I sway with the rhythm of the road, sunlight illuminating the book in my lap. The air is thick with the scent of parchment and aged ink, the words before me carrying the weight of history—of blood, conquest, and a kingdom built on the bones of those who dared to rule it.

  'Varethia was never meant to belong to men. Before its first blade was forged, before its first king sat a throne, the land belonged to something older—something bound in shadow and promise.'

  The carriage dips slightly as we hit a rut, but I barely notice. My fingers trail down the page, the words demanding my attention.

  'The first demons were not born. They were made.'

  'Before the High Kings, before the Rite of Challenge, there were the Twelve Lords of Blackstone. They were once men—warriors, chieftains, rulers of land. But they desired more than their mortal strength could grant them. In their greed, they sought the place where the veil between realms ran thin. And there, beneath the light of a dying moon, they struck a bargain.'

  I shiver, tearing my eyes from the page, my gaze snagging on Rael. Suddenly the urge to read further floods my mind, my attention drawn to him.

  For the first time since we left Elyndria, I find him asleep—head tilted back, arms folded, gauntlets discarded, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Even the harshness of his face has softened—though not completely—as if, even unconscious, he's still ready to wake at the first sign of danger.

  How often has he slept?

  I try to recall a moment of him at rest, but none come.

  He is always alert, always watching.

  Protecting.

  The carriage jolts to the right as if reminding me of what I'm supposed to be doing... learning.

  I grip the book tighter, forcing my focus back on the text.

  'The records do not name what they met that night, nor what was promised. Only that they were changed. Their bodies no longer bound by age, their strength beyond that of any mortal. But the gift came with a price—one not paid in gold, nor land, nor servitude. It was paid in blood. Their sons, their daughters, their lines forever bound to the pact.'

  I chew my lip, pondering the words.

  I've only heard whispered rumors of demons--of the darkness in their veins--but never like this... not as history.

  I chance another glance at Rael as I turn the page.

  Undisturbed.

  I read on.

  'When the Twelve Lords returned, they did not reclaim their kingdoms. They burned them.'

  'They built no temples, no altars, no halls of worship. There was no god among them, only power. And from the ruins, they raised a new order—one where the strong ruled, and the weak served. The first Demon King, Veyran the Black, did not take his throne through birthright, nor inheritance. He slew the other eleven lords and claimed dominion over all. His rule was absolute, his will unchallenged. But power does not grant peace. It only invites war.'

  My heart drums in my ears.

  'Unlike the kingdoms of men, Varethia holds no sanctity in bloodline. A king is not chosen by birth but by strength. The crown does not pass from father to son—it is taken. The Rite of Challenge ensures this. Anyone of noble standing may issue the challenge, but the High Council must bear witness to the claim. The duel is to the death. To refuse is to forfeit. To forfeit is to die.'

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I turn the page for more, only to find a list of names.

  'The Demon Kings of Varethia.'

  My eyes skim the entries, each ruler etched with the year they fell and another seized the throne.

  'King Veyran – Slain by his nephew, Year 10 of the Varethian Reckoning.

  King Kael – Slain by his second-in-command, 213 VR.

  King Orris – Slain by his elder brother, 409 VR.

  King Tavros – Slain by his son, 521 VR.

  King Vareth – Slain by his younger brother, 742 VR.

  King Dain – Slain by the King's blade, 899 VR.

  King Marek – Slain by his nephew, 1032 VR.

  King Luthais – Slain by a Varethian noble, 1106 VR.

  King Varek – Slain by his husband, 1260 VR.

  King Ithran – Slain by his half-brother, m 1324 VR.

  King Edros – Slain by his first-born son, 1874 VR.'

  The air thins.

  1874 VR.

  I read the names again--read who had slain who again--before flipping the page. No further rulers are listed. No new entry, no later date.

  If the Varethian throne passes only through rite, if each slain king had been documented...

  My fingers glow white against the parchment as a slow, creeping unease winds through me.

  I let my focus drift from the book, absently settling on Rael.

  His eyes snap open.

  I barely have time to look away before his gaze locks onto mine.

  "You're staring."

  His voice is thick with sleep, low but edged with a sharp awareness, making my stomach dip.

  "I—" heat prickles up my neck. "I was reading."

  "My face?" A lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

  "No," I glower at him. "About Varethia's kings."

  Something flickers across his features—brief, but there.

  "The records aren't detailed," I continue, turning the book so he can see the page. "They only list how each king died. But the last one—" I trail my finger over the name, brows furrowing. "What year is it in Varethian time?"

  "Twenty-four hundred VR."

  Nearly 500 years.

  I balk at him. "He's—"

  "Not human, princess." He settles back, watching me.

  My shudder betrays my discomfort.

  "No one has challenged him?" My brows raise.

  "Many have."

  He does not have to continue for me to understand what he means.

  The current king is lethal.

  I clear my throat. "I noticed something else. No Queens are listed."

  "No need."

  "Why not?"

  "Royal marriages are rare," he explains. "And heirs even more so." He tilts his head, watching me. "A son is a threat."

  Tragic, how I had once dreamed of marriage—of something more than political arrangements. A future filled with love, with children. With laughter and smiling faces.

  But if marriage is so uncommon, why would the king agree to a treaty sealed by one? What does he stand to gain from me? Surely there is something that makes this union valuable.

  'You must see why this is rather suspicious,' my aunt had said. 'A treaty sealed with a bride instead of land or coin?'

  The question lingers on my tongue, but I don't ask it.

  Instead, I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I am a rarity then... marrying the king."

  Rael studies me for a moment before nodding. "An anomaly."

  I huff, dropping my gaze. "My aunt had mentioned another human bride in the past."

  His expression doesn't change. "Dead."

  I flinch. "How—"

  "I was ordered to kill her," he states as if discussing the weather.

  I stare at him, a chill clawing down my spine as a single thought drifts through my mind, weighted and unwelcome.

  If I were to run... would I end up the same?

  Before I can dwell on it, the carriage lurches as a crack splits the air. I gasp, the book slipping from my fingers, my balance tipping—

  I collide with Rael's chest.

  He catches me instantly, steadying me without thought. And for a long breathless moment, I don't move. Not even after the carriage wobbles to a halt.

  He's warmer than I expected. That's the first thing I notice as the heat of his palms seeps into my waist. The second is the proximity of his face and mine. So close that I spot a faint dusting of freckles across his nose, and his eyes—they aren't just red, but layered like embers, sparking in the hazy light.

  I should pull away.

  I need to pull away.

  But my gaze drifts lower—finding the faintest tension in his jaw as if he's caught between speaking and silence.

  I swallow, his breath caressing my cheeks. "'Eager to throw yourself at me, aren't you, princess?"

  My heart trips.

  Scowling, I try to push away, yet his hands remain. "The carriage--"

  "Convenient excuse." He hums, unconvinced.

  I open my mouth—then close it, narrowing my eyes. "Check on Finn, please."

  His lips curve, maddeningly slow.

  "As you wish," he says smoothly, fingertips ghosting up my waist, leaving tingles in their wake as he releases me.

  Once he steps out, he glances back, eyes glinting wickedly. "Try not to pine for me in my absence."

  I retrieve the book and throw it at him just as he shuts the door, but I don't miss his low laugh that follows.

  And despite myself, I don't stop the way my lips curve in response.