I kneel with my head bowed, the marble floor cold beneath my palms.
My witch hat rests beside me, placed carefully on the polished stone before I lowered myself. The wide brim is slightly scorched at the edge, a quiet souvenir from the Demon King's final spell. It feels strange to face the court without it, as if part of my identity has been set aside for this performance.
The great hall smells of incense and polished steel. Blood still clings faintly to my gloves — not visible anymore, but I can feel it there. Demon blood. Human blood. After a while, the difference becomes irrelevant.
"Rise, Witch of the Silver Flame."
His voice echoes through the chamber.
I lift my head slowly, careful and measured, my ears lowered in practiced humility. A soft murmur passes through the crowd. It always does. Golden eyes, silver hair, black-tipped feline ears — the kingdom's cherished miracle made flesh.
The king descends the steps of his throne. His robes are heavy with embroidery, stitched with constellations and divine sigils. I know those sigils well. I studied their structure before I burned a demon citadel to ash.
"You have freed our world from the Demon King," he declares. "There will be songs of this day for centuries."
Applause fills the chamber. Nobles clap politely. Knights strike their gauntlets against their breastplates in salute. Somewhere in the hall, children whisper my title with reverence.
They love me, and they believe that love is returned.
I lower my gaze again and shape my expression into something gentle and grateful. I have worn this mask for years, and it fits as naturally as my own skin.
"Your Majesty," I say softly, allowing warmth into my voice, "I merely fulfilled my duty."
The word tastes bitter.
If they knew who I used to be — what I used to be — they would not cheer.
I was human once.
A son. A brother.
Until my family decided I had become inconvenient.
The memory rises without permission: the faint smell of gas, the locked door, the murmur of calm voices downstairs. My mother said it was for the best. My father agreed. My brother did not look at me at all.
Then darkness.
Then light.
Then this body.
Small hands. Fur along my arms. A tail that refused to obey me in those early days. A world ruled by swords and magic.
They believed they had erased me.
Instead, they gave me time.
The king steps closer, and I allow my gaze to lift just enough.
There it is.
On his right hand rests a ring of dull gold set with a violet stone that seems to swallow light rather than reflect it.
The Ring of Returning.
The final piece.
My ears twitch almost imperceptibly before I still them. I confirmed the wards years ago. The ring cannot be stolen — not by force, not by sleight of hand, not by magic. The enchantment binds it against theft.
It must be given freely.
And it will be.
"You have our eternal gratitude," the king says, stopping before me. "Ask, and it shall be granted."
The hall falls silent in anticipation.
This is where a hero would request land, a noble title, or enough gold to drown a small city.
I look up at him and allow a warm, composed smile to touch my lips, the kind that has reassured armies and calmed frightened villages.
"I ask for nothing," I say.
A ripple of astonishment moves through the crowd.
Instead, I continue in a steady voice, "If Your Majesty permits it, I would rather remain in service to this kingdom and continue protecting its people."
The king's expression softens with satisfaction. He sees loyalty where there is calculation, devotion where there is design.
Trust is the most powerful spell in existence, and unlike most magic, it requires no incantation.
He raises his hand — the ring catching the torchlight — and places it briefly upon my head in blessing.
I close my eyes.
I can wait a little longer.
Only one piece remains between this world and the one I intend to return to.
When the time comes, I will take back the life they stole from me.
And I will make certain they understand what they created.