The morning came heavy with mist and silence.The northern frontier stretched before us like a battlefield waiting to breathe again. The air was cold, sharp enough to sting my lungs as I watched the soldiers prepare for what was to come. Banners of obsidian and crimson fluttered faintly in the breeze, their sigils half hidden in fog. The valley below was quiet, but I could sense movement in the treeline. The humans were there. I knew it as surely as I once knew the pulse of my own army.
I stood upon the ridge, armor polished black with faint traces of violet shimmer. It was lighter than the human steel I once wore, shaped to the contours of my new form. It fit me perfectly, which only reminded me that it wasn't mine. The sword at my side, a curved demon blade named Sythra, felt both foreign and alive. When I gripped the hilt, I could feel it hum faintly against my skin, as if it recognized the restless power within me.
"Prince Aren," came a voice behind me.It was Lord Kael, the scarred commander who ruled this frontier. His expression was grim, but there was something like respect in his eyes now. "The scouts report human movement to the east. About a hundred soldiers. They move fast. Likely testing our lines before a full assault."
"Rebels?" I asked.
He nodded. "Humans who refused the peace accords, and some mercenaries. Desperate, but dangerous."
I exhaled slowly. The humans I once called allies were now my enemies. The irony wasn't lost on me. Once, I would have seen demons as monsters. Now I stood among them, ready to fight to defend what I once swore to destroy.
"Prepare the vanguard," I said. "I'll lead them myself."
Kael hesitated. "Your Highness, it may not be wise for you to—"
"I have to see the enemy," I interrupted. "If I'm to lead demons, I must understand the humans they fight."
He studied me for a long moment, then bowed. "As you wish."
The march toward the eastern ridge was eerily quiet. The ground was soft beneath our boots, and the forest loomed ahead like a living wall. My heart beat faster with each step. When the first arrow flew, slicing through the air with a hiss, I caught it mid-flight with my gauntlet. The soldiers around me stared, eyes wide. I let the arrow drop at my feet.
"So," I murmured. "It begins."
The forest erupted in chaos. Arrows, shouts, steel on steel. I drew Sythra, the blade gleaming in the half-light, and moved through the fray. My movements were instinctive— too fluid, too practiced for anyone who had not spent a lifetime fighting. Every parry, every strike flowed like a memory returning from a dream. Fire sparked from my blade as I cut through a wave of attackers, the heat pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
But something felt different. The fire that once answered my will now burned deeper, wilder. The demonic magic inside me fused with my human technique, forming something new, something terrifyingly powerful. Flames roared around me, and for a moment, the battlefield was silent except for the crackle of burning air.
The humans hesitated. I saw their faces : fear, confusion, disbelief. Some recognized me, I could see it in their eyes. One shouted my old name, the one that belonged to the hero I used to be. My chest tightened. I wanted to deny it, to silence the truth that haunted me, but it was too late. The fire around me dimmed, and the enemy retreated into the trees.
When the battle ended, smoke hung over the valley like a shroud. The demons cheered, raising their weapons, shouting my name. "Prince Aren! The Flame of the North!"
I sheathed my sword and stared at the scorched ground. "Flame of the North," I muttered quietly. "I used to burn for the humans. Now I burn against them."
Later, in the command tent, Kael approached again. "You fought like a god," he said, half awed, half wary. "The soldiers believe the old hero has returned, but for our side this time."
His words stung, though I didn't let it show. "Let them believe what they want," I said. "Belief is a weapon too."
As the night deepened, I sat alone by the fire outside the tent. The attendant approached, her expression soft with concern. She carried a tray of food but didn't speak until I looked up.
"You're hurt," she said quietly, noticing a thin cut across my cheek.
"It's nothing," I replied. "I've had worse."
She frowned, leaning closer to tend the wound. The warmth of her hands, the faint scent of herbs, stirred something inside me that I didn't want to name. She was always there, silent, steady, like the last light before darkness.
"I heard the soldiers cheering your name," she said softly. "They trust you now."
"Trust is dangerous," I replied. "It binds people to hope. And hope… breaks easily."
Her eyes lingered on mine, as if searching for something I wasn't ready to give. "Even so," she said, "you fight differently than the others. You protect them. You hesitate when you don't have to."
I didn't answer. How could I tell her that I saw the faces of my old comrades in every enemy soldier? That every blade I turned aside reminded me of a promise I could never keep?
When she left, I stared into the flames until dawn, the fire reflecting in my eyes like the soul of two men trapped in one body.
I was the prince of demons, yet the echo of a human hero whispered inside me, pulling me in two directions. I could not be both forever. Sooner or later, one would consume the other.