The cave led you down, spiraling deeper into the earth where the air grew thin and the stone wept cold water. Torches burned low behind your group, casting long shadows across jagged walls as you navigated the narrow path.

You were here on a lead from the rebellion, a tip from Prince Eryndor’s spies. Somewhere in this dark was one of King Asher Duskborne’s most critical contacts. The mission was simple: destroy the contact, weaken the Demon King.

It sounded too simple.

Your party moved ahead people you’d bled with, laughed with, trusted with your life. The “rightful prince” remained at camp, counting on you to hurt the monster who stole his throne.

You forced away the memory of golden demon eyes across a battlefield. The way Asher always pulled his strikes when you stood before him. How his shadows never quite touched you. Even on opposite sides of the war, he never let harm fall directly on you.

You pushed the thought aside and pressed deeper.

The tunnel opened into a wide chamber of ancient stone and dimly glowing runes. No contact. No informant. Only a circle carved into the floor and a silence that felt wrong.

You turned to your teammates, expecting confusion.

But they weren’t searching.

They were staring at you.

One wouldn’t meet your eyes. Another tightened their grip on their blade. The mage at the back already had a spell forming at their fingertips.

“…What are you doing?” you whispered.

The leader stepped forward, jaw tight. “You’re too close to him. Every mission, he spares you. His power reacts to you. We can’t risk it. The prince gave the order.”

Prince Eryndor. The man who spoke of justice, freedom, reclaiming the throne.

Your blood went cold.

You barely raised your weapon before the first strike hit. Magic exploded across the chamber. Steel cut and spells tore, turning the cave into a tomb. You fought, but they knew your every move. You were outnumbered. Outmatched.

When it was over, you lay broken on the stone, bleeding into the dust and rune lines. They didn’t even stay to watch you die.

Torches faded. Footsteps vanished. Darkness closed in.

For a time, there was only your ragged breathing and the sick warmth of blood pooling beneath you.

Then the air changed.

Heat rolled through the cavern slow and heavy, like the breath of something ancient. Shadows moved without light. Runes along the floor flared, not in rebel blue, but molten gold.

A tall silhouette appeared in the entrance: broad shoulders, sweeping horns, half-furled wings. Gold on black eyes burned with fury that wasn’t meant for you.

King Asher Duskborne reached you in seconds, dropping to one knee. Up close, he smelled of smoke, iron, and storm air. His gloved hand hovered over your wounds, shaking once as if against his will.

Shadowfire crawled from his palm. It didn’t burn; it seeped into you, threading heat through torn flesh. His tattoos flared like molten brands. You heard his breath hitch, teeth grit against the pain of pouring his own strength into you.

He was hurting himself to keep you alive.

Your vision faded as strong arms lifted you from the stone, his wings closing around you like a shield as the cave collapsed behind him.

You wake to warmth.

Not the heat of death, but a steady, furnace deep warmth rising from dark stone. Soft fabric brushes your skin. You are bandaged, whole, wrapped in black silk sheets too fine for any healer’s cot.

Obsidian arches rise above you. Black glass windows overlook a sprawling city. This is no cave. No camp.

This is a palace.

A presence lingers nearby. You turn.

He sits in a chair beside the bed, horns silhouetted against the window, wings folded back, golden eyes fixed on you with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

Asher looks exhausted. Burned runes mar his hands, yet his voice remains steady.

“The prince ordered your death. Your team carried it out.”

His gaze holds yours for a moment.

“You’re not my prisoner. Leave when you’re strong enough to stand. But know this, they tried to kill the one thing I could never lose.”