CHAPTER FOUR
DAMIEL
Before Roan, there was Kael.
Kael was already a seasoned soldier when Damiel was named general—five years older, scarred by war, hardened by campaigns that had taught him one truth above all else: power had to be earned.
So when the council elevated Damiel after a single victory, Kael hated it.
Too young.
Too easy.
A coincidence dressed as talent.
He was certain he had been assigned to babysit a prodigy the council favored.
The war corrected him.
Damiel and Kael were far from camp, gathering wood for the fire at the edge of frozen territory, when the ambush came.
Werewolves burst from the trees—fast, vicious, too many.
Kael fought until steel mixed with poison bit deep into his side and his strength failed him. Blood soaked into the snow beneath his knees. He didn't cower he stood, sword in his trembling hands, eyes blurry.
"Run," Kael growled, forcing the words out. "Get help. I'll hold them."
Damiel didn't run.
He picked up a fallen sword instead.
Kael watched through pain‑blurred vision as Damiel moved—no hesitation, no wasted motion. Silver eyes cold. Body precise. Forty werewolves fell, one after another, cut down with ruthless efficiency.
Not fury.
Not chaos.
Control.
When it was over, Damiel stood alone among corpses.
Then he lifted Kael his hand over his shoulder and carried him back to camp.
Kael woke hours later, wounds treated, fire crackling nearby. Damiel was already gone—leading his soldiers back into the forest.
"There are more coming," Damiel had said calmly.
None survived.
When Damiel returned, he had said calmly to Kael,
"I don't leave any of my soldiers behind, especially my strongest warriors." he told Kael later.
From that moment, Kael's doubt died.
So did his resistance—replaced with loyalty, respect, and admiration.
Now, Kael stood at Damiel's left hand—tall, broad‑shouldered, dark hair worn short. A scar cut across his face from brow to cheek, which did more in sharpening his features than disfiguring.
Where Damiel was command, Kael was execution.
Roan came after.
It was winter—deep, merciless cold. Damiel was returning from a victorious campaign when his demon beast slowed near the outer road, close to the palace walls.
Something lay half‑buried in the snow.
A demon.
An orphan.
Alone.
Roan was barely conscious, lips blue, fingers frozen around a single piece of frozen bread.
"Stop," Damiel ordered.
His men obeyed at once.
Damiel dismounted, looked at the barely alive demon, and said,
"Take him. Warm him. Feed him. Clothe him."
That was all.
When Roan woke, wrapped in furs he hadn't earned, he tried to kneel despite the pain.
"I swear my loyalty to you," he said, voice hoarse but eyes bright with stubborn fire.
Damiel looked at him once—measuring, merciless.
"I don't entertain weakness," Damiel replied coldly. "If you want to stand beside me, you have to be strong enough."
He turned away.
Roan stayed.
He trained every day. And every night. Until his hands split and his muscles screamed. Until sweat mixed with blood and snow. He fell. Rose. Fell again.
He learned the sword not through brute force, but speed—precision so sharp it bordered on art.
Now, Roan was one of Damiel's finest swordmasters.
The youngest. A year younger than Damiel himself.
Lean, quick, copper‑brown hair usually tied back. Eyes bright with humor that never quite faded. He joked. Teased. Smiled easily.
But when war came—
his laughter vanished.
His blades moved like lightning. Clean. Exact. Deadly.
When it came to Damiel, Roan was never careless.
They wore the same armor.
Avalon's elite—black and crimson plate edged in gold. Cloaks heavy against the wind. Steel forged for war, not ceremony.
One was stone.
One was fire.
Both were loyal beyond question.
Both would die before letting the world reach Damiel.
The war table was silent.
Damiel's silver eyes traced the borders of Avalon, fingers resting lightly against the carved stone. Kael stood to his left—scar stark against his expressionless face. Roan leaned against a pillar to his right, arms crossed, smile lazy but eyes sharp.
"The lycans are patient," Damiel said calmly. "They wait. They listen. They observe."
Roan tilted his head. "And the werewolves?"
Damiel's mouth curved faintly—not amusement. Understanding.
"Proud," he replied. "Impatient. They hate taking orders. Especially from creatures quieter than they are."
Kael nodded once. "They won't follow the lycans' full plan."
"No," Damiel agreed. He shifted a marker from the outer borders toward the palace. "They'll pretend to."
He tapped the inner circle.
"The lycans will strike the borders—testing strength, watching response times. Controlled. Careful." His eyes sharpened. "But the werewolves will want faster results. Glory. Proof."
Roan straightened. "So they'll split."
"Yes," Damiel said. "A small pack. Few enough to slip through. Quick enough to think they won't be noticed."
"Spies," Roan said softly. "Infiltrators."
"Hunters who think themselves clever," Damiel corrected. "They'll aim for the main hall. Not to attack—yet. To see. To count guards. To learn our weaknesses during the feast."
Kael's hand curled into a fist. "They won't reach it."
"They won't try openly," Damiel said. "Which is why brute force won't stop them."
He turned to Kael.
"You'll command the borders. Archers hidden. Traps buried. When the lycans move—erase them."
"Yes, Commander," Kael said, bowing before leaving.
Damiel turned to Roan.
"And you," he said. "You come with me. To the feast."
"The feast?" Roan and Kael had asked in surprise earlier.
"The werewolves are impatient," Damiel continued. "They sneak in through low, unguarded places while Avalon is distracted. We'll stop them."
Roan grinned. "Someone has to smile while the world burns."
Damiel ignored the comment, gaze already distant.
"They think demons grow careless during celebrations," he said. "They think pride makes us blind."
His silver eyes lifted.
"Let them come."
The borders would bleed.
The hall would watch.
And the infiltrators—
would learn why Avalon still stood.
A horn sounded.
The ships from Asheville had arrived.
Damiel didn't know why—but he felt the air shift. Something stirred beneath his calm, sharp and unfamiliar. Like anticipation. Even his demon was restless, like something long awaited had finally crossed the sea.
He brushed the thought aside.
"Make sure everything and everyone is ready," he ordered.
Kael inclined his head. "Yes, Commander."
"Prepare for the feast," Damiel said to Roan.
Roan bowed and left.
Damiel stepped onto the balcony, eyes fixed on the dark sea.
The cold wind swept his silver hair back as moonlight caught against it.
Perfect.
Untouchable.
Waiting.