Chapter 70: Chapter 70: Misael's reaction

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Chapter 70: Misael’s reaction

Twenty-four hours earlier. Throne room, Demon Realm.

The rift closed behind Kairan with a sharp snap a fissure in the air knitting itself shut

leaving behind only golden dust that settled slowly onto the shattered stones. For a moment, the entire throne room seemed to hold its breath, along with those who remained within.

Misael stared at the empty space where, a moment before, his brother had stood. He said nothing. He did not move for a time that went uncounted. In the span of a few hours, he had lost a father and now his only remaining brother; standing motionless was the only way to bear that weight without letting it fully take hold. Then, he turned his back on the void and walked toward the exit, his steps slow upon the fire-blackened stones. The shattered throne, the blood not yet absorbed by the stone, the absence left in the rift’s wake none of it belonged to him anymore.

“It was necessary, Misael.”

Lilith’s voice came from behind steady, unruffled the voice of someone who had already shed every necessary tear and now simply had to stand tall before those who remained.

Misael stopped. He turned slowly, and as he did, a dense shadow gathered around his shoulders alive, pulsing, rippling the air around him. His red eyes with the six petals etched into the irises, tightening with every beat locked onto his mother’s gaze and held fast.

“Shut up.”

He said nothing more. The shadow around him slowly faded, consumed by the very words that had ignited it. It was only when she turned back toward the exit that she saw them: the three of them, still there in the throne room. Like everyone else, they too had watched the rift close behind Kairan, and now they were unsure whether it was safer to stay put or try to leave. Iskra, the wind mage, her hands steady at her sides. Eryndor, who had committed two betrayals in a single night. Malina, holding her breath in the faint hope that standing motionless would keep her unnoticed.

None of the three spoke. None would have had the time.

Misael did not look them in the eye. He uttered not a word before moving. He drew Selra from the scabbard at his hip its silver hilt was not merely a pommel, but a tangle of curved bars weaving together to form a veritable cage around the grip, sealed at the base by a round pommel; the blade, straight and double-edged, was forged from the same silver, bearing a striking resemblance to certain swords spoken of in the Human Kingdom. It all unfolded in a single instant: he pierced Iskra’s throat before she could even finish raising her hands, drove the blade into Eryndor’s chest just as the man’s back gave way against the stone, then reached Malina caught mid-flight in an escape that had never truly begun and severed her head from her neck with a single stroke. Three bodies, one after another, without a pause between the first and the last, all just paces away from the broken throne.

He wiped the blade on the hem of his cloak and crossed the hall, never looking back.

Lilith, standing nearby, had witnessed it all yet made no move to stop him. She watched her son walk away toward the exit his back straight, his stride steady and for a moment, her face was no longer that of an empress, but that of a mother watching someone drift away into a place from which she no longer knew how to bring them back.

She remained alone in the throne room longer than she had intended, amidst the broken columns and the remnants of a throne that was no longer what it once had been. She thought of Zaroth, and how he had taught her, so many years ago, that an emperor weeps only once for each loss and never in front of anyone. Now, facing two losses in a single night with no one to ask how to divide the grief, she understood just how difficult it must have been for him to remain true to that rule.

Misael reached his room and closed the door without slamming it. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, remaining motionless for a time he did not measure.

*Why did you die, Father?* he thought, his eyes fixed on an empty spot in the room. *I believed you were the strongest of us all.* He also thought of Kairan vanished beyond a rift that had closed forever and wondered if his brother had even imagined what he was leaving behind by remaining on that Earth. He did not weep. No one had ever taught him how, and at that moment, he would not have known where to begin. He sat there until the faint light from the narrow window above the bed shifted from the gray of night to something slightly paler, without him truly noticing the change. The Vanhai the kingdom’s most intelligent and wise species, never as strong as the demons yet ranking above them in the hierarchy cleared the throne room by dawn: they hauled away the bodies, washed the blood from the stones, and piled the fragments of the throne in a corner, awaiting their remelting. In place of hair, they bore gems that they caught the dim light of the hall, each unique in cut and color, each bearing its own magical power. They were the majority in the Black Tower, sharing the corridors with very few demons, and being entrusted with the throne room remained a rare honor throughout the Demonic Kingdom.

It was into that now-silent hall that Kaldreth stepped, his cloak still damp from the rain falling outside.

The old wizard paused in the center of the room, his eyes tracing every remaining trace the cracks in the floor, the chipped columns, the absence of a body that was nowhere to be found. Unspoken questions. He pieced together the events of the night from the only signs that remained.

“We must arrange the funeral,” he said to Lilith when he found her. “And proclaim you Empress.”

Lilith studied him for a long moment before replying. “Why not Misael?”

“Because Misael,” Kaldreth said, his voice steady, “lost both a father and a brother in a single night, and the second thing he did before the blood of the first loss had even dried was run three demons through with his sword, right here in this hall, in front of his mother.” He paused. “I am not saying he isn’t capable. I am saying that, right now, he is the most impulsive person in the entire kingdom, and an empire built on impulse cannot survive a single season.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Think about it. That is all I ask.”

Lilith remained silent, her fingers slowly tightening against the fabric of her robe. Finally, she nodded.

“You are right,” she said. “So be it.” Funeral preparations began that very morning black robes hauled out of storage, tower bells set to toll at sunset and with them came the news. No one needed to spread it; it raced on its own, faster than any messenger, from one province of the Demon Kingdom to the next: the Emperor was dead.

In the underground forges of the West, a blacksmith who had forged weapons for Zaroth for six decades laid down his hammer and did not pick it up again for the rest of the day. In the capital’s upper districts, two nobles whom Zaroth had humiliated years earlier exchanged a glance over a goblet of wine but said nothing; some things go unspoken, even between friends. Among the soldiers guarding the eastern gates, someone asked aloud who would take command now, and for a long moment, no one knew the answer. In the smaller villages, most people simply wondered what would change for them, and the most honest answer almost everywhere was: probably nothing.

The news reached the Nameless Land, too at the foot of the Dareth Ridge, in the village where Zaphira lived. Her mother brought the word, her face taut, her voice hushed like that of someone repeating something they wish weren’t true.

Zaphira understood the meaning instantly, even before her mother had finished speaking. Kairan had lost his father.

“I want to go to him,” she said.

“Out of the question,” her mother replied immediately.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dangerous, Zaphira. We are simple demons from a nameless village, and he…” She paused, searching for the right words. “He was kind to us, that’s true. But there is no one else like Kairan in this world. And the world he moves in now is no place for people like us.”

Zaphira didn’t back down. “At least the funeral,” she said. “From a distance. Just to see him, to know how he is. I don’t need to speak to him. I don’t need to be noticed by anyone.” She looked her straight in the eye. “Just to see him.”

“And what if someone notices you anyway? A nameless village sending a daughter to the Emperor’s funeral do you think that would go unnoticed?”

“There will be thousands of people,” Zaphira said. “No one will notice one more person at the back of the crowd.”

Zaphira took her hand a gesture she hadn’t made in years. “Please,” was all she said.

Her mother didn’t answer right away. She thought back to the time Kairan had stopped in their village the only time and spent a full hour talking to Zaphira, never once treating her the way demons from the Nameless Land were usually treated. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t bring herself to say a flat-out no.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally, and for her, that was already a huge concession.

Outside, beyond the thin walls of their home, the news kept racing from village to village, carrying the very same words everywhere.