CHAPTER FIVE
Reyna had never imagined her first sight of Avalon would be through chains.
The path to the palace wound upward through black stone corridors carved into the mountain itself. Torches burned with demon fire, casting warped shadows along the walls. The air grew colder with every step, heavier—thick with power that made her chest ache when she breathed too deeply.
Iron chains bound their sore wrists, linking them together in groups. The demon guards walked without hurry, savoring the sound of metal scraping stone, of quiet whimpers swallowed by echoing halls.
Kayla walked beside Reyna.
She was smaller, thinner, her shoulders hunched as if trying to fold into herself. Every few steps, she stumbled, and each time her fingers reached blindly for Reyna's sleeve—as though Reyna were the only solid thing left in the world.
Reyna slowed whenever she could, angling her body just enough so Kayla stayed close.
The gates of the main hall loomed ahead—towering obsidian doors etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, like dying embers.
They opened.
The sound swallowed them whole.
The demon guards pulled them forward by their chains, boots striking stone as they dragged the slaves into a vast chamber filled with demons. The ceiling vanished into shadow, supported by colossal black columns carved with scenes of conquest—worlds burned, kings slain, kingdoms broken.
The air was sharp with cold and power, pressing against Reyna's lungs until breathing felt like work.
They were all gathered here for one purpose.
The Feast of Selection.
A feast described as beautiful—the way a blade was beautiful.
Ceremonial.
Glittering.
And meant to draw blood.
They were herded into long lines down the center of the hall—girls and boys stolen from the human realm—forced to kneel on polished obsidian floors that reflected their fear back at them.
Reyna lowered herself slowly, knees stinging against the cold stone.
Kayla knelt beside her.
Their chains allowed only a small distance between them, but Kayla shifted just enough that her hand brushed Reyna's. After a heartbeat of hesitation, her fingers curled around Reyna's sleeve—not gripping, not clinging.
Just there.
Reyna didn't look at her. She didn't need to. She let her arm stay where it was.
If there was one thing Reyna had learned in Asheville, it was that keeping your head low attracted less attention. She fixed her eyes on the floor and tried to become invisible.
Raised balconies circled the chamber, crowded with demon nobles—horned, winged, scaled, or flawlessly beautiful in ways that felt wrong. Their laughter drifted down, soft and sharp and eager.
The Feast of Selection was their sport.
The slaves were their entertainment.
Above them, the Hall of Kings stretched wide and merciless. Black columns spiraled upward, carved with sacrifices and victories painted in demon fire. Crimson banners hung from the rafters, each stitched with the crest of Avalon—a crescent blade sinking into a beating heart.
Five thrones stood tall upon the dais.
At the center loomed King Eldron's Throne of Dominion, carved from abyssal stone veined with molten crimson. Even empty, it radiated authority. Beside it rested Queen Alvira's throne—elegant, lethal, wrought of black metal and bone.
The king and queen were absent.
Flanking the empty central seats were two occupied thrones.
Prince Arkes reclined like a satisfied predator, golden skin gleaming beneath the firelight, crimson eyes heavy with desire. Known as the Demon of Lust and Decadence, his gaze slid over the kneeling slaves like hands already claiming them.
Beside him sat Prince Vaelor, smiling lazily, eyes glittering with mischief. The Demon of Mischief and Cruelty, already imagining how best to break whatever soul caught his interest.
Together, they were terrifying.
And yet—
At the edge of the dais stood a third throne, carved entirely from shadow. Its armrests were pure silver, darkened as if light itself refused to touch it. Power coiled around it, alive and waiting.
Prince Damiel's throne.
Empty.
Prince Damiel had never cared for events like this. Humans were weak, fragile things—easily broken. There was no challenge in them.
The demon merchandise, voice rang through the hall.
"Let the bidding commence."
Names were called. One by one, slaves were forced to stand, turned this way and that, examined like livestock. Coins clinked. Laughter followed.
Then a demon noble rose from the balcony, his smile sharp.
"Before I spend my silver," he drawled, "I would like to know what I am paying for."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber.
"Yes."
"Strip them."
"Let us see their worth."
The guards did not hesitate.
Slaves were dragged forward. Shackles yanked down. Fabric torn away. Some begged. Some cried. Some went silent, eyes empty as dignity was peeled from them piece by piece.
Laughter followed.
Reyna stared at the floor so hard her vision blurred. She felt Kayla's hand tighten briefly at her side—then loosen again, trembling, Reyna held her hand, instead,as she tried to comfort both Kayla and herself.
Names continued.
Then the torches flickered.
Cold swept through the hall—unnatural, sudden.
The doors opened.
Silence fell. Not commanded.
Instinctive.
Prince Damiel entered.
Roan stood at his left hand, calm-faced, silent, armor dark and battle-worn. Lethal as a drawn blade.
Damiel's footsteps made no sound, yet the air shifted with each one. Power rolled from him—dark, vast, ancient. Reyna felt it slide down her spine like ice.
The beauty of his brothers dimmed. Arkes' decadence became gaudy. Vaelor's charm thinned.
Damiel was something else entirely.
Cold. Ethereal. Devastating.
Silver eyes devoid of warmth. Control carved into every line of him.
When he reached the dais and sat upon his throne of shadow, the hall seemed to bow.
"Continue," he said calmly.
The Feast resumed—but changed.
Reyna kept her head down, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She focused on the floor, on her breathing, on becoming invisible. Even with Prince Damiel's arrival, she refused to look up—whether from fear or stubborn resolve, she could not tell.
And then—
"From the Kingdom of Asheville," the herald announced, voice sharp with excitement.
"Reyna of Greywood."
Kayla's breath hitched.
Reyna felt it—a sharp, silent panic—before the chain snapped tight.
A demon guard yanked her to her feet.
Kayla's fingers slipped from her sleeve.
Not by choice.
"Raise your head," the guard ordered coldly.
Reyna obeyed.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Night-black hair framed a face far too gentle for a place like this. Ocean-blue eyes, wide with fear, lifted into the firelight.
As hunger and anticipation filled the crowd.
On the dais, both elder princes leaned forward at once, interest blazing bright and hungry.
But Reyna barely noticed them.
Because she felt it.
A gaze—cold, intense, unavoidable.
She looked up.
Silver met blue.
He was perfection incarnate. Silver hair spilled over his broad shoulders. His lips were the deep color of blood. His features were sharp and flawlessly sculpted. But it was his eyes—those silver eyes—that stole her breath.
The world fell away. The hall, the nobles, the whispers, the bidding—all vanished.
Prince Damiel studied her the way one studied a weapon—measuring balance, sharpness, worth.
The world fell away.
"Fifty silver uns," someone called immediately.
"Two hundred," Prince Arkes said, amused.
"Three hundred," Prince Vaelor added, smiling.
The bidding rose fast.
Too fast.
Then the corner of Prince Damiel's lips curved—not in amusement, but decision.
"I'll take her."
Silence slammed down upon the hall.
Even Roan glanced at him, surprise flickering for a single heartbeat—then gone. He did not question. He never did.
Reyna's thoughts shattered as reality crashed back into place.
Her heart stopped—then plummeted.
I'm doomed.