The flickering glow of lanterns bathed the lavish estate in a warm, golden hue. Lush gardens surrounded the grand manor, and the air carried the scent of blooming nightshade. It was a night of quiet beauty—yet an ominous presence lurked beyond the walls.
Inside, a woman lay on an ornate bed, her breaths heavy and labored. Her raven-black hair clung to her damp forehead, and her crimson eyes, filled with exhaustion, gazed lovingly at the swaddled infant in her arms. The child, barely minutes old, had inherited her ethereal beauty—dark locks, smooth skin, and a pair of piercing eyes that hinted at the untamed power in his veins.
Beside her, a tall man with an air of undeniable authority stood watch. His features were sharp and flawless, too perfect to belong to a mere human. He was Draven's father—the Demon Lord, a being of immense strength who had chosen to live among humans.
"It's a boy," the woman whispered, her voice weak but filled with love.
The Demon Lord smiled, though his expression was weighed with an unspoken sorrow. He traced a gentle finger along the child's cheek. "Draven… He will carry our legacy."
Before he could say more, a knock echoed through the chamber—urgent, desperate. The doors burst open, revealing a servant whose face was drained of color. "My lord, the king's forces… They're here."
A heavy silence filled the room.
The Demon Lord's crimson eyes darkened. He had expected this moment. Their influence in the kingdom had grown too vast, their beauty too unnatural, their wealth too enviable. The human king feared them, and fear bred treachery.
"We don't have much time," the woman said, clutching Draven tightly.
The Demon Lord turned to the two figures who stood silently by the doorway—an elderly man and his wife, loyal servants who had stood by them for years. "Take him," he commanded, his voice heavy with authority. "Take Draven far from here and protect him."
The old man hesitated. "My lord, we cannot leave you—"
"You must." The Demon Lord placed a hand on his shoulder. "Draven is the future. If we fall, he must live."
The woman pressed a kiss to her son's forehead, her heart shattering with every second. Then, with a trembling hand, she reached under the silken sheets and retrieved a sheathed blade. Its hilt was wrapped in ancient runes, and the faintest ember of power pulsed from its core.
"Infernal Edge," she whispered. "He will need it when the time comes."
The elderly woman accepted the bundle—both the child and the sword—her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "We will keep him safe."
The moment they disappeared through the servants' passage, the doors to the estate exploded inward.
The night erupted into chaos.
Armored soldiers stormed the halls, torches in hand, their swords gleaming with murderous intent. The king's assassins had arrived.
The Demon Lord stood his ground, his presence alone sending shivers through the intruders. "You dare attack my home?" His voice was deep, commanding, laced with barely restrained fury.
"You are no longer welcome in this kingdom, demon," a soldier spat, stepping forward. "The king has ordered your execution."
The Demon Lord's lips curled into a smirk. "Then come."
Without warning, the room plunged into darkness.
The torches flickered and died as a wave of black mist swallowed the chamber. Then, with a whisper of movement, the Demon Lord was among them. Blades clashed. Steel met flesh. The soldiers screamed as shadows danced and tore through their ranks.
His wife, too, fought beside him. Her movements were elegant, lethal, as she wielded magic that turned the air to ice and shattered enemies where they stood.
But the assassins were many. Too many.
More soldiers poured into the manor, overwhelming them. Even as the Demon Lord cut down foe after foe, he felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. Their fate had been sealed the moment the king had deemed them a threat.
A blade found its way through his ribs. Then another.
His wife gasped as a spear pierced her abdomen, blood staining the floor beneath her.
Yet even as they fell, their thoughts were not of themselves.
Draven.
He was safe.
As the Demon Lord collapsed to his knees, his vision blurred, he allowed himself one final smirk. "You can kill us," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "But you will never erase us."
With a final surge of power, the entire estate trembled. Darkness erupted from his body, swallowing everything in sight. A last act of defiance.
And in the distance, far beyond the burning ruins of what was once their home, an elderly couple carried a sleeping child through the forest.
Unaware that this child would one day return.
Unaware that the world would soon tremble at the name—Draven.