In the realm of mortals, the Demon Kingdom—hidden deep within the dark forests—stood tall, unchallenged, immortal, and utterly feared. Its towering pierced the sky, casting long shadows over fertile fields and cities built from conquest. Every brick told a story of blood and dominion to those who dare; the very walls whispered of thrones broken and kingdoms burned to ash.
To the outside world, it was a realm of power. Prosperous. Peaceful.
But beneath the surface of this thriving empire, something ancient stirred—a karmic debt sown in cruelty. The unliberated souls of those slain by generations of demon lords festered in the soil, twisted and unrested, yearning to be freed or to consume.
The people lived unaware. Their markets bustled, temples glowed with incense, and laughter echoed through grand plazas. They praised their king and worshipped their gods—blind to the slow rot spreading beneath their feet, blind to the curse growing strong enough to consume them all.
But behind the palace walls, there was no laughter.
Only steel.
In the fortress courtyard, dusk across the sky, staining the clouds a bruised red. The air mixed with smell of sweat, heat, and smoldering magic. The Demon King, Vaelgor, stood like a mountain—silent, immovable, his armor battle-worn and imposing. His eyes, glowing faintly crimson, were fixed on the child before him.
His blood.
His disappointment.
His daughter.
Velrith.
Ten years old. His only heir.
She stood across from him, trembling, gripping her training sword with white-knuckled hands. Her knees were scraped, one already swollen and turning blue. Each breath rattled in her chest burning while she breathes, sharp and shallow. But she didn't fall.
Not yet.
To the Demon King, she was not a child. Not a daughter to be protected or cherished.
She was his legacy—meant to carry his wrath, his strength, his crown. And if she couldn't rise to the weight of his expectations, she would be cast aside.
There was no room for weakness.
Not in his palace.
Not in his bloodline.
Every strike he landed was a lesson.
Every bruise, a decree.
You will be strong. Or you will be nothing.
[Velrith's POV – Age 10]
My fingers burn. My arms scream. The sword's hilt digs into my palms like it's trying to reject me.
But I won't let go.
I can't.
He's watching.
I was born to rule this kingdom. And I have to prove it—to him.
Not with strength. Not yet. I'm still not there. Still growing.
But I can be smarter.
Just a little closer… a little more...
"Use the surroundings", a dark voice inside me whispers.
I kick my foot into the mud and send a spray of dirt toward his eyes. A trick. Dirty. Desperate.
He doesn't even flinch.
Too fast.
Too aware.
Too sharp.
Before I can move, his hand snaps around my throat like a vice—cold, unyielding. My feet leave the ground. My sword slips from my fingers, clattering to the dirt.
He shows no anger.
No praise.
Only disappointment.
"You disappoint me," he says, voice low and harsh. "Such a childish tactic. In battle, weakness brings swift death."
Then he throws me.
I crash into a tree. Pain erupts through my body—my ribs scream, a searing fire under my skin. I bite my tongue not to cry out.
But a whimper still escapes.
He doesn't look back.
Just walks away.
Leaves me there.
Alone.
Bleeding.
Broken.
I don't remember blacking out. Just the fading echo of his footsteps, and the rage curling in my chest like a seed waiting to bloom.
Later that evening, I wake to the soft glow of firelight dancing against cold stone walls.
And her.
My mother—Virelle—sits beside me, her warm hand cradling mine. Gentle, but firm. Like she could shield me from the world. From the pain. From him.
But she can't.
No one defies the Demon King.
Still, she stayed.
"Mother…" My voice is cracked, small. "Why is he so cold to me? Doesn't he love me?"
She doesn't answer at first. Just brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, her touch light, trembling.
"He does love you, baby," she says softly. "But he'll never show it. Not to you. Not to me. Not to anyone."
She sighs, her gaze turning distant.
"The things he's been through… they taught him emotions are chains. That if he feels—he breaks."
Her hand lingers on my cheek, warm despite everything.
"But you don't have to be like him. You'll forge your own path. Rule your own way."
She leans in and kisses my forehead gently.
"Now sleep tight, my flame. I have to go to him."
And then she is gone.
Back into the dark.
[Dreamscape – Velrith's Nightmare]
Sleep wraps around me like fog. I thought it would bring peace.
It doesn't.
In my dream, I stand in fire.
My hands are drenched in blood—the blood of my people. The ones I swore to protect.
Their lifeless bodies surround me.
Hollow.
Condemning.
Dead.
At my feet, a small child cradles her dying mother. Her blood-soaked dress clings to her frail frame. She looks up at me, eyes filled with pleading hope.
I can't meet her gaze.
Behind me, I hear him.
My father's voice.
"You are weak."
A shattered crown lies at my feet. My knees buckle.
"You weren't strong enough to lead."
"You were too weak… and you lost everything you held dear."
I try to speak.
I try to scream.
But there's only silence.
Only fire.
Only failure.
I wake drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. My eyes dart across the room, searching—until they find her again.
Virelle.
My mother.
Standing at the doorway, holding a glass of water. As if she already knew.
She places it in my hands.
I drink. And then I cling to her like I'm still a child. Because I am.
And through shaking breaths, I tell her about the nightmare.
She strokes my hair and whispers in that voice that always sounds like safety.
"You can't carry the weight of the future in the present, my child," she says. "Focus on what you can control—gain power, allies, and the hearts of the people you wish to rule. That is how you prepare for the storms ahead."
I close my eyes.
And for the first time, I believe her.
Even if only a little.