The Damned Demon



Rowena, her posture regal and movements graceful, emerged from the dark maw of the castle, the gigantic dark gates swinging open with an ominous creak. 

Behind her, five Bloodborn Guards, their armors dark as the abyss and capes a cascading waterfall of crimson, followed with deadly silence, their faces hidden beneath visored helms.

The tension that hung in the air was as tangible as a tautly drawn bowstring as Rowena descended the wide staircase, every step she took echoed subtly across the silent space. 

Her long, black hair flowed behind her like a shadowy river, her gown seeming to drink in the light around her, casting her in an ethereal silhouette of somber magnificence.

Drakon, unabashed and eyes filled with wanton desire, took her in, his eyes tracing over her form with an unbridled hunger. 

His voice, not bothering to lower much, leaked into the silence like insidious poison, "My, my... The projections do her no justice, do they, Consul Belthor? She's absolutely ravishing in the flesh," Drakon never thought she could be so breathtakingly beautiful and to think she was so strong at a young age only made him feel quite excited.

Belthor chuckled, a low, unsettling sound as he nodded to the prince's comment, while around them, the clenched fists and tightened grips on weapons by the Bloodburn's forces spoke of barely constrained violence.

Rowena, however, projected an unwavering face of stoicism, her eyes sharp and cold as they fixed upon Drakon. 

But as she came to a stop, poised to speak, Drakon, with a maddening grin, blurted out his thoughts.

"I must say, I didn't anticipate the Queen of a kingdom like this to exude such...charm. Your consort is indeed fortunate, considering everything," He said, his tone layered with condescension and mockery while crossing his arms.

Rowena's eyes, though frozen, betrayed a flicker of unyielding fire beneath the icy exterior. She allowed him a moment, listened as he continued with a leer, "How about you guide me inside, into a more...private chamber, where we can 'discuss' further?"

A collective, almost inaudible intake of breath permeated the space as Drakon's hidden vileness hung heavily in the air. 

The eyes of Rowena's loyal guards, molten with restrained rage, stayed fixed on him, ready to strike at a mere signal from their queen.

Eradicator's hand was already pulsing with her killing intent, ready to draw her heavy sword any moment.

But since their queen seemed to ignore Drakon's words, they continued to remain in their position.

Rowena, her eyes reflecting the deep calm of an undisturbed ocean, intoned coolly, "It's quite unfortunate, Prince Drakon, but our conversation shall remain here, despite the inconvenience. I already have an answer for your kingdom, so your stay in my realm will not be prolonged."

Drakon's expression contorted, a visage of disbelief and simmering rage, his finger lifting to jab accusatorily towards the unyielding queen, "Are you refusing to escort this prince inside your castle? Is this the manner in which the Bloodburn Kingdom greets its guests—with blatant disrespect and humiliation?"

Belthor chimed in, his voice a strict, unyielding tenor, "Queen Drake, our journey has been nothing short of arduous. The very least you could grant us is the courtesy of your renowned hospitality, or were we mistaken?"

*Whooosh*

But his words snuffed out, overtaken by a creeping shadow that blanketed the scene, elongating to eclipse both Draconian entourage and Bloodburn subjects alike. 

Eyes, previously aflame with anger, now widened in incredulous terror as all gazes were involuntarily drawn upward.

Descending through a parting veil of dark clouds was a dragon of such magnitude and majestic splendor that even tales told in hushed awe across lands failed to encapsulate its true grandeur. 

Its scales shimmered like a cascade of molten gold, reflecting the rays of the sun in dazzling patterns. Its horns, an imposing and formidable crown, twisted toward the skies, and eyes, deep pools of crimson, regarded those below with a timeless, omniscient gaze.

Drakon's entourage, including Belthor, dwarfed by the creature's incomprehensible might, were rendered statuesque, their voices mere whispers against the wind that trailed in Flaralis's wake.

Drakon, swallowing visibly, his arrogant demeanor diminished beneath the dragon's mighty gaze, struggled to reclaim his lost confidence, his face a shaky semblance of its former self.

He felt like an ant being stared at by this colossal monster who made itself comfortable by perching atop the castle with its gigantic claws. 

Never before in his life had he seen one up close like this, especially the 2nd strongest dragon in the entire realm.

Legends say that it can even raze an entire kingdom to ashes within just an hour.

"Worry not about Flaralis. She often finds herself accompanying me," Rowena's voice, steady and unbothered, pierced through the awestruck silence without a flinch in the face of her beast companion's domineering presence.

Drakon audibly cleared his throat, his neck tensing beneath the weight of a pride unwilling to be swallowed. 

His eyes flit with internalized wrath—Flaralis looming large above, a living reminder of a power he could neither contest nor belittle.

Belthor, sensing the electric danger sparking in the air, leaned closer, his words a discreet whisper meant for Drakon alone, "Perhaps, my Prince, we should simply hear her out, and promptly take our leave. It would be futile to—"

But Drakon, his jaw set rigidly, pushed Belthor aside, his voice regaining a semblance of earlier confidence, "Why, Queen Drake? Why can't we discuss matters within the confines of your castle?"

Rowena's voice, a tranquil yet frigid stream, responded with a resoluteness that seemed ingrained in the very stone upon which she stood, "This castle, Prince Drakon, carries within its walls the essence and will of our ancestors, our history, and has been the heart of our kingdom since its birth. Given the...history shared between our bloodlines, it may not take kindly to your presence within. It is for your own welfare that I suggest we converse here, beneath the open sky."

Fury, like a palpable entity, danced within Drakon's eyes, his voice barely masking the tremor of indignation, "I neither know of nor care for these silly tales. Escort me inside, for you are the ruler here, and as such, you control your little castle, do you not?"

Unblinking, Rowena's response was as firm and unyielding as the stone upon which the castle was erected, "It's not so simple, Prince Drakon. Though I reign, not even I have utter dominion over this ancient structure. Your entrance might invoke its wrath, which I may be powerless to quell."

Drakon, scoffing, his voice laced with a reckless bravado, countered, "Then let it be. If I am harmed, my kingdom will lay the blame squarely upon you and your disobedient castle," Drakon was confident she was merely bluffing to scare him and that she wouldn't dare to let anything or anyone harm him while he was in her kingdom. 

Who cares if she was far stronger than him? In the end, his kingdom can cover her kingdom with just its palm.

And with a resolve, tempered by both confidence and an enraged rebellion, Drakon stepped forth, attempting to breach the invisible line Rowena had drawn. 

But as quickly as his foot advanced, a Bloodborn Guard, a dark silhouette against the dragon-illuminated backdrop, intervened, standing as an immovable barrier before the audacious prince.

"You dare stand in my way?!" Drakon's command sliced through the tension-strung silence, a demand heavy with the threat of consequences yet to unfold.

However, the Bloodborn Guard continued to stand unfazed as if Drakon's words fell on deaf ears.

Seron furrowed his brow upon seeing Drakon purposefully making things difficult and complicated. 

He had no idea how long Rowena was going to tolerate him, and once she stops, then all hell would let loose.

Drakon's smirk, which had lingered so persistently, flickered only slightly as the Bloodborn Guard's impassive gaze shifted to Rowena. 

Her nod was both brief and cold, a silent concession allowing the draconian prince to forge ahead.

As he strutted towards the towering doors of the castle, a victorious sneer on his lips, Rowena quietly began to follow, her gown whispering against the stone beneath her feet.

Seron, his brows knitting in concerned contemplation, approached, voice laced with a restrained anxiety, "Your Majesty, may I know what you are planning to do?"

Rowena's eyes, locked on Drakon's retreating form, didn't waver, but her voice, as frosty as ever, slid into Seron's ears, "He chose to ignore my warning. When he meets his end within, it is of his own doing. Our hands are clean of it."

Seron had his eyes widened, not knowing whether he should be surprised or not to see that Rowena had already set her mind on killing Drakon once he entered the castle, "This path might make us face unforeseen consequences, my queen."

Her response, both stoic and searingly calm, made it clear that her mind was unyielding, "If the Draconians seek conflict so avidly, they shall find that we are not meek prey, cowering before their presumption," However, inwardly, Rowena was worried because it seemed that the draconians were oddly hell-bent on creating a conflict and if she were to fight back, her kingdom would never survive.

Only a few years ago, she and her kingdom suffered a tragedy after her father's death, and now they were yet again faced with another storm that might destroy them all. 

Why was fate so cruel? The only good thing that happened in between was him, but he had been gone for 14 months, and there was no guarantee when he would return or if he was alive and well.

Seron's nod, while silent, was fraught with the heavy acknowledgment of her decision. It seemed as if she had already decided to stop tolerating him.

Meanwhile, the age-old doors of the castle creaked open, a dark abyss beyond them inviting Drakon into its shadowy maw. 

His triumphant smirk ready to breach the confines of the castle, he found himself instead greeted by a pair of ominously glowing dark yellow eyes.

His smirk faltered, transforming into a wide-eyed stare of unanticipated shock, and before he could retreat, a shadowy figure lunged from the darkness, "What…Who the—"

A solid foot connected with his chest, propelling him backward through the air. 

"Argh!"

He collided with the stone steps, a yelp escaping him as he tumbled down the harsh stones, finally sprawling in an undignified heap at their base.

"Ungh!"

"My prince!" Belthor and the draconian entourage rushed towards their injured and unconscious prince.

The onlookers, a collective gasp having escaped them, stared in horrified silence at the fallen draconian prince, and then cautiously shifted their eyes to the shadowy figure slowly emerging from within the castle.

Rowena, her icy demeanor momentarily displaced by a flicker of something unreadable, turned her gaze toward the entrance. 

Her eyes, once void of all but the stern coldness, now harboured a subtle softening as they quivered upon seeing a tall figure, shrouded in a dark, flowing robe, stepping forth from the shadows.

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