Haaa...
A long, resigned sigh escaped someone's lips, heavy with weariness and unspoken burdens.
The door opened slowly, revealing a woman clad in a simple slave's robe, her hair neatly tied in a bun.
As she entered, she bowed slightly, her movements practiced and respectful. Yet, the pattern etched into her skin was impossible to ignore—an intricate design that hinted at a mysterious, perhaps dangerous, origin.
Her sharp fangs glinted faintly as she looked up, eyes steady and unwavering.
"Young master, the lord is calling you," she said softly but with authority.
A deep, low voice responded from the shadows, calm yet commanding, "I'm coming."
Without another word, she turned and left, disappearing into the darkness from which she had come.
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Soon, the sound of footsteps echoed through the grand hall.
A boy emerged, wrapped in a wrinkled sleeping cloth, scratching the back of his neck with a lazy expression.
He let out a long yawn and stretched his body—disturbingly flexible, as if his bones refused to stay still.
He approached a wooden wardrobe, opening it to retrieve a simple cloth, and then began walking down the hallways.
His shoes were sleek, black, pointed, and polished to a mirror shine. With one hand behind his head, he glanced around lazily. His purple eyes shimmered with a mischievous light as he caught sight of the slave bowing deeply before him.
His hair, a cascade of shimmering purple, was swept across his forehead, sharpening his strikingly beautiful features—sharp jawline, charming smile, and porcelain-white skin that seemed almost otherworldly.
Clad in majestic demon robes—lavishly decorated in shades of purple and white—he moved with a certain relaxed grace, stopping momentarily at a grand place before the throne.
This was the antechamber where courtiers and advisors waited, their expressions a mix of reverence and anticipation.
Ornate pillars lined the room, draped with dark crimson banners, and the air was thick with quiet expectancy.
The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet, and flickering torches cast long shadows on the high ceiling.
Suddenly, from the throne, a figure rose—an imposing demon lord. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his robes flowing like liquid shadow.
His age was evident in his sharp eyes—cold and stern, yet piercing with intelligence and authority.
His face, carved with lines of wisdom and power, betrayed no emotion as he stepped forward.
"You're late, Kai," he uttered, his voice icy and commanding, resonating through the hall.
Kai, the son of the Demon Lord Zarathor, was unlike most demons in tales of old. Eighteen years old, he was lazy, mischievous, and had a wild streak that often got him into trouble.
Despite his laziness and playful attitude, his father disapproved—wishing him to be more regal, more disciplined.
But Kai's charm and humor made him impossible to ignore, even in the face of Zarathor's icy gaze.
"You're late again," Zarathor repeated, his voice a cold reminder of expectations unmet.
Kai grinned unapologetically, shrugging as he took a step forward, ready to face whatever awaited him in the shadows of his father's stern gaze.
Kai chuckled softly, a carefree smile curling on his lips as he finally stood before his father.
The demon lord Zarathor's piercing eyes locked onto him, a mixture of disappointment and unspoken authority simmering beneath his stern exterior.
The courtiers and advisors in the antechamber bowed a little deeper, sensing the tension that crackled in the air.
The flickering torchlight cast shadows that danced across Zarathor's sharp features, emphasizing his age and the weight of countless centuries of rule.
Kai, ever the rebel, sauntered closer with a relaxed swagger, his purple robes flowing around him.
Despite his casual attitude, he knew better than to test his father's patience too far. His mischievous grin widened as he looked up at Zarathor, who stood tall and imposing—a true demon of ancient lineage.
"Ah, father," Kai drawled, voice light and teasing, "Didn't expect you to be waiting for me with such cold eyes." His tone was playful a little desrespectful, but beneath it lurked a hint of defiance.
Zarathor's gaze hardened as he stepped forward, his voice icy and commanding.
"This is a place of discipline, Kai. Not a playground for your whims." His eyes flicked with a flicker of annoyance, but he masked it well. "You are aware of the importance of the council meeting today. Yet here you are, dawdling like a child."
Kai shrugged, feigning innocence. "Relax, old man. I was just taking my time. You know I work best under... pressure." He chuckled, but Zarathor's expression remained unyielding.
A faint breeze stirred the heavy crimson banners, and the distant sound of murmured voices echoed in the hall—courtiers waiting for the confrontation to end so they could resume their duties.
Zarathor's voice softened just a fraction, though still carrying that unmistakable cold weight. "Your attitude will not serve you well if you wish to inherit this throne, Kai."
Kai's smile faltered for a split second, but he quickly masked it with humor. "Maybe I don't want the throne, father. Maybe I just want to have fun." He winked mischievously, daring to challenge the centuries of tradition.
''What are we even doing here? we say we're demons we look like human beings'' He added.
Zarathor's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. "You may be young, but your recklessness will bring ruin if you're not careful." His tone was a warning, a reminder of the power he wielded and the responsibilities Kai still refused to accept.
The courtiers around them stifled their whispers, sensing that beneath the surface of this playful exchange lay a deeper conflict.
Zarathor's voice then softened further, a rare moment of paternal concern slipping through his icy exterior. "Remember, Kai, power is not a game. It is a burden."
Kai looked away briefly, a flicker of seriousness passing over his face before he pushed it aside with another grin. "Got it, Dad. I'll try not to keep you waiting next time."
Zarathor regarded his son for a long moment, then nodded once, his expression softening just a touch—enough to show that, despite everything, he cared.
Slowly, he turned back toward the throne, signaling the end of this confrontation.
"Come," Zarathor commanded. "The council awaits, and your attitude better improve."
Kai followed, a carefree glint still in his eyes, knowing that beneath his laziness and wildness, he carried the weight of his lineage—and perhaps, someday, he would learn to wield it wisely.