Chapter 4: Whispers in the Dark!
The shadows seemed to writhe with malevolent purpose as Seraphine glided through the castle's forgotten corridors, her violet skin almost luminescent in the hellish glow that seeped through the obsidian walls. The abandoned tower she'd chosen for tonight's gathering had once housed her great-grandfather's alchemical experiments, a fitting location for what they were about to discuss.
Vorthak was already waiting when she arrived, his massive frame hunched over an ancient stone table covered in yellowed scrolls. The eldest prince looked up as she entered, his burning eyes reflecting the volcanic light streaming through the narrow windows.
"You're late," he rumbled, though there was no real reproach in his voice.
"I was ensuring we wouldn't be disturbed," Seraphine replied smoothly. "The servants have been... redirected to other duties tonight."
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the spiral staircase, and soon Drakonis slithered into the chamber, his serpentine lower body moving with predatory grace. Behind him came Morvina, her thorn-tipped hair writhing with barely contained aggression, and finally Korthak, whose massive frame barely fit through the doorway.
"Well?" Vorthak's voice cut through the silence. "Are we all agreed on tomorrow's... festivities?"
"The plan is sound," Drakonis said, coiling his serpentine body around one of the stone pillars. During the coming-of-age hunt, young demons often encounter dangers beyond their capabilities. Tragic, but hardly unprecedented."
Morvina's smile was sharp as a blade. "I've already arranged for the hunting party's composition. Guards who can be... trusted to report the appropriate version of events. Witnesses who will speak of our dear brother's brave but ultimately futile attempt to prove himself."
"And the monsters?" Seraphine asked, her shadow magic beginning to dance around her fingers as her excitement grew.
"Taken care of," Korthak's voice was like grinding stone. "A pack of Dire Hellhounds, starved and enraged. More than enough to overwhelm our dear brother."
Vorthak nodded approvingly. "Father will be devastated, naturally. Losing his favourite son just before he comes of age... it may break something in him."
"All the better," Seraphine said coldly. "A broken father makes for easier succession politics. When the time comes to choose the next heir, he'll be too grief-stricken to think clearly."
"Assuming he doesn't die of heartbreak first," Morvina added with obvious satisfaction. "The bond between father and that bastard has always been... unnaturally strong."
Drakonis raised a clawed hand. "We must be cautious about that. Father's grief could just as easily turn to rage, and a demon lord's wrath is not something any of us wants directed at us."
"Then we ensure our performances are flawless," Vorthak decided. "We must appear as devastated as Father himself. Devoted siblings mourning their lost brother."
"Won't be difficult," Korthak snorted. "Never could stand the pretty boy anyway." The huge demon said, shrugging his large shoulders.
"This isn't about personal feelings," Seraphine snapped. "This is about survival. About ensuring the strongest lead our house into the future."
"Precisely," Vorthak agreed. "Xolvion may look harmless, but Father's favouritism makes him the most dangerous threat to our legitimate claims. Better to eliminate him now, whilst we can still make it appear accidental."
The siblings spent the next hour refining their plan, discussing every detail from the timing of the hunt to the positioning of their purchased witnesses. By the time they finally dispersed, each returning to their chambers by separate routes, Xolvion's fate seemed sealed.
Meanwhile, Xolvion found sleep elusive as the night wore on. Every creak of the ancient castle, every whisper of wind through the corridors, set his nerves on edge. The confrontation with his siblings had shaken him more than he cared to admit, not just because of their threats, but because of the cold certainty in their eyes.
They weren't bluffing this time. They fully intended to kill him.
As dawn approached, painting the hellish landscape in deeper shades of crimson, Xolvion rose from his bed and began to dress. If he was going to die today, he'd at least meet his fate with dignity intact.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding. "Enter," he called, expecting perhaps a servant with news about the day's arrangements.
Instead, Zelara slipped inside, the same red-headed maid who'd warmed his bed the previous morning. But now her usual confident sensuality was replaced by nervous anxiety, her single horn trembling as she wrung her hands.
"My lord," she whispered, glancing fearfully at the door. "I... I have something I must tell you."
Xolvion studied her carefully. In his experience with the castle staff, this level of distress usually meant serious trouble. "What is it, my dear?"
"Last night, I was cleaning the abandoned tower, Lady Seraphine's orders, though I thought it strange since no one's used those chambers in decades." Her voice shook slightly. "I heard voices, my lord. Your siblings, all of them, discussing..."
She trailed off, unable to meet his eyes.
"Discussing what?" Xolvion prompted gently, though his blood was already running cold.
"Your death, my lord," she whispered. "They spoke of... of arranging an accident during your coming-of-age hunt. Hellhounds, they said. Witnesses who would tell the right story."
The confirmation of his fears hit Xolvion like a physical blow, even though he'd already suspected as much. Hearing it spoken aloud by someone else made it terrifyingly real.
"Are you certain of what you heard?" he asked, though he could see the truth in her frightened eyes.
"Every word, my lord. They were... detailed in their planning." Zelara stepped closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "My lord, you must flee. Tonight, before the ceremony begins. Once you're in that hunting party..."
"I know," Xolvion said quietly. "Thank you for warning me, Zelara. It was brave of you to come forward."
She blushed at the praise, but her expression remained troubled. "There's something else, my lord. When I was leaving the tower, I overheard Lady Seraphine speaking with one of the castle guards. Something about ensuring your father remained... occupied until after the hunt concluded."
Xolvion's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not certain, but it sounded as though they'd arranged for Lord Malphas to be called away on urgent business. Something about a border dispute requiring his immediate attention."
The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity. His siblings hadn't just planned his murder—they'd ensured their father would be too far away to intervene or investigate too closely when the "accident" occurred.
"Where is my father now?" Xolvion demanded, though he already feared the answer.
"Gone, my lord. Left before dawn with a small retinue, heading for the eastern marches. The guard said he wouldn't return until tomorrow evening at the earliest."
Xolvion closed his eyes, feeling the trap closing around him. Without his father's protection, he was completely vulnerable. Even if he tried to postpone the coming-of-age ceremony, his siblings would simply find another opportunity.
"Thank you," he said again, his voice hollow. "You should go now, before someone notices you've been here too long."
Zelara hesitated at the door. "My lord... is there nothing to be done? Surely there must be someone who could help..."
"In a court where strength determines worth?" Xolvion's laugh was bitter. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Political alliances shift with the wind, and no one wants to back a losing horse."
After she left, Xolvion sank into his chair, his mind racing through increasingly desperate options. He could try to rally some of the castle guards to his cause, but most owed their positions to his siblings' favour. He could attempt to send word to his father, but any messenger would likely be intercepted.
The window overlooked the castle's main courtyard, where servants were already preparing for the day's festivities. Banners bearing the Valous crest fluttered in the sulphurous breeze, while tables groaned under the weight of food and wine. To any observer, it looked like a celebration.
But Xolvion knew better. It was a wake.
His wake.
Standing, he moved to his wardrobe and began selecting clothes suitable for travelling. If he was going to survive the next twenty-four hours, he needed to be elsewhere when the hunting party departed. The demon realm was vast and dangerous, but it offered more hope than remaining in the castle.
As he packed a small bag with essentials, Xolvion's reflection caught his eye in the mirror. Silver hair, red eyes, and features that could have graced any human noble's court. His mother's beauty, combined with just enough of his father's demonic heritage to mark him as other than human.
Different doesn't mean lesser, his mother had always said. Tonight, Xolvion would discover whether that difference was enough to keep him alive.
The sun, or what passed for sun in the demon realm, was rising higher, and soon the castle would be fully awake. If he was going to leave, it had to be soon, whilst most of the household was still preparing for the day's events.
But first, he had one last desperate gambit to attempt. Perhaps there was still someone in the castle who might help him, or at least confirm what he already knew about his father's convenient absence.
Time was running out, and Xolvion Valous, bastard prince of the demon realm, was about to discover just how alone he truly was.