CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Damiel had learned long ago how to endure pain.
Pain was familiar.
Pain was discipline.
Pain was power.
But this—
This was something else.
It lived inside him the same way his power did—silent when it chose to be, merciless when it did not. Since childhood, nightmares had stalked him, dragging him into shadows that breathed and whispered. Sometimes the pain came at night, tearing him from sleep. Other times it struck in broad daylight, without warning.
A presence.
A pull.
A voice that called his name from somewhere unseen.
He had never seen its face.
But he knew—whatever it was, it was powerful.
And it would never stop calling, until he answered.
At noon, the next day, Damiel stood in the open hall with his men, discussing patrol routes and border security. His posture was rigid, his presence commanding, silver eyes sharp and unyielding. To them, he was the same Prince of War—invincible, distant, untouchable.
Then the blur struck.
It burned behind his eyes without warning, a sudden heat that scorched his vision and twisted the world out of focus. The voices around him stretched and warped, like echoes beneath water. His heart seized painfully, as though something had wrapped itself around it and squeezed.
His fingers curled at his side.
No.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
"You're dismissed," he said abruptly.
His voice was calm. Controlled. Absolute.
The men hesitated, surprised, but none dared question him. They bowed and turned away. The moment they were gone, Damiel's hand slammed against the table, gripping it as he fought to steady himself.
He couldn't endure this in the open.
In a ripple of distorted air, he vanished.
He reappeared inside his chambers near the balcony.
The moment his boots touched stone, a strangled groan tore from his throat, as he dropped to his knees, the impact echoing sharply through the room. One hand clutched his chest, the other pressed against his temple as his vision burned white.
His heart felt like molten iron—twisting, searing, pulsing through his veins.
His body trembled violently.
He tried to suppress it. To force it down the way he always did.
It was useless.
The harder he resisted, the tighter it coiled, digging deeper, pressing harder.
His demon—Azaelth—felt it too.
He always did.
They were one.
As he groaned, restlessly, enduring the pain with him.
Whatever this was—this torment, this calling—it was part of him.
And he despised it.
A sharp gasp sliced through the room.
Damiel froze.
Slowly—painfully—he lifted his head.
Reyna stood near the bed, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with shock and something he could not name. She had been arranging the chamber while he was in his meeting. He hadn't sensed her presence. He'd been too focused on suppressing the pain.
His silver eyes were red-rimmed now, dulled, his flawless composure shattered.
He hated that she saw him like this.
"Leave," he ordered.
His voice was cold, laced with authority despite the agony ripping through him.
Reyna didn't move.
She stood too still.
Like stone.
Anger flared—not at her, but at himself.
"I said leave. Now."
Prince Damiel hadn't summoned her for his morning bath. He hadn't called for his food. It was almost as though he was avoiding her—or too busy to notice her existence. Later, Inez had sent her to prepare his room while he was in the meeting with his men.
She'd gone quickly.
She'd been avoiding him too.
After the execution, she hadn't known how to face him.
She was smoothing the bed when she felt it—his presence. Heavy. Sudden.
Then the thud.
She turned just in time to see him collapse to his knees, one hand clutching his head, the other pressed to his chest.
Prince Damiel.
The terror of Avalon.
On his knees.
Her mind screamed at her to run.
Her body refused.
When he shouted again—louder, sharper—she wanted to obey. Truly, she did.
But instead, her feet carried her toward him.
She crouched before him before she realized what she was doing.
Damiel's eyes widened.
No one had disobeyed him.
Before he could speak, Reyna wrapped her arms around him.
Her scent—warm, soft, honey and lemon—flooded his senses.
It grounded him.
His body stiffened in shock.
"I… I don't know how to help," she whispered, her voice trembling as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "But please… please stop hurting."
She didn't understand demons.
She didn't understand power.
She only knew he was in pain—and it was more than one soul should carry.
Damiel's breath hitched.
Slowly—terrifyingly—the fire eased.
The crushing pressure loosened. The tremors calmed.
Reyna's fingers slid gently through his hair, slow and careful, as though afraid he might break.
Impossible.
Yet it worked.
When he tried to stand, she helped him without hesitation. But when they reached the bed, his strength failed completely. He collapsed backward onto the mattress, and Reyna tumbled forward with him, gasping softly, as her body pressed against his hard chest.
She scrambled up at once, cheeks flushed, smoothing her dress in panic.
Damiel was already asleep.
His face—usually carved from ice—was peaceful.
She pulled the Velmorien Duvath, an ancient ceremonial duvet woven for demon royalty, over him. Her fingers brushed his bare arm.
Too hot.
She slipped out of the room and hurried to the kitchen. Inez noticed immediately—her pallor, her urgency—but asked nothing. She simply helped Reyna gather cold water and clean cloths.
When Reyna returned, Damiel's brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a silent grimace.
A nightmare.
Immediately her finger brushed his face, his face returned calm, and peaceful. She continued to dip the cloth and gently dabbed his face, again and again, until his temperature finally lowered.
When she turned to leave, his hand caught her wrist.
"Don't leave," he murmured.
Broken. Unfiltered.
Still asleep.
"Please… don't leave."
It didn't sound like Prince Damiel
It sounded like a lonely child.
Something inside Reyna cracked.
She knelt beside him, brushing his hair back, staying.
Night had fallen when Damiel woke.
Coolness rested against his forehead. Fingers moved slowly through his hair.
He exhaled softly.
Memories returned—pain, warmth, and her.
He turned his head.
Reyna sat beside the bed, half-slumped against stone, her head tilted slightly toward him. One hand rested in his silver hair, fingers moving unconsciously.
She looked peaceful.
He moved closer before he could stop himself.
His breath brushed her skin.
Her eyes fluttered open.
She startled instantly, scrambling to her feet, distance snapping between them like a blade.
He hated how quickly she moved away.
Damiel rose, approaching her step by deliberate step until her back met the wall.
She bowed her head instinctively.
"Y–Your Highness, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Look at me when you speak."
His voice was calm. Empty.
She did.
They were too close.
"Why didn't you leave?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated, a question she didn't know the answer to herself, but one thing was certain.
"You were in pain," she said simply.
"That was not your concern."
"I know," she whispered. "But you were hurting, and I couldn't leave you alone."
Silence stretched.
He searched her eyes again.
Only fragments of her thoughts answered him as always, what he needed to know, not what he wanted to hear—concern, fear, something gentler.
No deceit.
"Who really are you, Reyna?" he asked.
"Just a human slave, Your Majesty." She replied confused at his word, wasn't it obvious.
He didn't believe her., she was something more, something unique
Something stirred inside him.
Azaelth.
The demon shifted, restless.
Damiel forced it down and stepped back, cold rushing in where her warmth had been.
"Tell no one what happened," he said.
She nodded.
"You're dismissed."
She left.
The door closed.
'Why did you let her go?', Azaelth growled.
Damiel was confused by the question, "You said she was dangerous, that she made us weak." Damiel replied.
'I was wrong, abouther,'Azaelth said, as damiel remained silent, 'Did she weaken us when the pain stopped? When the fire obeyed her touch?'
Damiel said nothing, he knew Azaelth was right.
'Dangerous things doesn't sooth what hurts us, they feed it', Azealth continued softly, 'if she weakens us, why did the torment retreat, when she held us'.
Damiel clenched his fist, that was the problem, the pain obeyed her.
"She's human, human break". he stated calmly, she's weak and fragile and he didn't want to pull her into his world.
'So do warriors and powerful princes'. Azaelth said, 'Even if you want to lie, don't try to lie to me'. He said as he retreated back.
For the first time, Damiel wasn't sure which frightened him more—whatever it was calling him from the shadows…
Or the human who could calm the darkness inside him.