The assassins carried them through the moonlit forest, their boots crunching over frostbitten leaves. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of pine and blood.
Daemon, wrapped tightly in bloodstained swaddling cloth, felt it—something familiar.
A pulse. A vibration in the air around the black-clad killers.
Aura.
Not magic. Not the twisted, cursed energy that had once surged through his veins. No—this was different. Raw life force, drawn from the body and sharpened into a weapon.
Aura was the essence of a warrior—the proof of their will, their ability to carve their name into history. Some had it in whispers, faint and fleeting. Others, like the leader of these assassins, carried it like a smothered torch, coiled and waiting to strike.
It thrummed against his skin like the hum of a blade.
Daemon's eyes flickered. Since when could I sense this?
Then—a memory.
A massive, shadow-cloaked finger pressing against his forehead. A voice like grinding mountains.
"You'll learn... when you remember what you truly are."
A laugh bubbled up from Daemon's tiny chest—high, gurgling, utterly wrong for an infant.
The lead assassin glanced down, his masked face tilting. "Damn. This one's laughing."
His comrade snorted. "Probably thinks we're taking him to some happy new home. Poor little bastard."
Daemon's laughter didn't stop. If anything, it grew louder, his crimson eyes locking onto the assassin's with a look far too knowing for a newborn.
Save your pity, he thought, his gums aching with the phantom memory of fangs he didn't yet possess. You'll need it for yourselves soon.
The assassins exchanged uneasy glances.
And that was when Gabriel chose to wake up and scream.
"Wait, little one... you'll soon meet your new mother."
The assassin chuckled as they emerged from the forest, blood crusted on his gloves.
After hours of silent travel, the royal palace finally rose from the horizon—a beast of white marble and gilded spikes, its towers clawing at the blood-red moon like hungry fingers.
Daemon's tiny fists curled tighter in his swaddle as the assassins scaled the outer wall like shadows. He could feel the stone under their boots, the rhythm of his own heartbeat, the rage coiling inside his infant chest.
Then—the window.
Warm candlelight flickered beyond the glass. The scent of jasmine and something far subtler: poison.
And there she was.
Queen Bianca.
Standing in the archway, her silver-threaded robes spilling over the stone floor like liquid mercury. Her beauty still cut like a blade—sharp cheekbones, wine-dark lips, and eyes like frozen emeralds.
The Marquis' daughter. The king's second wife.
The one who ruined everything.
Daemon's breath caught, a flicker of his past pain rising like bile.
Long time no see... Bianca.
Memories bit into him like barbed wire.
Her serene smile while his ten-year-old self was whipped for "stealing" Gabriel's toy.Her voice, sweet and cold, ordering him to kneel on broken glass during a feast—"A demon shouldn't sit above nobles."The hiss of hot metal as she branded his palm, whispering, "Let your filth show."
Now, she reached out with jeweled fingers.
"Ah," she cooed, her voice thick with false affection, "so this twin is the demon. He has the dark hair. Give him to me,I'm his mother now."
The assassin bowed, handing Daemon over. "As you commanded, Your Grace."
Her touch was as he remembered—cold, calculated, venom in silk.
She tilted his face toward the light, inspecting him like a defect. "Look at these eyes... like a serpent's. Fitting. Just like the prophecy warned."
Then, with a flick of disgust, she thrust him toward a maid.
"Take this thing. I don't want it near me."
Across the room, Gabriel whimpered. The queen turned, her entire demeanor shifting in an instant.
"Oh, my sweet angel!" she gasped, snatching the golden-haired boy like a prize. "Such perfect hair—like sunlight. The heavens have truly blessed me. Come to Mother."
Daemon didn't cry. He didn't flinch.
He simply stared at them—his brother, his captor, his curse.
Yes, Bianca, he thought coldly. Hold him. Coddle him. Call him yours. One day, I'll make you beg to tell the truth—with your skin peeled back like silk.
Bianca turned, practically glowing with her victory. "It's been five days since I locked myself away. The servants think I gave birth myself—ha! That little performance... the fake belly, the screams. I deserve a damn crown just for that."
She peeled off the fake stomach and tossed it to a maid, still giggling. "Let's go share the good news with the king. I'm sure the court will be so happy for me."
The maids and assassins bowed low, murmuring congratulations like obedient dogs.
Daemon just watched.
Now it all made sense.
In his past life, on the day of her death, Bianca had confessed everything to him. She laughed in his face as her blood soaked the marble floor—told him he was the spawn of a maid. That she only kept him alive to punish him for reminding her of that woman.
And now here she was again, proud, smiling, dragging Gabriel deeper into her lies.
She thought she'd won.
Again.
Daemon stared down the palace halls as they carried him past velvet curtains and golden columns.
It hadn't even been a day since his rebirth.
But the memories, the hatred, the plan—it was all still there.
And this time, he wasn't going to wait to be broken.
He was going to burn this place down.
BAM!
The grand doors of the throne room slammed open.
Queen Bianca swept in like a stage actress at the climax of her performance—Gabriel nestled in her arms like a divine gift. Behind her, a tight-lipped nursemaid held Daemon stiffly, like she was afraid the infant might bite.
The courtiers stirred, their silks rustling like a nest of vipers. At the far end of the hall, the Obsidian Throne loomed.
King Alaric sat slouched in it, more shadow than sovereign. The silver in his beard had outpaced the gold in his crown. His eyes—once sharp enough to cut through lies—now looked dulled by years of war, betrayal, and weariness.
Beside him stood High Priest Orlan, draped in white and gold, hands folded over a sun-etched staff. His gaze was colder than any god's mercy.
Bianca's voice rang out, syrupy and bright.
"My king. The gods have smiled upon us—twin sons."
Gasps. Then whispers.
"So the eclipse was an omen after all..."
"Two heirs? Twice the blessing—or twice the curse."
"Look at the one with red eyes. Is he even breathing?"
King Alaric stood slowly. His joints cracked with age or maybe guilt. He approached, face unreadable.
He looked first at Gabriel.
The golden-haired baby reached for his father's finger, cooing like the heavens had already chosen him.
"Gabriel," the king murmured, a rare softness in his voice. "A strong name. A name fit for a prince."
Then—his gaze shifted.
To the other one.
To Daemon.
The baby didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just stared.
Not with innocence, but with memory.
There was something old behind those crimson eyes—something wrong.
The king's jaw tightened.
"And... this one?"
Bianca hesitated, then smiled too sweetly.
"He hasn't cried once maybe... he is a spiritual anomaly."
High Priest Orlan stepped forward, lifting his staff. The amulet at its tip pulsed faintly as he lowered his hand over Daemon's head.
"The child is quiet," he announced. "Too quiet. It is written: 'One twin shall carry light, the other, the shadow beneath it.'"
He narrowed his eyes.
"He bears the mark. Just like the prophecy said."
The throne room fell silent.
Then—Daemon laughed.
Not a giggle. Not a baby's joy.
A low, broken sound—like gravel and breath and rage shoved into a child's lungs.
The king stepped back.
Orlan's fingers twitched on his staff.