I didn't sleep.
That part wasn't unusual.
Four hours was a luxury on most nights, and last night hadn't offered even that. My mind refused to slow, circling the same thought over and over until dawn bled into the sky.
The Demon King's ring sat on my desk where I'd left it.
Dull metal. No sigil. No ornament.
Still carrying the faint copper tang of blood.
Two hours before sunrise, I'd dispatched a retrieval unit to the eastern docks. Veterans. Quiet ones. The kind who knew how to move without announcing themselves and how to leave without being remembered.
They returned as the sun crested the city walls.
The survivors were exactly where he'd said they would be.
Torvin Greiss. Caravan master. A crossbow bolt through his left shoulder. Twelve guards dead. Four wounded. The mercenary band identified themselves as the Crimson Marks—careless enough to leave tracks, symbols, patterns my people could follow.
Everything matched.
Every detail.
That should have reassured me.
It didn't.
I stood at the tall window of my study, watching the capital wake below. The city pressed in tight around the Council fortress—narrow streets, layered markets, rooftops stacked like arguments waiting to happen.
Smoke curled from chimneys.
Merchants unfolded their stalls.
The Watch rotated shifts at the outer gates with mechanical precision.
Order. Routine. Predictability.
Nothing about last night belonged to any of those things.
"You're troubled."
I didn't flinch.
I'd been half-expecting him to appear. I'd hoped for at least another hour before he did.
The Demon King stood beside me—not behind, not looming. As if the space was his by right.
He was dressed differently than before. Still simple, but intentional. A dark coat without insignia, clean lines, nothing that would draw attention in a crowd.
He could walk through the lower city and vanish into it.
That wasn't coincidence.
That was experience.
"Your information checked out," I said, keeping my eyes on the city.
"I don't lie to you."
"Everyone lies."
"Not to you," he corrected calmly. "Not me."
I turned to face him.
Morning light did him no favors. If anything, it made the wrongness clearer—the way shadows clung too closely, the stillness of someone who didn't need breath or balance.
"The survivors said something interesting," I continued. "They said the mercenaries were afraid."
His expression didn't change.
"Not of capture," I added. "They were afraid of something that had already found them."
Silence.
"One of the wounded guards said he saw something in the warehouse. Tall. Dark. Watching." I paused. "They blamed blood loss."
"Humans explain away what frightens them," he said mildly.
"You were there before my people arrived."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To verify the situation hadn't changed," he replied. "People die. Information rots quickly."
A reasonable answer.
Too reasonable.
"And if my team had failed?" I asked.
"They wouldn't have."
"You're certain."
"I am."
"And how," I asked coolly, "would you know that?"
"Because I know you," he said. "You don't send people unless they're capable."
I studied him.
He met my gaze without hesitation. Patient. Unmoving.
"You're doing it again," I said.
"Doing what?"
"Knowing things you shouldn't." My voice hardened. "My teams are classified. Their skill levels aren't public knowledge. You couldn't assess them unless you'd observed them before."
"I've observed everything about you," he said.
No apology.
No shame.
Just truth.
"For how long?" I demanded.
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give without unsettling you further."
I exhaled slowly. "I'm already unsettled."
A faint smile touched his mouth—not amused. Almost approving.
"Good," he said quietly. "You should be."
The honesty hit harder than flattery ever could.
"Why serve me?" I asked. "You said I carry authority you won't defy. That explains obedience. It doesn't explain choice."
"I ruled for three centuries," he said. "Kings don't kneel easily."
"Former kings," he corrected himself. "And we don't."
He moved to my desk, fingers hovering just above the surface, never quite touching. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.
"I ruled in blood," he said. "Built an empire from fear and fire. I was worshipped. I was hated. I answered to no one."
He paused.
"It was empty."
That, I hadn't expected.
"Power without purpose is just destruction," he continued. "By the time I understood that, I'd already burned too much to rebuild."
"So this is redemption?" I asked.
"No." His gaze sharpened. "Redemption implies regret. I regret nothing I did to survive or to rule."
Then, quieter:
"But I have no interest in ruling again. Thrones are prisons. I spent three hundred years chained to one."
"And serving me is freedom?"
"Serving you," he said carefully, "is choice."
The distinction mattered to him. I could hear it.
"The authority you carry doesn't compel obedience," he went on. "It offers it. I could refuse. I could leave."
He stepped closer.
"But I won't."
"Why?"
"Because you are the first person in a thousand years who could command me—and chooses not to."
That landed heavier than I liked.
I had authority. He'd proven it.
But I'd asked, not ordered.
He'd noticed.
"You're observant," I said.
"I've had time."
A knock cut through the room.
"Commander?" My adjutant's voice, controlled. "The Council requests your presence. Immediately."
I glanced at the Demon King.
He was already retreating toward the shelves, not hiding—just becoming less noticeable.
"Acknowledged," I said. "I'll be down shortly."
Footsteps faded.
"They know," I said.
"Yes."
"You told them."
"I didn't need to." He adjusted his coat. "Someone saw me leave the warehouse. Rumors move faster than orders."
My jaw tightened. "You could have been subtle."
"I could have," he agreed. "But subtlety implies shame."
"This complicates things."
"Good."
I turned fully toward him. "Good?"
"Your Council is comfortable," he said. "Comfort dulls judgment. Fear sharpens it."
"They'll try to remove you."
"They'll try."
"And?"
"They'll fail."
Not arrogance.
Certainty.
"The Council will ask questions," I said.
"Answer honestly."
"They'll want you gone."
"Then say no."
"It's not that simple."
"It is," he replied. "You are the authority here. Not them."
"They can make my life difficult."
"Let them."
He paused at the door.
"You've spent years managing their egos," he said. "Holding this city together through compromise and exhaustion."
Then, quietly:
"You're tired."
The words hit too close to truth.
"I'll be outside the Council chamber," he said. "If you need me."
"They won't let you in."
"I'm not asking."
He vanished.
I stood there longer than I should have.
Then I straightened my uniform, checked my blade, and headed for the door.
The Council was waiting.
And for the first time in years, I wasn't walking in alone.