CHAPTER TWO
Prince Damiel's Palace
Damiel stood on the balcony, a robe draped loosely over his shoulders, silver hair still wet and brushing his cheek. One hand rested against the cold stone railing as the wind tugged at him, pulling his hair sideways. A goblet of wine sat in his grasp, untouched.
He rarely drank.
Below, soldiers trained in disciplined silence, steel flashing in rhythm. Damiel's silver eyes followed their movements—calculating, assessing.
He felt the presence behind him.
Damiel didn't need to turn to know who it was.
"Your senses never dull," Kael said quietly.
One of two men Damiel trusted.
"My Prince," Kael continued, bowing. "Word from our men aboard the Asheville ship. It has departed."
"Send scouts to the sea posts," Damiel replied without looking back. "I want every ripple reported."
"At once." Kael said with a small bow.
A pause.
"The king requests your presence in the throne room."
Damiel exhaled slowly.
Nothing drained him faster than the Main Palace and it's politics.
MAIN PALACE — THRONE ROOM
The throne room of Avalon existed to inspire fear.
Pillars of black stone carved with ancient runes.
Seven banners hanging heavy with conquest and blood.
A ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow.
A long black table at the center of the hall, with chairs at each sides of the tables.
Servants lined the walls, perfectly still—as though breathing might be considered treason.
War lingered in the air like smoke.
Damiel entered without ceremony.
Only damiel walked as though the room belonged to him—because in every way that mattered, it did. Broad shoulders, silver hair cascading down his back, black cloak trailing like a living shadow. His silver eyes swept the room once.
Cold. Calculating. Observing.
He was nothing like his brothers.
Prince Arkes, the eldest, bathed in pleasure.
Prince Vaelor, the second-born, bathed in cruelty.
Prince Damiel, the youngest, and the illegitimate child of King Eldron, bathed in war.
Where they ruled through indulgence and pain, he ruled through fear. The battlefield was his sanctuary. Steel, his only companion.
He approached the throne with slow, deliberate steps.
He did not bow.
He never did.
To Damiel, Eldron was not a father—only the King of Avalon. And Damiel had little respect for him as a king.
Damiel sat on one of the chairs, at the center of the hall, opposite the thrones.
Arkes sat at Eldron's right, all charm and excess, playing the dutiful son, a lazy grin spreading as he noticed Damiel. Vaelor reclined at the left, sharp smile masking sharper intentions.
And upon the throne sat King Eldron.
Ageless. Powerful. Black hair unmarked by time, golden crimson eyes heavy with authority. Handsome enough that strangers might mistake them all for brothers—if not for the monsters experience had carved from them.
King Eldron waved his hand to signal the dismissal of the slaves, as they all walked out, quickly.
"The werewolves approach our borders again," Eldron said calmly., stating the reason for their meeting. "This time allied with the Lycans."
Arkes scoffed. "Then let Damiel handle it. Isn't war the only thing that excites you, brother?."
Damiel didn't look or respond to his tauting.
"If they're moving quietly," he said evenly, "then they're not coming to fight."
Vaelor sneered in mockery. "What do you think they want, diplomacy?"
"I think," Damiel replied smoothly, "that you're underestimating an enemy smarter than you."
Vaelor's jaw tightened.
"I called you here for solutions," Eldron said.
Arkes lifted his hand to his chin, and spoke confidently. "We should divide the armies. Strike both tribes before they gather strength. We outnumber them. We're superior."
"Perfect," Vaelor said with a grin. "Crush them early, before they fully unite."
Eldron nodded—then turned to Damiel.
"What do you think?", Eldron asked coldly, Damiel was the commander of all Avalon's army, after all.
Damiel set his goblet down.
"Your plan is effecient," he said.
His brothers smiled, proudly.
"And stupid."
Their smiles instantly dropped.
"Send the armies out," Damiel continued, unbothered, "and you weaken the borders."
"They can't defeat us," Arkes snapped. "We're stronger."
"You think they don't know that", Damiel asked, "Strength alone doesn't win wars," Damiel replied coldly. "Strategy does."
"They won't fight us directly. They'll infiltrate. Gather information. Map the palace. Learn our weaknesses. And strike when we're exposed."
Silence followed.
Eldron's jaw tightened. Damiel was right as always.
"What do you propose?" King Eldron asked.
"The Asheville ship arrives in two days," Damiel said. "That's when they'll move."
Zaiel scoffed. "Then why don't we tighten our security now."
"Because," Damiel replied lazily. "I don't advertise ambushes."
His voice low and lethal.
"Let them believe Avalon sleeps. Let them breathe our air. Let them walk so close to our boarder."
His silver gaze cut through them as though a warning to those who cross his path.
"Then we end them."
Vaelor smirked. "You always choose the bloodiest path."
"And it always works," Damiel replied,coldly.
Eldron nodded once. "Very well. We follow Damiel's strategy."
"The Feast of Selection is in two days," the king continued.
"Arkes—prepare the food and wine. Vaelor—the halls and arrangements. Damiel—security."
The Feast of Selection.
Where humans were auctioned like jewels.
Where demons bid, and royals chose first.
Damiel stood.
He didn't wait for dismissal.
He got up, first, turned and left.
King Eldron followed, going through the other door at the right side of his throne, unbothered by Damiels actions.
Halfway across the hallway, Arkes and Vaelor suddenly came out into the hallway, voice loud echoing in the hallway, Damiel stopped, back still facing them as his face contoured with a bored, cold look, like he expected their sudden appearance.
"Oh brother… Arkes started, voice laced with poisonous spikes.
Damiel had never felt more disgusted and irritated than he did when Arkes called him 'brother'.
Arkes chuckled. "Your suggestions was brilliant, and perfect, but with all this no one loves you, not even your own father. " Vaelor said.
Arkes added, voice low and cruel, " Did you see how disgusted father was everytime he spoke. "
"It must be sad no one is ever going to love you, even your own mother hated you so much that she left you immediately you were born, and dad hated you so much that he abandoned you in that shed, and even now he still hates you." Vaelor continued, with a wide grin.
"No matter how many wars you win, how many kingdoms you conquer Father will always hate you." Arkes said, as they stared at damiel back, with a wide grin.
Damiel finally turned, his silver eyes glinting under the light, a smirk crawling across his face—icy, lethal, deliberate. His voice was calm, each word a sharpened blade.
"Love?, who needs love," he said slowly, letting the silence stretch,
"when you have power? Fear. Wealth. Influence. All things you'll never grasp because you're both too busy trying to be the King perfect toys."
He stepped forward, voice growing colder, echoing in the stone corridor. "I choose my path. I bow to no one. Every war I've fought, every kingdom I've conquered… bears my mark. Avalon itself kneels to me. That," he said, his voice colder, filled with authority as the very walls itself echoed it, "is better than any love, anyone can offer."
"That is Power", Damiel said, with his ever cold eyes.
Without another word, Damiel turned and walked away, the echo of his boots a drumbeat of inevitability.
Arkes and Vaelor stood frozen, the weight of his words sinking in. Their laughter, their cruelty—they were meaningless against someone who had nothing to lose and everything to command.