The forest ended without warning.
One moment, Anne flew above a sea of ancient trees—dark canopies rolling like waves, shadows thick enough to swallow sunlight. The next, the air changed. The scent of damp earth and moss thinned, replaced by something sharper… iron, ash, and stone warmed by heat that didn't belong to the sun.
The border of the Horn Realm was not marked by walls.
It was marked by presence.
The land itself seemed to straighten its spine.
Below, the terrain shifted into jagged ridges and black-soil plains where thorny vegetation clung stubbornly to life. Strange crimson flowers grew in clusters, their petals shaped like hooked blades. Farther out, smoke rose in distant columns—settlements, forges, patrol camps—each one a heartbeat in the body of a kingdom that never truly slept.
Anne descended slowly, wings cutting through the air with controlled grace.
Home.
The word should have brought relief.
Instead, it brought something heavier.
A quiet pressure in her chest that had no name she liked.
She kept her expression steady as the first patrol noticed her.
Three figures emerged from the cliffs—demons clad in dark armor etched with sigils. Their weapons were drawn instantly, reflexive, professional. Then their eyes widened. One of them dropped to a knee before he even spoke.
"Princess Anne."
Their voices carried respect, but also disbelief—like they'd rehearsed the words for a day they weren't sure would ever come.
Anne landed without ceremony, folding her wings.
"I'm here," she said simply.
The patrol leader swallowed, then bowed his head deeper.
"We… we searched—"
"I know," Anne cut in gently, not unkind. "You did your duty."
A pause.
Then, quieter: "How bad was it?"
The leader hesitated.
"Borders were reinforced. Your absence caused… unrest among the generals. And the Obsidian Abyss…" his jaw tightened, "…they've grown bold."
Anne's eyes hardened for a heartbeat.
Then she nodded once.
"I'm returning to the castle now."
The patrol leader motioned immediately. Messengers were already running—dark silhouettes sprinting across the ridge lines like shadows given purpose.
Anne began moving again, faster this time.
The Horn Realm rose ahead.
Its capital did not glitter like human cities. It did not soften itself into beauty like elven lands.
It stood like a crowned beast.
Black stone towers pierced the sky, their edges sharp, their windows narrow. Spiked arches connected fortress walls, and banners the color of dried blood hung heavy in the wind. Even from afar, the palace dominated everything around it—a mountain shaped into power.
Anne's wings beat once.
Twice.
And she crossed the final stretch toward the place where her name carried weight.
Where her father waited.
The castle gates opened without sound.
Inside, the air was warmer—thick with incense, metal, and old magic rooted into the walls like veins. Servants and soldiers alike froze as Anne passed. Heads lowered. Eyes followed. Whispers did not dare to form until she was gone.
Anne walked through corridors of dark marble and red-lit braziers, her boots striking stone with measured rhythm.
She did not rush.
Not because she lacked urgency—
But because the throne room demanded a certain tempo.
The doors to the great hall were already open.
As if the castle had been holding its breath.
Anne stepped inside.
The Horn Throne Hall was massive, its ceiling lost in shadow. Pillars carved like coiled horns lined the path toward the dais, their surfaces etched with ancient victories—wars won, realms subdued, rebellions silenced.
Torches burned along the walls, but the light they cast was not comforting.
It was honest.
At both sides of the hall stood the elite—Vlad's most loyal warriors, the highest-ranking officers, and the five generals who ruled the demon army beneath him.
Some stared openly.
Some hid their reactions behind discipline.
A few looked relieved.
And some looked… calculating.
Anne kept walking.
She did not glance to the sides.
Her gaze stayed forward, fixed on the throne.
And on the one who sat upon it.
Demon Lord Vlad.
He did not need to stand to command the room.
He was broad-shouldered and tall, his presence dense like gravity. His horns curved upward with regal cruelty, and his crimson eyes—Anne's eyes—held a calm that was more terrifying than rage.
He was not smiling.
He was not furious.
He was simply watching.
Beside the throne stood Iris.
Anne's younger sister was smaller, but not fragile. Her horns were shorter, her posture straighter in the way of someone who refused to be underestimated. She looked at Anne like she was seeing a ghost.
Then Iris blinked hard, as if forcing herself to breathe again.
Anne reached the base of the dais.
She lowered herself to one knee.
Head bowed.
Voice steady.
"My lord," she said clearly, so every soul in the hall could hear it. "I have returned."
For a moment, there was only silence.
The kind that could crush stone.
Then Vlad's voice filled the hall—low, controlled.
"Raise your head."
Anne did.
His eyes held hers.
"What happened?" he asked.
Anne answered.
Not with excuses.
With truth.
She explained the patrol. The surprise attack from the Obsidian Abyss. How their strike came from a blind angle, how the unit scattered, how she was forced to flee wounded and exhausted toward the Monster Forest border.
She did not embellish the suffering.
She did not play the victim.
She described the facts like a commander giving a report.
But as she spoke, the hall shifted.
Not in noise—
In attention.
Because this was not the story of a princess lost.
It was the story of a princess who survived.
When Anne reached the part where she was found—where she woke in a place too peaceful to be real—something passed through the room.
Surprise.
Disbelief.
Suspicion.
And a few glimmers of anger.
"A human?" one of the generals murmured, unable to stop himself.
Anne's eyes flicked sideways—brief, cold.
That single glance shut the man's mouth.
Vlad said nothing.
He let her speak.
Anne spoke of Andre.
A man in the Monster Forest who lived as if the forest belonged to him, and yet never tried to claim it.
A man whose healing magic restored her mana like she had never seen before.
A man who treated her not as prey.
Not as enemy.
But as guest.
She did not speak of warmth in her chest.
She did not speak of how the boy—Cale—had offered her a rose.
Those details were not meant for this room.
But she did mention the Inferno Wolf.
She mentioned Fang.
And at that, several warriors in the hall stiffened.
"The Inferno Wolf lived with them?" one of Vlad's captains asked sharply.
Anne nodded.
"And the child… tamed it."
The throne room reacted.
Not with shouting—
With shock sharp enough to cut.
Even Iris's eyes widened, her mouth parting slightly before she caught herself.
"A six-year-old?" someone scoffed, voice trembling with disbelief.
Anne did not flinch.
"Yes."
Vlad's eyes narrowed—just a fraction.
But still, he did not interrupt.
Anne finished.
She told them she had remained only long enough to recover. That she left before her subordinates could arrive and cause unwanted conflict.
Then she fell silent.
The report was complete.
Vlad stared at her for a long moment.
Then, his gaze moved.
Not to her wings.
Not to her armor.
To her hands.
Because Anne still held something.
A small wooden box, plain and unassuming in the middle of a throne room built to terrify empires.
Black and white patterns peeked from beneath its lid.
Vlad's expression changed.
Not much.
But Anne saw it.
Interest.
The kind he usually reserved for strategies that could win wars.
Vlad lifted one hand.
"Everyone," he said calmly, "leave us."
The command was not loud.
It did not need to be.
One by one, the warriors bowed and backed away. The generals hesitated a heartbeat longer than necessary—but even they obeyed.
Iris glanced at Anne, clearly wanting to stay.
Vlad did not look at her.
"Iris."
The single word made her straighten.
She bowed.
And left.
The doors closed.
The hall became vast and empty, filled only with torchlight and the quiet crackle of flame.
Anne remained kneeling.
Her pulse was steady, but her chest felt tight.
Vlad rose from the throne.
The sound of his steps echoed as he walked down the dais.
And then he stopped in front of her.
Close enough that she could smell the faint scent of smoke that always clung to him.
"Stand," Vlad said.
Anne stood.
Vlad looked at her.
Not like a ruler measuring a soldier.
Like a father reading a daughter.
"You are different," he said simply.
Anne did not answer immediately.
She didn't know which truth he meant.
Vlad's gaze shifted to the box.
"What is that?"
Anne lifted it carefully.
"A gift," she said quietly. "From Andre."
Vlad's brows lifted—barely.
"A human gave me a gift?"
Anne's lips tightened, then softened.
"He told me kings have always played it."
Vlad's eyes stayed on the box.
He reached out and took it with surprising care, like it might be fragile.
He turned it once.
Then again.
"What is it?"
Anne exhaled.
"A game."
Vlad's eyes flicked to her face.
"A game," he repeated.
Anne nodded.
"It's called chess," she said. Then, after a pause, she added, "Andre insisted on calling it Demon Lord Chess."
For the first time since she entered the hall…
Vlad's mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
But something close.
"A bold human."
Anne hesitated.
Then she stepped forward and lowered herself to sit on the floor—because she remembered Andre's posture, the way he had made the game feel like conversation instead of combat.
Vlad stared for a heartbeat.
Then, slowly…
The Demon Lord sat down as well.
Not on a throne.
Not on a chair.
On the floor, across from his daughter.
If anyone had seen it, rumors would have ignited wars.
But there was no one to see.
Only the quiet of the hall.
Anne opened the box and set the board between them.
The pieces were carved like beasts and soldiers, black and white.
She arranged them carefully.
Vlad leaned forward with the intensity of a general facing a map.
Anne explained the rules.
How the pieces moved.
What each represented.
How victory was not achieved by slaughtering everything—
But by cornering one piece so completely that it had nowhere left to go.
Vlad listened once.
Then reached for a piece.
He moved it.
Anne blinked.
"You already understand," she murmured.
Vlad's eyes stayed on the board.
"It resembles battle," he said. "And battles are the only language most kings truly learn."
Anne swallowed lightly.
They played.
And as they played, the real conversation began.
Not about the Obsidian Abyss.
Not about politics.
About Anne.
"You spoke of these humans with restraint," Vlad said, moving his piece. "But your silence around them is loud."
Anne stiffened slightly.
Vlad's gaze did not leave the board.
"Tell me about them."
Anne did.
This time, she allowed herself to speak more freely.
She spoke of Andre's calm.
Of Cale's sincerity.
Of Fang's discipline.
She spoke of the house that felt like a home.
Of the garden that shouldn't exist in a place like the Monster Forest.
Of the arena carved for strength.
She even—quietly—mentioned the rose.
Vlad's eyes flickered upward at that.
Then back down.
Anne spoke of laughter in a place that should only know survival.
As she spoke, Vlad's expression shifted in small ways.
Surprise when she described Andre's mana.
Interest when she described Cale's talent.
A sharp intensity when she described Fang, the Inferno Wolf who did not behave like an animal—
But like a veteran.
Then, Vlad moved a piece.
Anne's king was trapped.
She stared, realization blooming too late.
"Checkmate," Vlad said calmly.
Anne froze.
Then exhaled, stunned.
Her father leaned back slightly.
And laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh that echoed off the empty hall.
"You lost on your first game," Vlad said, amusement in his voice. "Daughter, you disappoint me."
Anne's mouth opened slightly.
Then she huffed, a sound dangerously close to a scoff.
"I—You—That was—"
Vlad laughed again.
"You speak like a child when you're irritated," he said, clearly entertained.
Anne's cheeks warmed despite herself.
Vlad tapped the board.
"One thing, however," he said, tone shifting.
The laughter faded.
The air tightened again, not with threat—just focus.
"In this short time… you have changed," Vlad continued. "Not stronger."
He looked at her directly.
"Better."
Anne's throat tightened.
Vlad leaned forward.
"These humans," he said slowly, "and this child…"
He paused.
"Cale."
Anne nodded.
Vlad's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"A six-year-old who tames an Inferno Wolf."
He exhaled once, controlled.
"That is not coincidence."
Anne remained silent.
Vlad stood, and with it the room seemed to remember what he was.
A ruler.
A storm contained within skin.
"I want to meet them," Vlad said.
Anne's breath caught.
"My lord—Father—" she corrected herself quickly, because this was not court anymore, "bringing humans into a demon realm—"
Vlad raised a hand.
"Silence."
Anne stopped.
Vlad's eyes burned.
"I owe Andre a debt," he said. "He saved my daughter."
He looked down at the board.
"And he gave me a gift I did not know I wanted."
Vlad's gaze returned to Anne.
"I will invite him as an honored guest."
Anne's chest tightened.
"And the others?" she asked quietly. "The generals. The other realms. What will they think?"
Vlad's expression turned cold enough to freeze fire.
"They will think," he said, "what I allow them to think."
Anne swallowed.
Vlad stepped closer.
"And if any demon dares harm them…" his voice lowered, "they will answer to me."
Anne stared at him.
He meant it.
That certainty loosened something inside her.
Fear.
Doubt.
She exhaled slowly.
"…Very well," she said.
Vlad nodded.
Then his tone softened—just slightly.
"You will go back," he said.
Anne blinked.
"So soon?"
Vlad's gaze flickered, almost amused.
"You spoke of that place like it is a second home," he said. "I will not pretend I didn't hear it."
Anne looked away.
Vlad turned and began walking back toward the throne.
"Go," he said over his shoulder. "And tell Andre that Vlad of the Horn Realm invites him."
Anne hesitated, then bowed—this time not as a soldier, but as a daughter.
"Yes… Father."
As she left the throne room, her wings unfolded again.
The castle air felt heavy.
But her heart felt—
Strangely—
Lighter.
A week later, Anne stood once more at the border of the Horn Realm.
This time, she smiled before she took flight.
Her destination was not merely a forest.
It was a place she intended to return to.
A place that had changed her.
A place where a man and his son waited—whether they knew it or not.
And far beyond the demon lands…
Atlas continued to shift.
Quietly.
Unavoidably.
Toward them.