CHAPTER SEVEN
Damiel saw them move before anyone else did.
Five disruptions in a pattern most would never notice—tiny misalignments in the flow of the feast. Too deliberate to be servants. Too restrained to be drunken nobles. Their movements were calculated, their pauses intentional, their timing precise enough to be suspicious.
Werewolves.
The Feast concealed them well. Music rose and fell in shrill crescendos. Laughter cracked like breaking glass. Demons boasted, drank, touched, devoured. Attention was scattered—fractured into indulgence.
But Damiel's mind did not scatter.
His silver eyes tracked all five without turning his head, without altering the stillness of his posture. He noted their breathing. Their weight distribution. The way they avoided reflective surfaces.
Predators hiding among predators.
They split.
Two peeled away first, slipping toward the outer galleries where servants moved freely and guards grew lax. They vanished into a corridor veiled in shadow, footsteps soundless against stone.
The remaining three drifted upward—slow, unhurried—toward the balconies.
Toward the upper levels.
Damiel did not move.
"Roan," he said calmly, voice low enough to be mistaken for idle thought. "The two."
Roan, lounging against a pillar nearby, straightened instantly. His eyes sharpened, excitement flickering beneath his usual lazy expression.
Finally.
"Yes, my prince."
He bowed once—precise, respectful—then melted into the crowd, his departure seamless, unremarkable. To anyone watching, he was simply another demon slipping away from the feast.
Damiel knew better.
Roan had been waiting for blood.
KAEL
Kael did not wait for chaos.
He felt it before the first howl broke the night.
The lycans came exactly as Damiel had said they would—measured, cautious, testing the borders with false confidence. They slipped through the frost‑lined treeline in disciplined silence, believing themselves unseen.
They were wrong.
At Kael's signal, the ground answered.
Steel traps snapped shut, jaws of iron biting deep into flesh. Archers emerged from shadowed ridges, arrows raining down with merciless precision laced in wolfbane. Screams tore through the cold air as the lycans scattered, formation collapsing in seconds.
Kael moved through them like judgment.
His blade laced in wolfbane rose and fell—clean, efficient, unstoppable. He did not shout. Did not snarl. He cut throats, hamstrung legs, crushed windpipes with brutal calm. Blood darkened the snow beneath his boots, steam rising where bodies fell.
They tried to retreat.
Kael did not allow it.
"Hold the line," he commanded, voice steady, absolute.
Avalon's soldiers obeyed without hesitation.
Damiel had been right.
As always.
He turned sharply. "Secure the perimeter. No pursuit."
And proof—once again—that Avalon still stood because its commander saw threats before they dared to breathe.
DAMIEL
Damiel's attention returned to the remaining three.
They were good. Confident. Too confident.
They slipped through a narrow servant's passage near the upper arches, disappearing behind a tapestry woven with scenes of ancient conquest.
Damiel rose from his throne.
Behind him, Prince Arkes scoffed loudly. "Running off already? I'm afaid you'll miss the real entertainment?"
Prince Vaelor chuckled, swirling dark wine in his goblet. "Or perhaps the human's novelty wore thin."
Damiel did not look at them.
"Do you ever tire," he asked mildly, boredom laced his voice, "of sounding like children who mistake noise for relevance?"
Their smile vanished.
Damiel was already gone.
The balcony corridors were colder than the hall.
Narrow stone passageways stretched in quiet lines, lit only by sparse wall torches whose flames flickered uneasily, as if aware they were no longer under watchful eyes. The air smelled faintly of iron and old incense. Somewhere below, music thundered on—distant, oblivious.
The guard stationed outside the waiting chamber shifted uneasily.
He felt it before he heard it.
A sound that did not belong.
Steel scraping stone.
He turned.
Reyna heard the thud.
It was heavy.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest as silence rushed in to replace it—thick and suffocating. Her pulse roared in her ears, loud enough that she was certain it would betray her.
She rose slowly from the chair, knees trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of her thin clothing. Every instinct screamed at her to stay still.
To disappear.
But the silence pressed in on her like a weight.
She took one step.
Then another.
Peering past the doorframe, she saw the guard collapsed several feet away, his breath shallow, barely breathing.
And beyond him—
Three figures stood in the torchlight.
One was already changing.
Bone snapped with sickening force. Flesh warped and stretched. Fur tore through skin as the creature rose, spine arching grotesquely, limbs lengthening into something monstrous and wrong. Crimson eyes burned with feral intelligence.
Reyna gasped.
It was barely a sound.
It was enough.
Three heads snapped toward her.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then one of them smiled.
"She saw us," the creature murmured, voice low and pleased. "We should ll her."
Reyna stumbled backward, terror freezing her limbs. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as they lunged—
And the world shattered.
Silver flashed.
Damiel was suddenly there.
Between her and them.
He moved faster than thought, faster than fear—his presence a violent disruption of reality itself. A blade gleamed in his hand, etched with ancient runes, its edge darkened by a glistening substance that hissed faintly when it met air.
Wolfbane.
He struck once.
A scream tore through the corridor as the first werewolf collapsed, clutching its leg as flesh burned and nerves screamed.
Twice.
Another fell, body convulsing as paralysis seized it mid-lunge.
Three times.
Precise. Controlled. Merciless.
He did not kill them.
He denied them movement.
Denied them dignity.
Their screams echoed off stone, raw and animal, as their bodies spasmed helplessly against the floor.
Damiel stood among them untouched, cloak barely disturbed.
Reyna stared, frozen, chest heaving, unable to look away.
He glanced down at her.
Just once.
Silver eyes met blue—brief, unreadable, cold.
Then Roan appeared, dragging two limp forms behind him, blood streaking the stone.
"Well," Roan said lightly, surveying the scene with approval. "Looks like you saved some for me."
Kael arrived moments later, armor stained dark, dropping to one knee before Damiel without hesitation.
"Borders secured," he reported.
"Casualties?", Damiel asked, calmly,
"Casualties as predicted. Few injured. None dead."
Damiel nodded. "Hmm" he hummer lowly.
Kael rose, gaze flicking briefly to the writhing werewolves, as respect filled his eyes for Damiel, he was strategic, as always—and then to Reyna. Curiosity crossed his face for a fraction of a second before discipline erased it.
"Take them to the torture chambers," Damiel said. "They didn't enter this palace alone."
"Yes, Commander," Kael and Roan chorused together.
They dragged the paralyzed werewolves away, screams fading into the depths of the palace.
Silence returned.
Damiel turned to leave.
Reyna remained where she was, shaking, her legs barely holding her upright.
He paused.
Without turning back, he spoke—dry, effortless.
"If you intend to keep staring, human," he said, "you should learn how to walk at the same time."
Something in his voice—cool, certain—pulled her forward before fear could stop her.
Her feet moved.
Ahead of her, Prince Damiel walked on, and as he did, the touches flickered,like they recognized him as they bowed.