The palace was silent again.
Torchlight flickered in the corridor outside Daemon's chambers, but inside—only darkness remained. Heavy curtains blocked the moon. The only light came from a single rune-stone pulsing weakly on the desk.
Daemon sat cross-legged on the marble floor.
Bare-chested. Barefoot.
Breathing in slow, steady patterns.
Astral energy swirled within his core, dark and hot, like coals soaked in blood. His veins thrummed, black-red lines crawling faintly beneath his skin.
He exhaled—and pushed.
His goal: break through to Fourth Star.
He'd stabilized at Third. Most would train for years to go beyond that.
Daemon didn't have years.
He had enemies. A crown prince. A kingdom that feared him. A world waiting to burn.
He focused.
Pressed deeper into his core.
The void of his Astral Flame roared inside him—twisting, screaming. His blood boiled. Bones ached. But he held his breath and reached—
Then—
Something snapped.
His breath caught.
A pulse of divine residue—remnants from the temple—reacted violently with his dark essence.
His vision whited out.
His spine arched.
He slammed backward into the floor, convulsing.
The holy glyphs once burned into his skin flared back to life, not as light—but as shackles.
"No—"
His voice barely escaped.
He felt his soul split, one side trying to ascend... the other being dragged down into that cursed white chamber again.
He clawed at the floor.
Bleeding.
His heart pounded in uneven thuds. His Astral Core flickered.
Too fast. Too unstable.
I should've waited.
The divine pressure burned from the inside.
His lungs seized.
And just as the pain peaked—
Darkness swallowed him.
....
Hours passed.
The flames in the rune-stone died.
Daemon lay crumpled on the floor, sweat slicked across his skin, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. His chest rose and fell slowly—still breathing, but barely.
And inside him?
His Astral Core pulsed.
Faint.
Flickering.
But—stable.
The divine interference was still there.
But he'd done something few had ever managed:
He forced divine and demonic energy to sit in the same soul.
A forbidden fusion.
A ticking bomb.
And somehow...
He survived.
Sunlight bled softly through the high windows of his chamber.
His chest rose and fell slowly, and every inch of his skin pulsed like cooling iron. His mouth was dry, and his limbs ached, but something burned quietly in his chest.
He pushed himself up with effort and walked to the window.
Morning.
He squinted at the rising sun, and then he felt it.
The surge.
The power.
Inside his Astral Core, the dark flame had stabilized—no longer wild, no longer fragile. It spun slowly, dense and heavy like a newborn star.
Fourth Star: Radiant.
He smiled.
Then laughed. Loud and proud.
"Twelve years old..." he whispered. "Radiant Star. Mortal Realm."
He tilted his head toward the ceiling, as if addressing the unseen sky.
"Thank you," he muttered. "I don't know what you are... but I know you're watching. Just wait. I'll make you proud."
Knock knock !
A knock at the door.
Then it opened.
Four maids stepped in—his personal staff. The same ones who used to sneer behind his back. Whisper lies. Avoid his eyes.
Now?
They trembled. Eyes down. Bodies stiff.
Fear.
It was delicious.
They must've heard.
He turned to face them with a calm smile.
And at the center of them stood Lady Vexen—the queen's lady-in-waiting. His dog. His shadow. His spy.
She bowed low.
"G-Good morning, Your Highness."
Daemon stepped forward, his voice silk-wrapped steel.
"How odd for you to visit me personally. Did you come to curse me too?"
She shook her head fast. "No, Your Highness! I would never!"
He smiled at how obedient she was now.
Once, in his past life he would've done anything to earn her kindness. Cried when she ignored him. Starved when she "forgot" his meals. Suffered when she slipped poison into his cup.
But now?
He thrived on her terror.
"You've been useful," he said, waving the maids out. "Leave us."
The door closed. Silence.
Lady Vexen bowed again. "Have I... done something wrong?"
Daemon stared at her for a moment, then stepped closer.
"Not yet."
She swallowed.
He circled her slowly, like a panther playing with its food.
"You helped me kill assassins. Fed me secret about the queen's schemes. Played the perfect loyal servant. And when I needed my mother's corpse for a little... theater—" he grinned, "you even shaved her head and pulled her dress from the dirt."
Lady Vexen nodded, face pale. "I only serve you, my prince."
"I know," he said sweetly."that's why I'm grateful because of you my plan went well"
Then he kneeled beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"But tonight... you're going to serve again."
She blinked.
"Serve... how?"
Daemon's smile sharpened.
"You're going to wear the dress. You're going to become her."
Her mouth opened, stunned.
"M-My prince... if someone sees—"
"No one will," he said flatly. "Because he won't allow it. He won't show weakness. He'll suffer in silence, like he always does."
She hesitated.
He stood again.
"You may go. I need time."
She stood slowly. "Yes, Your Highness..."
But Daemon could feel it—the tremble in her fingers, the unease in her step.
She left without another word.
Daemon turned away from the door and let out a short, cruel laugh.
"Vexen," he muttered. "The viper in a velvet dress."
He walked to the mirror, staring into his reflection.
"Seven years ago you helped me out of convenience. But in my past life, you tried to drown me in poison and lies... and you still smiled when I called you aunt."
He exhaled, voice dark with promise.
"You were never loyal. You just wanted the throne. Just like the rest of them. You didn't even flinch when your own son Tomas died for your ambition."
He tilted his head, eyes cold.
"I'll let you chase the crown a little longer."
He turned from the mirror, voice dropping to a whisper.
"But you'll choke on it before you ever wear it."
And then he spoke aloud.
"Jealous women don't kill with swords. They kill with smiles, silk, and sons they never loved."