A ripple of ethereal light circled Zephyr's unconscious body, marking the activation of one of the highest forms of memory extraction—a rite usually reserved for identifying possessions or deep spiritual anomalies. The Crownkin stood in front of Zephyr and his mother, Ladarius just behind him, his sweaty palms raised up as he prepared to project the memory of the boy unto his surrounding.
The royal family watched with narrow eyes and tightly shut lips. Queen Avaria, resplendent in her snow-white dress etched with gold and blue Aether runes, stood at the forefront, expression unreadable. Her youngest daughter, Princess Seralyn, stood shielded by her elder siblings, her face pale.
"Begin," the Queen ordered.
The pressure in the air thickened. Zephyr's body, though unconscious, jerked slightly as the spell pressed inward. A single stream of memory pushed through the tether—
A bathhouse. Warm, quiet. A girl's unconscious body draped in a ceremonial robe. A dagger in Zephyr's trembling hands. Tears on his face. Shaking. Whispering apologies. The dagger never falls. His hand never moves. He just collapses beside her, head bowed.
Then—
Nothing.
The memory severed abruptly.
The Crownkin furrowed their brows, muttering among themselves.
"Only that?" one of them said. "The moment before the alleged act. No confirmation of guilt, but... no absolution either."
"Why stop there?" asked another.
But the Crownkin, garbed in a light silver dress with Aether stones around his neck, narrowed his eyes. "The soul is resisting. No—it's protecting something."
A hush passed.
The Queen's gaze sharpened. "Is it... hiding something?"
One of the Demios Crownkin, Keede, scoffed. "Of course it is. His kind always do."
Zephyr's body jerked again—more violently this time. His mother, still kneeling beside him, gritted her teeth, trying to shield him with her own broken Aether.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't dig deeper. You don't want to see what's buried further."
But the Crownkin were too curious.
Another pulse of power surged into Zephyr.
And then, something shifted.
Not in the spell, but within him.
Like an ancient lock breaking open, his soul began to adjust—to stretch—like a long-slumbering beast curling into bones it had once abandoned.
At first, it was subtle. His fingertips twitched. His breathing steadied, then wavered again under the pressure.
Then—
Flood.
Memories—raw, fragmented—began bleeding through the surface, not through the spell, but around it.
The warmth of blood on his fingers during training.
The sound of bone snapping at age six.
The pit. The gnawing hunger. The mockery. The fire trials. The voices screaming "Aetherless" until the word echoed in his dreams.
The first time he was ordered to kill.
The first time he refused.
A pulse of bright red light flickered over his ribs, just for an instant.
The Crownkin staggered back.
"Stop the rite!" shouted a crimson-cloaked elder. "This soul is... it's reattaching. Not a possession. This isn't foreign. It's... it's reclaiming the body."
"What does that mean?" Keede demanded.
"It means..." the elder turned slowly, eyes wide. "This boy wasn't resurrected. His soul was never gone. It was just... broken. Scattered. Suppressed. Now it's remembering. Now it's waking up."
"Impossible," someone whispered.
"No," the Queen said softly, watching Zephyr with narrowed eyes. "It is worse than that. The soul knew it would be destroyed if it was searched any further. That's why the soul is protecting its deeper truth."
One of the Crownkin swallowed. "You think... if we had gone further...?"
"Then he would have died," Ladarius growled from behind, stepping forward. "He have already died once and with that his sins, so I suggest the royal family spare him."
Gasps rippled through the courtyard. Keede's fists clenched.
The air crackled—not with lightning, but with a tension older than most nations.
Zephyr lay still, soul barely anchored to his body, yet the storm around him raged louder than any battle he'd ever witnessed. He wasn't the center of attention now. The real war was in the silence between two clans.
Queen Avaria stood tall amidst the sea of royal guards, Crownkin, and assembled nobles, but even her silver and gold robes of state couldn't hide the tightness in her shoulders. Her sharp eyes flicked toward the matriarch of Clan Demios—a woman who knelt in tears, pleading for her son, but now stood like a veiled tempest, one misstep away from consuming them all.
Swords were clenched.
Aether flames trembled.
And behind all that, hatred smoldered like a dormant volcano.
It had been festering for centuries.
The Demios Clan, wielders of the feared and cursed Black Flame, had long been the Solmyr Clan's greatest rival. Their animosity was born not from politics, but from betrayal—deep, bloodstained, and unforgettable.
During the catastrophic Era of Rupture, the two clans had stood shoulder to shoulder against a rampaging Curse Leviathan, a being born from the heart of the void. In a moment of desperation, the Solmyr patriarch had channeled a sealing rite that required a blood tithe. Without warning, he sacrificed thousands of Demios warriors to empower the spell. The Leviathan was sealed—but at what cost?
The Demios Clan had never forgiven that treachery.
And that was only the beginning.
Years later, the Demios heir, Vales Demios, engaged to a Solmyr daughter to forge peace, died in a cursed fire that many believed originated from tampered Solmyr relics. What should've been a union turned into a funeral pyre.
When the world began to rebuild after the Age of Rapture, and the great clans came together to crown the first sovereign king, it was agreed that the clan with the most Alpha-ranked individuals would provide the monarch. The Demios Clan, still wounded from the past, fell behind by one—a single Alpha short of supremacy.
Solmyr won the throne.
But they didn't stop there.
The first Solmyr king declared a decree: only their bloodline could ascend to the throne—an absolute monarchy born not from unity, but dominance. None dared to oppose them.
None... except Demios. For only them had the power to fight against them, but they did something unexpected.
They retreated. Closed their borders. Isolated themselves from the world. Their silence was louder than war drums. It was their way of saying, We will never forget.
And now, the matriarch of that very clan stood at the center of a courtyard soaked in tension. Behind her, warriors of Demios—clad in black and crimson, flames flickering beneath their cloaks—watched the Queen like hounds barely held at leash.
If she pushed further—
If she gave the order to kill Zephyr—
They would burn the palace tonight.
Queen Avaria knew it. Her Crownkin knew it. Even the other clans felt it in their bones.
The Queen swallowed hard, her gaze drifting across the courtyard to Zephyr's mother, still kneeling, shoulders shaking, broken Aether shimmering faintly as she held her son like a last lifeline. Beside her stood Ladarius Demios, the first son, his glare sharp and unrelenting. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, not as a threat—but as a promise.
Avaria felt the storm swell in her chest. She could not retreat. Not here, in front of the noble houses, before all the gathered clans. To back down now would be seen as weakness. Yet one wrong word, and the ancient fire would be unleashed.
So she chose her words with the precision of a surgeon.
"Then..." Her voice cut through the silence. "We shall spare him."
Gasps echoed among the nobles, but she did not falter.
"He did not accomplish what he was sent to do. And he has already paid for his crime with his life once."
She paused, letting the words sink into the earth, into the bones of every soul gathered.
"All I ask," she continued, "is that Clan Demios mete out its own justice. That you punish him as you see fit."
She hadn't breathed since she began. Only when the temperature dropped, the suffocating pressure releasing ever so slightly, did she exhale quietly. She hadn't even realized she'd been holding her breath.
The Demios warriors stepped back slightly.
No flames.
No outburst.
Only cold silence.
Then, Ladarius stepped forward, his boots echoing with sharp finality on the stone.
He bowed slightly—just enough to be seen as formal, not submissive.
"We will ensure he suffers for the disgrace he's brought upon us," he said evenly. "This son of Demios will be judged by Demios law."
The Queen nodded.
It was done.
But in the depths of her mind, one thought still clawed at her nerves:
This wasn't mercy. This was survival.
And as her eyes briefly met the matriarch's once more—still silent, still burning—Avaria realized something far worse:
The Demios Clan wasn't just biding its time anymore.
It was ready.
And tonight, for the first time in centuries...
They had the moral high ground.
As the sons and daughters of Demios left, the ball was called to a close, with varying expression but only one still held hate.
Keede Demios.