The first rays of dawn filtered through the palace windows, casting faint golden light over the cold stone floors. The king stood before his reflection, clad in armor polished to a mirror sheen.
His sword gleamed in the morning light, but his eyes bore the shadows of sleepless nights. Enough was enough.
He strapped his scabbard to his waist, donned a crimson cloak embroidered with the royal crest, and turned toward his trusted guards.
"Ready the horses," he commanded. "Today, the Demon Lord falls."
The guards hesitated. They had seen what the demon could do.
"My lord—"
"Not another word," the king snapped. "Do as I command."
The air grew colder as the king and his guards entered the Demon Lord's domain. The trees hung heavy with decay, their branches twisted like claws. The ground squelched underfoot, stained with dark patches of dried blood.
And then they saw him.
The Demon Lord stood atop a mound of bodies, their lifeless forms twisted in agony. His robes—deep crimson like spilled wine—billowed as he turned, revealing eyes that burned like molten fire.
He held a goblet carved from bone, its rim stained red.
"Welcome, Your Majesty," the demon said, raising the goblet mockingly. "You arrive just in time for the feast."
The king tightened his grip on his sword. "Enough of your games! I've come to put an end to this madness."
The Demon Lord's laughter rang out, sharp and hollow. "Madness? No, Your Highness. This is justice. The weak perish, and the strong rule."
The king stepped forward. "You are no king. You're a monster who preys on fear."
The Demon Lord bared his teeth, revealing fangs glistening with fresh blood. "And yet, you tremble."
The king raised his sword. "I will banish you from this world. You will never sit upon my throne."
The Demon Lord's expression darkened. "Your throne?" His voice echoed, laced with an unnatural growl. "That throne belongs to me. It is my birthright—my legacy!"
"You were cast out for a reason," the king shot back. "You are cursed. A demon cannot rule men."
The Demon Lord stepped closer, his presence suffocating. "Then perhaps men should become demons."
"Enough!" The king swung his sword, but the Demon Lord stepped back effortlessly, the blade cutting through air.
"You cannot kill me," the demon hissed. "You cannot even touch me."
"I will find a way."
"Try, if you dare," the Demon Lord sneered. "But when you fail, your kingdom will burn."
For a moment, the king faltered. The Demon Lord's power was undeniable. But his resolve burned brighter.
The king rode back to the palace, his heart heavy with rage and doubt. He had faced the demon and failed to strike him down.
When he entered the throne room, he found the queen and the Queen Mother huddled together, their eyes red with tears.
"What happened?" he demanded.
The queen choked on her words. "Theodora… she's gone."
The king's breath caught. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"She was here after the funeral," the Queen Mother said, her voice trembling. "But when we came to look for her this morning, she was gone. And Lucian is missing too."
The king staggered back, his mind spinning. "Search the grounds!" he roared. "Search the village—search everywhere!"
Guards rushed out, but the king stood frozen.
Was this the Demon Lord's doing? Had he taken his daughter?
Hours passed, and still no sign of Theodora or Lucian.
The palace was restless, fear thick in the air. Rumors swirled—some said the Demon Lord had taken them as sacrifices, others whispered that Theodora had willingly left with him.
The king refused to believe it.
"She wouldn't," he muttered, pacing the throne room. "Not willingly."
But doubt lingered.
Maria entered quietly, her face pale. "Tristan hasn't returned either."
The king turned sharply. "What?"
"He never came back last night. No one's seen him."
The king's fists clenched. Everything was unraveling. His daughter, his trusted guard.
The shadows grew longer as night fell, and the king's thoughts turned darker.
Far away, in the depths of the Demon Lord's lair, the monster sat on his dark throne, shadows twisting around him.
In his hand, he held a single red flower, its petals soaked in blood.
"Soon," he whispered. "Soon, the crown will be mine."
And in the corner, hidden from sight, a figure stirred—eyes wide with fear and despair.
The night was thick with shadows as the King prepared to leave the palace. He stood before a cracked mirror, pulling a tattered cloak over his shoulders and fastening the hood tightly around his face. He was a desperate father.
He slipped out unnoticed, accompanied only by two trusted guards, each clad in plain robes. Their horses' hooves thudded softly against the dirt as they rode into the forest, their torches flickering in the damp night air. The King's hands trembled, though not from the cold. He gripped the reins tighter.
"We will find answers," he muttered to himself. "We must."
The journey was long and silent, the forest closing in around them as if the trees themselves sought to trap them in their grief. When they finally reached the clearing, a small hut stood before them—its roof sagging, its walls adorned with symbols carved in twisting patterns. Strange idols lined the entrance, their hollow eyes seeming to follow the King's every movement.
Inside, the shaman knelt before a low altar, surrounded by flickering candles. He was an old man, his back bent like a bow, and his robes bore symbols stitched with faded golden thread. Before him, carved idols of stone and wood loomed in eerie silence—some seated with hands raised in supplication, others poised as if prepared for battle.
The shaman's lips moved in whispers, a chant the King could not understand. Smoke rose from burning herbs, filling the room with an acrid scent.
"Old man," the King's voice broke the silence. "I seek your guidance."
The shaman's eyes opened slowly, pale and clouded with blindness. Yet, when he turned to the King, it felt as though he saw everything.
"Why have you come?" the shaman asked, his voice as brittle as dry leaves.
"My daughter has been taken," the King said, his voice shaking.
"Theodora is in the hands of the Demon Lord. I need to know how to save her."
The shaman's expression darkened. He rose to his feet with surprising steadiness, stepping toward the King until they were only a breath apart.
"You are too late," the shaman said.
"No," the King snapped. "You don't understand—there must be a way. She cannot die. Not like the Queen Dowager."
The shaman's gaze shifted toward the idols. "The Demon Lord's power cannot be broken by ordinary men."
"Then what must I do?" the King demanded.
The shaman gestured to one of the idols, its figure carved with a sword raised high above its head. "The one who carved this was no ordinary man but a warrior bound by both mortal and demon blood. It is through such blood that the Demon Lord can be called and defeated."
The King's heart pounded. "A half-demon? A half-mortal?"
"Yes," the shaman said. "But the time for battle has not yet come. The stars have not aligned."
The King stepped forward, grabbing the shaman's arm.
"I cannot wait for the stars! My daughter's life is at stake!"
The shaman remained calm, unmoved by the King's desperation.
"Patience, Your Majesty. The blood of demons runs deep, and it is not easily controlled. The half-blood must first accept what he is, or his power will devour him."
The King's mind raced. Tristan. The thought struck him like lightning. Could it be? Could Tristan be the key to defeating the Demon Lord? But the memory of Tristan's transformation—his hunger, his loss of control—filled him with dread.
"Theodora is in danger," the King said, his voice breaking. "And Tristan… Tristan may already be lost to the darkness."
The shaman turned back to the altar, picking up a small bowl filled with dark liquid. "Then you must decide, King. Will you risk unleashing a greater evil to destroy the one that threatens you now? Or will you wait and trust that fate will guide the half-blood to his purpose?"
The King's breath came in shallow gasps. Every word felt like a knife twisting in his chest.
"She is my daughter," he said softly. "I will do whatever it takes to save her."
The shaman dipped his fingers into the bowl and flicked the liquid onto the idols. "The path has already been set. But beware—once the blood is awakened, there is no turning back."
The King turned and stormed out of the hut, his anger simmering beneath his grief. The journey back to the palace was silent, but his mind roared with doubts and fears.
If Tristan truly was the key to defeating the Demon Lord, then the King's choices had already sealed their fate. And if the shaman's warning was true, the battle had only just begun.