The grand hallway outside the royal chamber was tense heavy with the weight of dread and too many unspoken thoughts.
King Velrick paced back and forth, his boots clicking against the polished marble. Servants stood stiffly along the walls maids, butlers, and the lady-in-waiting all trying to offer comfort in silence. But the king was far from calm.
"Your Majesty, please—breathe," said Robert, his most loyal advisor, stepping forward with a hand raised. "Panicking will only worsen the matter."
"Panicking?" the king snapped, spinning on him. "A prince from a powerful kingdom is dying inside my palace. If he dies here, do you know what that means for us?!"
Robert tried to keep his voice steady. "But, Your Majesty... he's the reincarnation of the Demon King. Surely, if he dies—"
"Enough." Velrick's tone dropped like steel. He turned, his eyes sharp. "He might be the reincarnation of a demon... but he's still a prince. A royal. Don't you ever disrespect a noble title again, Robert."
"My apologies," Robert bowed, lips pressed thin.
Then—
"Hey, human."
The voice came like a whisper and a blade to the spine. Cold, sharp, and sudden.
They all turned.
Nyxtriel stood there in the center of the corridor, as if she had always been there.
None of them had seen her arrive.
King Velrick startled, holding his chest. "S–shit— I mean, yes, Miss Nyxtriel?"
"How dare you speak to my king like that!" Robert snapped, stepping in front of the king protectively.
But Nyxtriel ignored him. She didn't even blink.
Her eyes locked only on Velrick.
"Is my lord going to be fine?" she asked flatly.
Velrick gulped, steadying himself. "Yes... yes, he will. I summoned a special physician. The heart of the dragon will be transplanted shortly. He'll survive."
"I see," she said, emotionless. "Then I'll go inside."
"What? No—you can't just barge in while they're—!"
Robert's protest was cut short.
Nyxtriel turned.
Her eyes darkened. Her aura flared.
"I said," she hissed, her voice layered in unholy reverb, "I'm going in."
A pulse of raw power exploded outward.
The chandeliers above rattled violently. The windows cracked. The very walls groaned under the pressure.
Everyone in the corridor dropped to a knee, trembling in terror.
The king's legs gave out, and he stumbled into a nearby pillar. "G–go... let her through. Let her in."
Without another word, Nyxtriel turned and walked through the doors.
They closed behind her with a hollow thud.
Robert looked pale. "By the gods..."
The king wiped the sweat from his brow, still shivering. "That woman... No, that thing... She's worse than a calamity."
"She's not a woman," Robert said quietly. "She's the demon's sword."
A soldier burst through the grand corridor doors, panting and wide-eyed.
"No good, Your Majesty!"
King Velrick groaned and held his forehead. "Why is it always bad news these days? Are the gods cursing me personally?!"
The soldier dropped to one knee. "Commander Rhodes... He killed every prisoner in the lower cells and tried to escape."
"What? Rhodes?!" the king froze, stunned.
Even with one arm?
He clenched his fists. "I'll deal with this myself. Robert, Butler—come with me. Maids, see to Prince Daemon the moment he wakes."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" the lady-in-waiting curtsied and turned to run.
As the king stormed off with his advisors and guards, the scene shifted to the royal infirmary.
Inside the chamber, Daemon lay still on the bed, his skin pale and bruised with a faint, unnatural purple hue. His chest rose only slightly—shallow breaths that looked more like echoes of life than life itself.
The old physician glanced up from his tools, his weathered face tight with concentration. He turned toward the quiet footsteps behind him and narrowed his eyes.
"And who are you?" he asked gruffly.
Nyxtriel stood at the threshold, her white hair glowing faintly under the candlelight, her crimson eyes locked on Daemon.
"I'm his partner," she said simply.
"Partner or not, you're not allowed in during the procedure," the physician snapped. "Leave until I'm finished."
She didn't respond. Didn't threaten. Didn't sneer.
Instead, she froze—torn between instinct and emotion. For five thousand years, she'd been sealed, watching the world move on without her. In that time, she'd forgotten many things: softness, patience, fear. But seeing Daemon like this—his body still, broken, vulnerable—it stirred something in her. Something ancient, something unfamiliar.
A crack.
She lowered her head, voice quieter than it had ever been.
"Please," she said. "Let me stay by his side."
The physician raised an eyebrow, taken aback. He'd expected defiance, not humility. He studied her face—calm, but tense. Her fists were clenched behind her back.
"You're a strange girl," he muttered, then gestured toward a corner of the room. "Fine. Stand there. Don't speak. Don't touch. Don't even breathe too loudly."
Nyxtriel nodded and stepped into the shadows.
She didn't blink.
She didn't move.
But something inside her had.
She'd begged. Not for herself. Not for power. But for Daemon.
And that terrified her more than any enemy ever had.
The physician turned back to Daemon's still body.
A faint crimson glow flickered in Daemon's chest. The dragon's heart—half of it, still fresh and pulsing—was beating slowly, fusing with Daemon's own. The heart had resisted the transplant at first, its power too immense, too ancient. But now... it was adapting. Accepting.
Divine light gathered in the doctor's hands.
"Sacred Needle."
A radiant, thread-thin stream of energy wrapped around a silver needle formed from his aura. Carefully, the physician stitched the wound—flesh to flesh, vessel to vessel, soul to soul.
It took hours.
And Nyxtriel never moved.
The final stitch was placed, glowing dimly with divine heat. The physician stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's done."
Nyxtriel's eyes twitched.
"Is... is my lord dead?" Her voice cracked, the first hint of emotion showing.
The doctor chuckled tiredly. "Dead? What kind of fool do you take me for? Do you think I've spent sixty years of sacred healing just to botch one transplant?"
He turned, but stopped mid-step.
She was behind him.
Fast. Silent. Barely an inch from his neck.
Her crimson eyes blazed.
"If you were wrong," she said softly, "I would have buried you beside him."
The doctor didn't flinch. "Lucky for both of us, I wasn't."