That night, the palace halls hummed with quiet.
Too quiet.
Daemon, barefoot and silent, walked alone beneath moonlight pouring through stained glass. The guards assumed he was sleepwalking. The maids whispered about the "creepy twin who never talks."
Let them.
He wasn't going far. Just leading a wolf out of hiding.
From the shadows above, the assassin followed.
A Third Star mercenary. Quiet. Patient.
Daemon had spotted him days ago—always nearby, always pretending not to be watching. He never ate with the others. Never blinked too long.
A professional.
Good, Daemon thought. I need the practice.
He turned down the side corridor that led to the abandoned shrine, past cobweb-draped statues of dead gods. No guards. No servants. No echoes.
He stopped.
And waited.
A faint thud behind him. The assassin dropped soundlessly from the rafters.
Daemon didn't turn.
"I know who sent you," he said calmly. "Tell her I died in my sleep. Scream, even. But make it convincing."
The man lunged.
Daemon moved faster.
"Eclipse Claw."
The air twisted.
Daemon's shadow snapped loose from his feet, surging forward like a beast unleashed. It curled, rose—three-meter-long talons unfurling like jagged blades—and slashed through space.
The assassin dodged the first swipe, barely.
Not the second.
The claws caught his arm, slicing through aura and flesh like parchment. Blood sprayed, dark and steaming.
But he recovered fast. "Second Star, huh?" he spat, drawing twin daggers. "Then you die fast."
They clashed.
The assassin's strikes were clean, professional. A crescent kick. A downward arc. Each movement sharpened by years of killing.
Daemon parried with nothing but shadow and instinct. He wasn't faster. Not stronger.
But he was crueler.
Every time Eclipse Claw struck, Daemon paid the price—his real hands seared as if dipped in acid, raw and peeling. The whispers came too. Dozens of voices hissing into his ear.
"He didn't scream."
"He thought of his daughter."
"He hated the queen, too."
Daemon gritted his teeth and struck again.
One claw pinned the assassin to the shrine wall.
Another raked across his chest.
The final one—straight through the heart.
The man coughed once. Stared at Daemon in pure disbelief. "You... You're just a kid..."
"No," Daemon whispered.
"I'm what comes after the heroes lose."
The body slumped.
Later that night, under the shadow of an old oak, Daemon buried what was left of the man with his blistered hands.
No one saw.
No one heard.
He sat at the edge of the grave, shaking slightly as the pain caught up to him.
That took too much.
He was still only Second Star, and the assassin had pushed him to the edge.
But he'd won.
His core pulsed like an ember beneath his ribs. Stronger now. Feeding off the kill. Off the risk.
But—the next few days after the assassin disappearance,Bianca replaced the missing assassin too quickly.
Daemon knew the signs.
This new one wasn't hiding.
He smiled.
A woman this time. Young. Pretty. A maid-in-training with soft eyes and a gentle voice. She even wore the colors of his late wet nurse.
For Gabriel, she was sweet but for Daemon, she lingered too long. Poured his tea last. Watched him through lowered lashes.
You're not subtle, he thought as he stirred his untouched drink.
She was worse than the first.
More confident.
More sadistic.
He waited three days. Pretended to cough after drinking. Made his hands shake. Played the poisoned victim like a performance.
On the fourth night, she crept into his room with a needle of blackglass poison—soulrot. One touch and even a healthy adult would twitch to death.
Daemon let her press the needle to his throat.
"Poor baby," she whispered. "Won't feel a thing."
"Neither will you."
He moved before she could scream.
Shadow coiled up his arm like liquid fangs—
"Eclipse Claw."
But this time, he didn't stab her.
Not at first.
He pinned her to the wall, claws through both shoulders. She shrieked—once—before her voice snapped off into choking gasps.
Daemon stepped closer, breathing through the pain in his blistered fingers.
"You knew it was me who killed your partner," he said softly. "Yet you thought I'd be easy."
She spat blood at him.
"Damn it...Go to hell."
He leaned in, smiling with dead eyes."Too bad you'll be going there."
This time, he experimented.
Instead of going for the kill, he dragged the claw down her arm—slowly. Just enough to peel skin. Not deep. Just screaming-deep.
The whispers came back.
"She enjoyed it."
"Did it for coins."
"Laughed when she poisoned a stableboy last year."
Daemon's smile faded.
"Tell me who sent you," he said.
She didn't.
So he twisted the claw—until bone snapped.
Only then did she beg."IT WAS QUEEN BIANCA YOUR MOTHER!"
"Oh I know" Daemon smirked.
"You sadistic bastard!"
The final blow was silent.
The claw pierced her chest, slow as a sigh.
The whispers faded.
Daemon stared at her corpse for a long moment before dragging it to the catacombs beneath the nursery chapel—a place even rats avoided.
He buried her under the old priest's tombstone. Fitting.
Two down.
But this time, he didn't feel proud. He didn't feel strong.
He felt tired.
Each use of Eclipse Claw poisoned him a little more. His hands were raw. His sleep, haunted.
Still—he couldn't stop now.
His aura flickered in his chest, glowing a little brighter. Stronger. Closer to Third Star.
*******
Queen Bianca sat in the solar, bathed in sunlight that never quite touched her skin. Her handmaids braided her silver-gold hair, and incense smoke curled like fingers from the burning censers—but her mind was elsewhere.
Her eyes were locked on the letter she'd just received.
Another body. Another servant gone. No explanation. No trace.
"Second one this month," she said aloud, voice syrup-sweet and empty. "Coincidence?"
No one answered. Of course not. They never did when she smiled like that.
She stood and walked to the high window overlooking the nursery courtyard. There he was:
Daemon.
Sitting under the wilted tree, pretending to read an upside-down book. A little too still. A little too calm.
Watching. Always watching.
Gabriel played nearby, joyful, loud, golden. The "blessed" one. The one who took after her.
But Daemon—he was becoming a bruise in her kingdom. Not a threat. Not yet. But...something.
She narrowed her eyes.
"He's too quiet," she murmured.
"Perhaps grieving?" offered one of her ladies, meekly.
Bianca's smile sharpened.
"No. A grieving child cries. Wails. He..."—she gestured—"he pretends."
"He's just five—"
"So was I when I learned to lie," Bianca cut in.
She turned back to the window, watching Daemon flip another page of his upside-down book.
Didn't even look up.
Too disciplined. Too perfect.
She began to list the problems:
The maids assigned to poison him? Dead.
The boy who brought Gabriel poisoned cake? Gone mute.
The steward who mixed the tea? Missing.
But Daemon? Untouched. Quiet. Innocent.
"He has help," she said finally.
Her voice was low now. Dangerous.
"No child survives that many close calls without protection. Someone is aiding him. Guiding him. Hiding him."
Her mind spun with possibilities: a loyal servant from the past? A rebel noble? A spy within the palace walls?
Or worse...
What if it's not someone helping him?
What if it's him?
She poured herself wine. Crimson, thick, bitter.
"I want him watched. Every step. Every word. If he sneezes wrong, I want to know."
"But, Your Grace—"
"No buts," she said coldly. "If he's being trained, I want the teacher's head. If he's awakening... I want it crushed before he grows fangs."
She looked out again.
Daemon was now staring directly at the window.
Right at her.
He blinked slowly, then smiled—just a little.
Bianca's stomach turned.
"He knows."
She crushed the wine goblet in her fist.