That night, the palace halls were still.
Daemon walked barefoot through the corridor, his steps silent. A few patrolling guards glanced his way, but said nothing. They'd heard the rumors — the prince sleepwalked sometimes. It wasn't their concern.
Further down, a pair of maids passed by.
"My prince... you should be in your room," one whispered.
"Leave him," the other replied quickly. "The queen said not to disturb him."
They bowed their heads and moved on.
Daemon kept walking. Calm, slow, deliberate.
He wasn't sleepwalking.
He wanted to lure the assassin.
A faint pressure pricked the edge of his senses. Someone was hiding just beyond the column at the end of the hallway.
Finally.
He'd noticed the shadow trailing him for days. Always too close. Always too quiet.
The killing intent wasn't strong. Sloppy. Rushed. Whoever it was, they weren't a master. Probably someone sent to get rid of him but he knew the queen won't do such mistake and sent someone that weak.
Then he pause—
"I see" Deamon knew it might be the baroness cutting off her fingers wasn't enough so she might have tried to sent this weak assassin,she's underestimated him.
Daemon shifted his posture slightly, like a tired boy lost in thought.
Closer.
Closer.
Daemon's hand tightened at his side, ready.
He turned down the corridor leading to the abandoned shrine. Dust clung to cobweb-draped statues of forgotten gods, their stone faces eroded by time and neglect. No guards. No servants. Just silence thick enough to choke on.
Daemon stopped at the center of the shrine.
And waited.
Thud.
The sound was soft—too soft for anyone but him to notice. A faint shift in air, a flicker of shadow behind him.
The assassin had dropped from the rafters.
Daemon didn't move.
Shfft. Footsteps, light and fast.
Then the lunge.
Daemon spun, barely avoiding the blade. His heart kicked in his chest—too close.
"Eclipse Claw."
His shadow ripped free from his feet with a harsh snap, whipping forward like black lightning. It twisted into a jagged claw, massive and wild, the air hissing around it like a scream in reverse.
The assassin twisted aside, and the claw slammed into the floor, tearing stone from stone with a sharp crack.
Not bad, Daemon thought—but not enough.
The second claw came harder.
Slash!
It raked across the assassin's arm, cutting through aura and flesh. Blood sprayed, splattering against the shrine wall with a wet splack.
The man snarled and rolled backward. "Second Star?" he spat, pulling twin daggers. "You're just a damn kid."
Daemon didn't answer. His hands burned. Every use of Eclipse Claw shredded his nerves, skin peeling under invisible fire.
The assassin came at him—swish, swish, his daggers slicing the air. A kick, fast. Daemon ducked. A blade, overhand. He raised a claw and caught it, barely. The blow drove him back, boots skidding across cracked stone.
He grit his teeth.
His arms trembled. Blood slicked his fingers. His breathing was ragged—but his eyes didn't waver.
He struck again.
One claw crashed against the daggers. Sparks flew. The assassin staggered, off balance. Another claw lashed out—ripping across his chest. The sound was like tearing wet leather.
Then the final strike.
Shlunk.
Straight through the heart.
The assassin froze, breath catching. His blades clattered to the ground.
"You... You're just a kid..." he rasped.
Daemon's voice was low, hoarse from effort. "No."
"I'm what comes after the heroes lose."
The man dropped, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.
Daemon stood still, chest heaving. His arms shook, his claws flickered.
Then silence.
Just the sound of his own breathing and the slow, steady drip of blood onto ancient stone.
Later that night, beneath the withered limbs of an old oak, Daemon buried what was left of the assassin with blistered, blood-cracked hands.
No one saw.
No one heard.
He sat by the edge of the shallow grave, chest still rising and falling from the fight. His fingers twitched with leftover pain, arms sore and burned from the cost of summoning Eclipse Claw.
It had taken too much.
Second Star wasn't enough.
But he'd won.
His Astra core pulsed faintly—like a coal beneath his ribs, slowly heating. Risk fed it. Blood sharpened it. He could feel the shift inside him.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky laugh.
"I hope the baroness enjoys her little gift."
••••••
The Next Morning
Baroness Vexen, lady-in-waiting to the queen, paused outside her door in the servants' wing. A plain wooden box rested on the ground.
No name. No seal.
She frowned and picked it up, carrying it inside. A flick of the latch—
She froze.
Inside, carefully arranged:
A handful of severed fingers.
Vexen staggered backward, knocking into the wall as bile rose in her throat. The letter tucked beneath the grisly offering was short.
One line.
"Try again, and I'll send the rest of him."
—D.D.
She dropped the box. Fell to her knees. Vomited on the floor.
Few hours later.
The solar was warm with sunlight, but Queen Bianca sat untouched by it. She reclined in her velvet-backed chair while handmaids worked through her silver-gold hair in silence. The scent of sandalwood smoke hung in the air like a question left unanswered.
Baroness Vexen stood stiffly beside her, eyes locked on the floor.
The queen held a letter in one hand. No seal. No return. Just another body gone missing.
She read it again. Then looked up.
"Second one this month," she said softly, voice smooth as syrup. "Coincidence?"
Vexen swallowed hard. She still hadn't told the queen about the box. Or the fingers. Or what she'd done to deserve it.
She kept her left hand hidden behind her skirts—where a few of her fingers used to be.
Queen Bianca stood and moved to the tall window overlooking the nursery courtyard. Below, two boys played in the garden—twins in name, but not in spirit.
She watched only one.
"Tell me, Lady Vexen," she said, eyes not leaving the window. "Do you think they're anything alike?"
Vexen hesitated, then answered. "No, Your Majesty."
The queen smiled faintly.
"He's only five, and sometimes he walks like a man who's seen too much. Speaks like it too. Reads constantly. Barely eats in my presence."
Her fingers tightened on the windowsill.
"Sometimes I wonder... does Daemon already understand what we've done?"
Vexen said nothing.
Her hand throbbed.
"I'm sure he's just... intelligent. Different from the other children," Vexen said, forcing a smile.
Queen Bianca didn't return it.
"You wouldn't understand," she murmured. "Since the day I brought him into this palace, I've dreamed of dying. Always at his hands."
"My queen—" Vexen started.
But Bianca laughed. Loud. Unsettling. The handmaids froze mid-braid, casting quick glances at each other. Was she serious? Or slipping into paranoia?
She turned back to the window.
Outside, Daemon sat alone in the courtyard, flipping through a book—upside down. He never looked up. Never once glanced toward the window. Yet she felt like he knew she was watching.
"You think he's just a strange boy," Bianca said. "But what if he's not? What if Daemon is the reincarnation of the demon king?"
The room fell deathly still. No one dared answer. Even speaking such a thing could be considered treason.
She kept going.
"The maids who tried to poison him? Dead within the week. No witnesses."
Vexen clenched her jaw. She knew.Deamon must've killed them and bury them somewhere in the palace.
Bianca's gaze slid back toward her.
"And your son, Vexen. Tomas.He was killed by someone who feed him poison what if it was my son who feed him?"
Vexen's blood ran cold.she knew she was the one who kill her son out of greed,all because she wanted to get rid of the twins and take the position of the queen.
"My queen..." she said weakly.
Bianca waved a hand, dismissive. "I'm only wondering aloud. Of course, I'm his mother. Daemon would never hurt anyone."
She smiled faintly. The maids all exhaled.
"But then again," Bianca continued, tone shifting colder, "what about the steward who mixed the wrong tea? Him and his assistant both ended up dead. Mysteriously."
Vexen's fingers twitched.She was the one who help Daemon get rid of them because of that threat.
The queen's voice dropped to a hush.
"No child survives this many close calls by luck. Someone is protecting him. Hiding him. Training him."
She moved to the wine table and poured herself a glass—dark red, slow, thick.
"Whoever it is... I want their head."
The maids went stiff.
"If he's being guided, I want the one guiding him exposed. If he's awakening, I want it stopped. I want it crushed before it grows fangs."
Vexen nodded faintly, still unsure if her loyalty was to her queen... or her fear.
One thing was certain: she'd seen Daemon's eyes once. The way he looked at her, like he already knew everything.
And now she wasn't sure who she was more afraid of—the queen she served...
Or the boy in the courtyard.