The war room was quiet, but not with peace.
A thick, strained silence hung over the council chamber, broken only by the rustling of parchment and the slow drip of wax from golden sconces lining the walls. King Theon stood at the head of the table, a sealed scroll unfurled before him. His jaw was tight, eyes sharp as he scanned the words again.
Around him, nobles, generals, and advisors exchanged uneasy glances. The polished marble floor seemed to absorb the tension, anchoring it.
Devon stood among them, arms folded across his chest. Though dressed in the formal uniform of a decorated Arc Knight, he looked tired—worn by long nights, longer rides, and the weight of the blade always near his side.
"Another border kingdom has fallen silent," the king said at last, his voice low and flat. "Three towns razed. Survivors report a coordinated attack by a force of demons numbering in the hundreds."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"The Duchy of Loranth has sent a formal request for aid. Reinforcements. Supplies. Knights."
He looked up, letting his gaze sweep across the chamber. "And counsel."
A nobleman with thin gold chains across his shoulders leaned forward. "If we send aid and Loranth falls anyway, we risk losing our own knights for nothing."
A second scoffed. "If we don't send aid, we'll be next."
The king raised a hand and silence returned.
He turned to Devon.
"You've seen this before. Commanded against it. And you've lived through battles few others would've survived. I ask you, not as a knight, but as someone who knows the enemy." Theon paused. "What would you do?"
All eyes turned to Devon.
He exhaled slowly. "They're testing us."
A murmur again. Devon continued.
"They're coordinating, which means they're following someone. Likely one of the surviving generals. Maybe a new one. Either way, it's not random. The way they struck—timed across multiple towns in one night? That takes planning."
The nobles shifted in their seats.
"If Loranth falls, they'll have a new staging ground to push deeper into the continent. It would give them easy access to at least three more kingdoms, including ours."
He stepped forward, placing both hands on the table. "If we wait, the war will come to us. If we act, we might stop it before it spreads."
The king nodded, but said nothing.
One of the younger lords broke the silence. "And what of the boy? The one who was blessed… or claimed."
"Ross," Devon said, his voice quiet but firm.
"Yes. Him." The noble gave a wary glance toward the back of the room. "If war is coming, will we be relying on him as well?"
Devon didn't answer.
Because Ross was already listening.
—----------------------------------------
Ross had found the high archway into the council corridor weeks ago. It was tucked just above the rafters behind the servant's wing, accessible only through a narrow crawlspace. He'd discovered it by accident—curiosity and child-sized bravery leading him through dusty stone walls like a rat chasing candlelight.
And now, lying flat on his stomach, ear pressed against the chilled stone, he listened.
The words were clear. Aid. War. Demons.
Loranth.
His throat went dry.
He remembered Loranth. Its shores were where the Demon Navy once anchored before raids. The cliffs there had seen him at his most merciless—hurling whirlpools at siege towers, drowning fields of soldiers without stepping onto land.
The names. The places. They didn't belong to Ross, the boy with human parents and childhood fears.
They belonged to Cenlurz, the Kraken commander.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Below, the council's debate grew more heated. Some nobles insisted that aid would weaken their borders. Others claimed they owed nothing to a failing neighbor. A few—the quieter, sharper ones—argued that any delay was a gamble they couldn't afford.
And then Devon spoke again.
"I don't know what Ross is capable of yet," Devon said, his voice measured. "He's strong—stronger than any child should be—but he's still a child. If we're thinking of involving him in this war, we need to be sure it's not because we're desperate, but because it's the right thing to do. We don't even understand the full extent of what's protecting him. Using him recklessly would be a mistake."
That hit Ross harder than he expected.
He backed away from the edge of the archway, heart thudding. Not out of fear of being caught—but because he didn't know how to feel.
They were talking about his old comrades. Not as individuals, but as a threat. As monsters.
And they weren't wrong.
He remembered their faces. Not with fondness, not exactly—but with familiarity. The wolfish grins. The loyalty carved in blood. The way the generals had spoken his name with reverence.
He had been one of them.
But now…
He remembered Hailey's laugh when she tripped Francis into a stream. Brad's proud grin when he managed to win an argument with a single look. Reina's scolding warmth. His mother's quiet humming in the evening.
And Devon, who never treated him like a weapon. Only a son.
Ross pressed his hand flat against the stone wall and let out a shaky breath.
What happens when the demons recognize me?
What happens if they don't attack me?
What if they kneel?
A part of him—buried deep—was afraid of how much that thought tempted him.
Not out of power. Not pride. But the comfort of belonging somewhere.
Ross turned and crawled back through the narrow space until the light of the servant's hall returned. He slipped out, dusting his clothes, and quietly made his way toward the courtyard.
He didn't want to think anymore.
But his thoughts followed him.
The training yard was empty. Most of the guards were at the wall or escorting guests through the outer gardens.
Ross picked up a wooden practice sword and faced the lone target dummy at the far end.
He swung. Hard. Once, twice. The thuds echoed.
Each strike was a question with no answer.
Could he fight them?
Could he kill them?
Would he hesitate?
Would he want to?
He lost track of time, of rhythm, of everything except the dull ache building in his arms and the burn in his lungs.
When he finally stopped, the dummy's chest was cracked and splintered. The sword was chipped. His knuckles were raw.
He dropped the blade and sat hard on the ground.
The stars had begun to peek out from behind the clouds, and the sky had gone a bruised navy.
Ross stared up at them, the cold seeping into his back.
A war was coming.
And he didn't know which side he feared more.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment.
The wind shifted.
He didn't hear footsteps, but he felt her presence. Like the sharp chill of deep water settling over the earth.
"Not bad form," said a voice—clear, feminine, and unmistakably familiar. "Still too rigid in the wrists, though. You always had that problem."
Ross rolled to his feet, eyes wide. "Kygail."
The woman standing at the edge of the training yard looked just as he remembered her—tall, sharp, and composed like a blade halfway drawn. She wore no armor, only a cloak and thin tunic, but her presence warped the air around her.
One of the seven former demon commanders.
His old comrade.
"I was hoping you'd recognize me," she said with a small smile. "It's been a long time, Cenlurz."
Ross clenched his fists. "Don't call me that."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't argue. She stepped closer. "I've watched long enough. I needed to know if it was really you. That... thing you did to the hellhound proved it."
Ross didn't respond. His mana stirred under his skin, but she hadn't attacked—yet.
She studied him. "You're smaller. Slower. But it's in you. The soul hasn't changed."
"I'm not one of you anymore."
"I didn't come to recruit you."
"Then why are you here?"
She hesitated.
"To talk."
Ross frowned. "We can talk right here."
Kygail glanced toward the castle.
"No, we can't."
Before he could move, the air vanished from his lungs.
She struck faster than he could blink—a blur of movement and a crack of pressure as the world tilted sideways. One arm hooked under his legs, the other around his back. The ground dropped away.
"Hey—HEY! Let go of me!" he shouted, struggling as she bolted toward the trees at an incredible speed. "Kygail!"
He twisted, kicked, threw his weight in every direction, but it was like being cradled by iron. Her grip didn't budge.
—----------------------------------------
In the far corner of the courtyard, a knight patrolling the outer wall turned just in time to see a dark blur sprinting across the rooftops—Ross's small frame draped over the shoulder of a tall figure wrapped in a wind-split cloak.
The boy was flailing, yelling, very much not being carried willingly.
The knight's heart stopped. He dropped his spear and sprinted.
The doors to the throne room slammed open, startling several nobles mid-debate. The king rose from his seat with a scowl.
"What is the meaning of—"
"Your Majesty!" the knight shouted, breath ragged. "Forgive the intrusion—but it's urgent!"
He dropped to one knee, eyes wide.
"The boy—Ross—the one you've been watching—he's been taken!"
The chamber exploded into shouts. Devon, standing near the window, froze.
"Taken?" the king snapped. "By who?"
The knight swallowed hard. "A woman. Tall. Black cloak. She moved like nothing I've ever seen. Ross was screaming, fighting her the whole way. She—she carried him like a sack of grain."
Silence dropped over the room.
And then all eyes turned to Devon.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
His expression was carved from stone—terrifying in its stillness.
A look of a father who had once killed a demon general.
And was about to remind the world how.