would be hell.
For her, it would be a demonstration.
She paused briefly atop an exposed ridge, studying the shifting white expanse beneath the darkened sky. In the distance, a long, guttural howl echoed through the mountains, soon joined by others. The predators had sensed a new presence.
Very well.
She resumed her march through the deep snow, determined to prove her worth and earn recognition from one of the seven great clans of the demon continent. Behind her, the fortress of the White Fangs remained silent, its gates sealed.
Thus began her night.