"What are you doing here, Masakiro?" Tsuramō asked quietly."Have you come to remind me once again that I am destined to inherit the throne of shadows?"
He raised a goblet forged from dark crystal, its surface alive with slow-moving runes that twisted like constellations trapped beneath glass.
The liquid inside shimmered black and silver as he took a measured sip.
His gaze—cold, distant, and sharp—cut through the chamber like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
Beside him stood his younger brother.
Masakiro.
His hair was white as moonlight reflected on still water, soft and luminous even beneath the gloom of the palace.
His skin carried a faint glow, untouched by corruption, and his pale pink lips curved into a gentle, almost apologetic smile.
There was no arrogance in his posture—only quiet confidence, the kind that came from understanding danger and choosing patience anyway.
He leaned lightly against the stone pillar, arms folded—not careless, not tense. Watchful.
"Arama…" Masakiro murmured, his voice smooth and warm, carrying affection beneath the teasing. "Big brother… I heard you were back. I thought you might want company."
He hesitated before continuing, eyes studying Tsuramō's expression carefully.
"I also heard you rejected the throne again," he added softly. "So I figured… I shouldn't leave you alone with that."
Tsuramō exhaled through his nose.
"I'm sorry," he said at last.
Masakiro blinked, surprised. Then he shook his head with a small chuckle—not mocking, just gentle.
"You don't have to apologize to me," he replied. "I know how this place feels to you."
He took a step forward, lowering his voice.
"We still haven't gone to the School of Shadows together," Masakiro said. "You always stayed here, buried in responsibility… while I slipped through the Veil of Whispers to watch humans live their fragile little lives."
A pause.
"…I worry about you, you know."
Tsuramō's fingers tightened around the goblet.
Masakiro glanced around the chamber—the ancient runes carved into obsidian walls, glowing faintly like watching eyes.
"I spoke with Lord Malakar," Masakiro said carefully, choosing his words with intention. "I convinced him to let us attend Shadowreach Academy."
Tsuramō froze.
Masakiro met his gaze steadily. "Not as heirs. As students."
He offered a small, reassuring smile. "Expect the announcement by sunset."
Then, without another word, Masakiro turned and left—his steps quiet, deliberate.
Tsuramō ran a hand through his crimson hair and released a long, exhausted breath.
Dawn broke crimson over the fortress.
The grand dining hall of Malakar's stronghold glowed beneath the rising infernal light. Obsidian walls reflected the glow like polished mirrors, etched with runes that pulsed slowly, breathing shadows into the air.
The table stretched impossibly long, adorned with demonic cuisine: roasted hellfire boar carved from glowing stone platters, sapphirine fruits crackling softly with internal lightning, bowls of shadow stew simmering with ember-red spice.
Goblets of liquid darkness chimed faintly as the royal family gathered.
At the head sat Empress Thai.
Her presence softened the hall without weakening it.
Her skin shimmered like polished midnight jade, her golden hair flowing freely down her back like liquid sunlight trapped in darkness.
She wore shadow silk threaded with ancient sigils, elegance and authority woven seamlessly together.
Her smile was calm—loving, but never naïve.
Masakiro sat nearby, posture proper, composed. He ate slowly, mind clearly elsewhere, eyes flicking now and then toward his older brother.
Then—
Malakar cleared his throat.
The sound alone carried weight.
"Tsuramō. Masakiro."
Both sons looked up.
"There is something you must hear," Malakar said. His voice echoed, steady but edged with intent. "You have both been enrolled at Shadowreach Academy."
Silence followed.
Thai nodded once, pride glimmering in her eyes. "We want you to grow. To understand yourselves beyond bloodlines and titles."
Masakiro inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Father."
Tsuramō stiffened.
"But I don't want the school," he said firmly. "And I do not want the throne."
His eyes shifted to Thai. "You know this."
Masakiro spoke gently, intervening before tension could rise.
"He isn't refusing growth," he said. "He's afraid of being shaped into something he isn't."
Thai studied Tsuramō, then smiled faintly.
Malakar exhaled slowly. "It is a boarding academy."
Tsuramō's eyes widened. "Living there?!"
Thai laughed softly. "It sounds fun."
Masakiro smiled, placing a hand lightly on Tsuramō's arm. "You won't be alone."
He stood and bowed properly. "If you'll excuse me."
He vanished into shadow—careful, controlled.
"But I already have power," Tsuramō protested. "Why go?"
Malakar turned sharply. "Enough. You leave at dawn."
Then he left.
Thai remained.
She approached Tsuramō and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"You are not my biological son," she said softly, "but you are mine all the same."
Tsuramō bowed his head. "Yes, Mother."
"You must act as if you know nothing," she continued. "Only then will you truly learn."
Her gaze softened. "I worry about what you'll awaken there."
Tsuramō inhaled deeply.
"I'll go."
The shadows seemed to settle around him—accepting, waiting.
The throne room was dimmer than usual.
Not empty—but hushed, as if the shadows themselves were listening.
Empress Thai stood near the obsidian window, looking out at the infernal city below. The glow of molten rivers reflected in her eyes, unreadable but thoughtful. Behind her, the throne loomed—but Malakar did not sit upon it.
He stood beside the steps, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.
"You sent them away," Thai said softly.
Malakar did not answer immediately.
"If you had not," she continued, turning to face him, "they would still be here. Under our eyes. Under your shadow."
Malakar exhaled slowly.
"That is precisely why they had to go."
Thai's brows knit together. "Why?"
Malakar's gaze lifted toward the ceiling, where ancient sigils burned faintly.
"If they stayed," he said, "they would eventually see everything."
The words were quiet—but final.
"The throne. The rot beneath it. The truth of this realm," he continued. "Especially Tsuramō."
Thai's expression tightened. "Because he is the strongest."
"Yes," Malakar replied without hesitation. "And because strength paired with awareness becomes rebellion."
He turned toward her.
"Tsuramō already questions me. Questions this world. If he remains here longer, he will understand why the realm bends around him."
Thai's eyes widened slightly. "You mean—"
"I mean," Malakar interrupted, "that if he learns the truth too soon, he will try to break the system instead of inheriting it."
Silence stretched between them.
"And Masakiro?" Thai asked gently. "He follows him."
Malakar nodded once. "Where Tsuramō walks, Masakiro will not remain far behind."
Thai lowered her gaze, fingers curling lightly into her sleeve.
"…When will we see them again?" she asked.
Malakar's eyes hardened—not with cruelty, but resolve.
"When my work succeeds," he said."When the realm no longer needs a lynchpin to survive."
Thai understood what that meant.
She stepped closer, placing a hand briefly against his arm.
"Be careful," she said quietly. "If you fail—"
"I won't," Malakar replied.
But for just a moment—his gaze wavered.
Far away, two brothers walked toward a school that did not yet know what it had accepted.
And the Demon Realm waited.