CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The gates of the Main Palace opened without announcement.
They always did for him.
Damiel walked through the vast corridors of obsidian and gold with Roan and Kael walking beside him—silent, lethal shadows bound by loyalty rather than command. Their boots echoed sharply against the marble floor, each step a warning.
This was not his domain.
And yet—every guard straightened. Every noble stiffened.
The Throne Room loomed ahead, its towering pillars carved with the victories of ancient kings. Six banners hung above the dais—one for each realm bound to Avalon. The air smelled of incense and power.
Inside, they were already gathered. The council, the officials.
King Eldron sat upon the high throne, his expression carved from stone. At his right sat the Queen—Damiel's stepmother—draped in crimson and venomous pride. His stepbrothers lounged nearby, wearing smiles too sharp to be harmless.
The council filled the lower tier.
Among them—
The official.
Damiel's gaze found him instantly.
The traitor felt it.
He flinched, as cold sweat broke out of his forehead.
A murmur rippled through the hall as Damiel stepped fully inside.
Surprise flickered openly across faces.
He never came here.
Everyone knew that.
Politics bored him. Words bored him. Thrones bored him.
War was his language—and he spoke it fluently.
His eldest stepbrother, Arkes laughed softly.
"Well," he drawled, leaning back, "when did you start enjoying council meetings, Brother? Has bloodshed finally lost its charm?"
A few nobles chuckled nervously, trying to ease the tension in the air.
Damiel looked around the room, as they all went silent.
"Politics," he said calmly, "are simply wars fought by cowards." Damiel said as he started walking, towards the center of the hall.
His stepmother's smile snapped.
"You forget your place," she hissed. "This hall is not yours to—"
Damiel stopped.
Turned slightly to look at her.
"If I wanted the throne," he said calmly, "no one in this room could stop me."
Not you.
Not them.
Not even the crown itself.
The truth hit like a blade.
She went still.
Everyone knew he was right.
The authority he carried was not given—it was earned, carved from battlefields and blood-soaked victories. Soldiers followed him without question. Realms obeyed him without resistance.
Hatred burned hotter in her eyes.
If only you had died back then, she thought bitterly.
King Eldron raised a hand.
"Enough," he said, his voice steady but edged with steel. "Damiel. You claim the enemies will strike at the feast, give your report as everyone is here."
Damiel stepped forward, his cloak whispering against the floor.
"There was an infiltration," he said. "Werewolves. Lycans, and they had help, A demon guard. A council official."
Disbelief rippled instantly, as murmurs filled the room.
His brothers scoffed.
"Ridiculous," Vaelor said. "If that were true, the palace would be in chaos by now."
The traitor's hands trembled beneath the table.
He had left early yesterday—certain everything would unfold smoothly. The distraction. The breach. The secrets stolen, everything was well planned.
Yet no message came.
No signal.
Only silence.
Damiel smiled.
Cold.
Sharp.
"You mistake silence for failure," he said. "It was stopped early, as we had made preparations before hand accordingly."
He turned.
Walked—slowly—toward the council.
Each step felt like judgment descending.
The official shrank into his seat, breath stuttering, sweat gathering at his temples. No title protected him.
How could one demon carry this much power, and presence, the hall seem to think in silent, as they sat frozen.
Damiel stopped in front of the traitor.
The Queen rose sharply. "This is absurd—he is a loyal servant of—"
The official dropped.
He slid from his chair and slammed to his knees, hands striking the marble as he bowed violently.
"Mercy!" he cried. "Please—Your Majesty—I was forced—I—"
The sound echoed.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Roan watched the royal family's faces with open satisfaction, a slow smirk curling his lips. Kael stood tall, pride etched into his posture.
King Eldron's jaw tightened.
Anger burned beneath his calm.
Rot had grown beneath his rule—and he had not seen it.
The council, however, felt something else entirely.
Relief.
Pride.
They had not erred in choosing Damiel as General—even as a youth. Avalon stood unbroken because of him.
"Why?", King Eldron asked, his cold voice cold, boomed, around the hall,
"They had promised power, to sit beside the Alphas, and rule as one of theirs", he said, regret etched into his voice.
Eldron rose.
"What do you intend to do with him?" the king asked, Damiel.
Damiel did not look away from the kneeling traitor.
"To make a public example," he said. "So the realms understands what happens when anyone dares cross—"
His gaze lifted.
Locked onto his stepmother.
Then his brothers.
"—me," he finished softly, "or Avalon."
A shiver ran through the hall.
None of them realized it—but they were trembling.
"Take him, and lock him with the rest, a good show is about to unfold". Damiel said coldly.
Queen Alvira was furious, not relief, this just made them admire him more, in front of all the council and officials, he had pulled this move, soon they'll beg him to seat on the throne, she thought as her curled in a fist, she had to do something,and fast.
His brothers eyes grew darker as they watched him leave, the council, were all murmuring, praise if him.
King Eldron eyes were distant, cold, and unreadable
And Damiel?
He turned and walked away.
The throne had never called him.
But it knew who truly ruled.