The order was delivered clearly, politely, and in the correct ceremonial tone.
"Begin fortification repairs on the western wall. Allocate two platoons. I want a report within three days."
Rael Blackhorn sat upright upon the Throne, hands atop the obsidian armrests, posture flawless. The crown rested lightly against his horns, its weight symbolic rather than physical. He had practiced this posture relentlessly—chin level, shoulders squared, expression restrained to the point of coldness.
This was how his father used to sit, it was the manner of a king which he could only poorly imitate.
Below him, the commanders of Blackhorn Territory stood in disciplined rows. Their armor bore old insignia—scratched, reforged, dulled by generations of war.
These were the people that made his father proud and they knew it. Out of respect for Sadaes Blackhorn they provided the new king courtesy.
They listened attentively.
They nodded.
They murmured their acknowledgements in the correct cadence.
A scribe recorded the order in precise script.
And Rael felt it immediately.
The hollow pause.
No follow-up questions. No urgency. No resistance.
Just quiet acceptance.
The meeting continued. Supply routes were reviewed. A border patrol adjustment was noted. The council representatives spoke at length, carefully rephrasing Rael's directives into "recommendations" and "future considerations." Everything was efficient. Civil. Empty.
When the final topic concluded, the senior commander bowed.
"If there is nothing further, Your Majesty."
"There is nothing further," Rael replied.
The commanders filed out in perfect order. Not one lingered. Not one glanced back.
The massive doors sealed shut.
Rael held his posture for several breaths longer than necessary.
Then he exhaled.
"…They won't do it," he said quietly.
The throne room offered no argument.
He already knew how this would unfold. The western wall would remain unrepaired. If he pressed the issue, the council would intervene—citing budgets, resource loss, postwar instability. The order would dissolve into procedure.
Not rebellion.
Rebellion required belief.
This was indifference, honed into policy.
In the Demon Realm, power was the only language that mattered. Authority without strength was tolerated, not obeyed.
Rael was Demon King in title alone.
A crown inherited too early. A throne still echoing with another's will.
He leaned back slightly, eyes tracing the jagged ceiling. The throne beneath him was carved from the remains of an ancient calamity beast, layered with seals so old they predated most kingdoms.
It had once answered.
When his father sat here, the hall itself seemed to listen.
Rael swallowed.
His father had been many things—ruthless, obsessive, relentless—but never ignored. The previous Demon King of Blackhorn had chased the territory's ancient reputation with blood and iron, dueling rival kings, waging campaign after campaign. Each victory had been costly. Each defeat catastrophic.
Rael had inherited what remained.
A diminished territory.
A silent court.
And expectations carved from a past too large to fill.
"Your Majesty."
Rael straightened instantly.
An elderly attendant stood near the edge of the hall, wings folded, eyes lowered. He had served House Blackhorn longer than Rael had been alive.
"There is new correspondence," the attendant said. "From the Crimson Veil."
Rael's heart tightened.
"…Read it."
The attendant unfolded the letter.
"'To Demon King Rael Blackhorn. I extend my condolences for the loss of your father. In honor of his memory and our shared history, I shall visit Blackhorn Territory in seven days' time for political discussion and friendly observation.'
"Signed: Valcerion, Demon King of the Crimson Veil."
Valcerion was one of the rare few Kings his father avoided during his campaign. The Crimson Veil kingdom had changed hands in a single night hundreds of years ago. And the bordering kingdom of Verdant Blade silently merged into Crimson Veil with its king Melphegor willingly becoming second in command to Valcerion.
Rael kept his expression still, though unease crawled through his chest. Valcerion's public image was impeccable he was known across the realm for civility sharpened into a weapon. His territory prospered. His laws were fair. His punishments were precise and irreversible.
A smiling tyrant.
A visit was never just a visit.
It was an evaluation.
"…Make the preparations," Rael said. "And notify the council."
The attendant hesitated.
"The council has already begun preparations, Your Majesty."
Of course they had.
Rael dismissed him and remained alone in the vast hall.
Seven days.
Seven days to appear in control of a territory he did not truly command.
Seven days to host a Demon King who would dissect every weakness with a courteous smile.
Seven days to live up to a legacy that had bled itself dry.
"My father would have challenged him," Rael murmured.
And most likely lose but not without taking an arm or leg. Pride and legacy were everything to Sadaes, not picking a fight with Valcerion was one thing but when it came to his doorstep, there would be no hesitation.
Night settled over Blackhorn. As the keep quieted, Rael left without ceremony—no guards, no announcement. He shed crown and regalia alike, suppressing his aura until he was indistinguishable from any other young demon.
The lower districts did not bow.
They did not look twice.
The orphanage was wedged between abandoned foundries and fractured stone dwellings. Its walls were patched, uneven, but warm light spilled from the windows.
"You're late," Lily said without looking up from her ledger.
"I had a council meeting," Rael replied.
"That explains the headache," she said calmly.
She looked up then. Their eyes met.
Not king and subject.
Just Rael.
The children raced past them, laughing, horns still soft, wings too small to carry them. None of them knew who he was. They only knew he always came back.
As Rael helped distribute food and repair a cracked bench, the tension in his chest eased. Here, effort mattered. Here, results were immediate.
When he prepared to leave, Lily walked him to the door.
"Another king is coming," he said quietly.
She nodded. "Which one?"
"Valcerion." Rael admitted.
Lily studied him for a long moment, she saw the panic in his eyes and embraced him.
"Submit if you must, I won't think any less of you if you do. Just survive, there's always a place for you here.".
"I can't let him take what my father entrusted to me. I know he didn't care much for me but he is the sole reason I am not starving on the streets."
"I know I can't talk you out of this, just keep in mind there's a place you can call home." Lily pecked him on the lips for the first time and without a word went back inside.
Rael returned to the keep under a sky heavy with clouds.
Seven days remained.
And somewhere within his territory, unseen hands were already moving.