the Demon with in me

Seraphis guides me through the ballroom and past the nobles, past those in the court who have prying eyes. His pace is measured, and controlled — like everything he does.

I follow without a word. Not because I respect him. Not because I fear him.

Because I need to know what he wants.

The instant we emerge onto the terrace, the commander's flurry evaporates behind us and is replaced by the evening's lovely cool silence. The moonlight spills over the marble railings, silvering the castle gardens.

Seraphis doesn't change his mind right away. He peers over the edge at the distant city below. His hands are lightly resting on the pommel of his sword. A knight's position — always on standby.

"You're quiet," I say. "That means you're either contemplating or deciding whether to run me through here."

He lets out a breath and finally looks at me. His eyes — sharp, calculating — inspect me like a scholar weighs an anomaly.

"You've changed, Raiden."

I raise a brow. "That so?"

"It's subtle. A change that finds you standing taller. The way your eyes move. You've always been wild, but now … now you're safe. A man who battles against something no one else can see."

My fingers twitch at my side.

Seraphis watches for it. Notes it.

"You think I don't see, I see, but I do," he goes on. "You're hiding something."

I smirk, tilting my head. "I think you just want a reason to fight me."

He doesn't take the bait.

"What happened to you?" His voice is steady, but I hear the slight edge underneath.

He isn't asking as a friend. He isn't asking as a rival.

He's asking as a loyal knight of the Dominion. A noble of the Holy Order.

He's asking because if my answer is the incorrect one, he'll be obliged to act.

"Nothing happened,"

He steps closer. Not threatening. Not aggressive. But testing.

"None of that makes you look good, Raiden."

For a moment I think about telling him. I think about the weight of the truth — the thing that is whispering at the back of my mind, the thing I can feel stirring underneath my skin. I think about ending by telling him I hear a voice in my head that isn't me. That there is a war in him, one that I am losing slowly, but surely.

But I don't.

Because Seraphis is a knight. He believes in duty, in rightness, in order.

And if he knew what I truly was — what was growing inside me — he would chop me down without a second thought.

So I do what I do best. I smile. I lie again.

"You're paranoid, Seraphis. I'm fine."

His jaw tightens slightly.

I see it for the first time — the doubt in his eyes. He wants to believe me. But he doesn't.

"You may be able to fool them," he says, softly. "But you won't fool me."

He backs away, his eyes a moment longer than they should be on mine an then he turns to the ballroom.

"For now you are still a knight of the Dominion," he says, voice settling back into its customary cold certainty. "But if I discover you are not what you pretend to be — if you are a threat to the kingdom —"

He leaves the sentence unfinished. He doesn't have to.

I know exactly what he means.

I allowed the smirk to remain on my lips.

"Well, then I suppose you'd better keep an eye on me, Seraphis."

He catches my eye for the last time. Then he leaves.

I linger on the terrace, looking down at the city.

"He is not done hunting you," the Demon Spirit finally says, slow, amused.

"Let him try," I murmur.

But I know the truth.

Seraphis won't stop.

And eventually — one of us has to kill the other.

....

I walk back into the ballroom, willing the tension out of my shoulders. The nobles have yet to find themselves again from all the laughter, the musicians their trinkets, the hollow sounds that cling there. To them, nothing has changed.

But something has.

 chall­ing words still echo in my mind, as keen as a blade. He can tell I'm not being honest. He will not stop watching me.

"He will not stop hunting you."

The voice of the Demon Spirit curls through my skull once more. I breathe it down and push through the crowd. I need to find Lysara. I need to know what she meant about her father planning something.

And then, the hall is quiet.

The music stops. The laughter dies.

I track the change in the air—the king's gotten up from his throne.

His mere presence commands the room. Wrapped in regal red and decked in gold, King Aldros Vaeloria is a man who doesn't demand respect, he commands it. He takes it.

His eyes are cold and calculating as they sweep over the room. When he speaks his voice is calm, measured — but every word weighs heavy on the people before him.

"I bless all of you for coming here tonight," the king tells the crowd, lifting a goblet in a hollow display of warmth. "A celebration of peace, prosperity, and the indomitable strength of the Holy Dominion."

"But strength," he goes on, "does not come from what is handed down. It is taken. And it is proven. Wherefore, one week from now, a new campaign shall commence."

Murmurs spread in the crowd. My fingers curl into fists.

A campaign. That can only mean one thing.

War.

I glance at Lysara. Her face looks pale, lips pressed thin. She knew something was coming — but not this.

With a gesture, the king stifles the nobles.

"We have let defiance grow unchallenged beyond our borders for far too long. The Free Cities think themselves inviolable. Echoes of the rebellion still linger from the world that was. "Time to show them who is boss."

"To our skilled warriors — our knights, my strongest — I give you this opportunity to show yourselves in battle. The success shall be rewarded. The weak shall be forgotten."

"And to my daughter, Lysara," he says next, the voice curling with false affection, "you shall have a role to play as well!"

My breath stills.

Lysara's hands shake at her sides.

"A royal engagement has been arranged," declares the king. "That will bind our realm in total strength."

The air in the room shifts. Some nobility whisper with approval. Others eye Lysara with thinly disguised interest — as if she is now not a person, but a prize.

I glance at her again. She is frozen. Not shocked. Not confused. Just... still.

A caged bird, gazing through bars that have just slammed shut.

"You will marry Lord Hadrian of House Velyr," the king says smoothly. "A union, which will bring strength to our future."

I barely hear the rest.

Lysara's engagement. A war campaign.

The king isn't simply strengthening his grip on power. He's tightening his grip. On the nobles. On the kingdom. On her.

The audience bursts into applause. A forced, practiced thing.

Lysara does not move. Does not breathe.

I step toward her.

"Lysara—"

She spins on her heel and walks off.