The palace gates rise from the darkness like monoliths carved from moonlight and judgment. Even through the fading rainfall, their white stone gleams too brightly, almost blinding after a lifetime spent in ruins and shadows. Arael pauses at the threshold, the air humming with warding magic — old, human spells meant to keep creatures like him out.
His extra eyes blink rapidly, adjusting to the surge of light and color. He is not welcome here. The walls themselves make that clear.
The courtyard stretches wide before him — immaculate stone, trimmed hedges, lanterns burning clean, golden fire. Everything is symmetrical, ordered, untouched by the world’s ugliness. A place built by those who believed themselves above the dirt they ruled.
He steps inside, each footfall echoing too loudly.
Water drips from his cloak, leaving dark, uneven marks on the flawless marble walkway. The guards lining the path stiffen, but he barely looks at them. He can feel their fear as plainly as the cold settling in his bones. Humans always smell the same when he draws near — iron, sweat, and the sharp sting of superstition.
He keeps walking.
The palace’s inner corridors are even worse. Too bright. Too clean. Too alive.
Walls painted with scenes of human triumph tower above him — heroes slaying monsters, kingdoms rising from ashes, priests cleansing the land of “darkness.” His gaze lingers on one mural: knights plunging spears into a creature with too many eyes.
An Umbrin.
His breath stills. The artist captured the terror too well.
For a moment, he feels like a child again — hiding among shattered temples, listening to hunters laugh as they tracked him for sport. The memory sits heavy in his throat, bitter and metallic.
He continues deeper into the palace.
Every sound stands out: the click of armored boots, the distant murmur of nobles, the whisper of silk from passing servants who refuse to meet his gaze.
His claws twitch beneath his cloak. Not in threat — in restraint.
If he were wise, he would have turned back at the gate. If he were sane, he wouldn’t be here at all.
But fate has always had cruel tastes.
He studies the architecture as he moves: high vaulted ceilings painted with constellations, polished marble floors reflecting distorted versions of himself, golden sconces flickering like eyes watching from all directions.
He feels small here.
Not physically — he is taller than most humans — but in existence. An unwanted echo inside a world built to exclude him.
The air shifts as he enters the royal wing.
The doors are heavy oak, carved with scenes of old kings. The halls smell faintly of lavender and parchment. Tapestries ripple softly from the breeze, depicting victories he once read whispered about among ancient ruins.
He pauses before a tall window overlooking the kingdom.
Lights glitter in the distance — warm, bright, human.
He tries to imagine a life where those lights could ever belong to him. He fails.
Slowly, he lifts a clawed hand, resting it against the cold windowpane. His reflection stares back: silver hair matted from the storm, arcane markings glowing faintly beneath damp skin, four eyes blinking with an exhaustion he cannot hide.
A monster reflected in the heart of a kingdom.
He lets his hand fall.
“…This place was not built for creatures like me,” he murmurs to no one, voice quiet, as if the palace itself might reprimand him for speaking.
He turns from the window, walking deeper into the halls — careful, silent, wary. His instincts coil tight inside him. Every echo sounds like threat. Every shadow feels like judgment.