Moonlight pooled on the polished floorboards of the library wing as Irene traced the faded runes of the prophecy scroll with a trembling finger. The parchment crackled beneath her palm—the same brittle voice that had warned of fractured blood and a husband's betrayal. Tonight, the words felt less like distant omen and more like a ledger of her husband's hidden debts.
A quiet step in the hallway stole her gaze. Daemon appeared at the archway, framed in shadow. His eyes glinted with restrained alarm, the ember hue flickering in the lantern light. He closed the distance on silent feet, though every measured breath betrayed the worry he carried like a blade at his back.
"You shouldn't be here, Ire," he said, voice low and rough as desert wind. He stood beside her but did not reach for the scroll.
"I should," Irene replied, wrapping her arms around the ancient text. "This prophecy haunts our family. It names me, it names our children. It names you." Her gaze did not waver. "Why did you hide the part about your mother's involvement? Your father's warnings?" She gestures to the text.
Daemon's jaw tightened. He folded one gauntleted hand over the table. "Dae-... King and Queen Daemon are long dead. My father's warnings are burned with him. And my mother... What remains are just rumors."
"Rumors written in this ink," she pressed, flipping the scroll to the margin where a second hand had sketched a horned silhouette. "You told me the prophecy began with an angel deceived by love. But here—" she tapped the sketch "—it names a guide who speaks for demons, and a warnings poet. The demon king. Your father."
He inhaled, as if drawing courage from the stale air. "That hand is my blood, but not mine too, and you know that," he said. "I found this scroll in the citadel archives, years before I met you. Father said I should keep it."
Irene leaned closer, the scent of jasmine from her chamber drifting in. "Yet you claimed you'd never heard prophecy speak your name."
He turned away, the candlelight outlining the sigil carved beneath his cloak. "I feared its power," he admitted, though his voice cracked at the last word. "I feared what belief in it might demand of us. Of me."
"Fear demands nothing," Irene said softly. "It only convinces us to look away." She reached for his arm, but he slipped from her grasp and paced toward the window, where the valley slumbered under a quilt of mist.
Daemon's reflection fractured in the glass. He looked simultaneously at the peaceful night and the threat lurking within it. "I did what I thought necessary to protect you—to protect them," he whispered. "Some truths are weapons that cut both protector and prey."
Irene's chest tightened. "Then tell me which part I must defend and which part I must slay, please? Show me the edge of your secret so I can guard it, or I will find it on my own—and you know I will."
He bowed his head, the weight of every unspoken betrayal settling on his shoulders. When he spoke again, his voice was fragile as smoke. "The prophecy names a key hidden in our daughter's first born name. It marks Ellina as both fulcrum and fault line. And it also marks Allisiario as the next heir."
Her heart stuttered. "Then you feared naming it aloud would unleash consequences none of us could stand."
He met her eyes at last, amber coals shining with remorse. "Yes. And yet every moment I hoped you would ask anyway."
Irene folded the scroll and tucked it into her robes. "I am asking." She stepped toward him, resolute and mild—two forces he had once believed irreconcilable. "Teach me the rest. Show me the truth before war drags us blind."
Daemon hesitated as thunder rolled in the distance, though the sky was still clear. Then he exhaled and guided her hand to the hidden latch in the bookshelf. A secret alcove swung open to reveal more scrolls, each bound in demon-hide and sealed with celestial wax.
As she reached for the nearest tome, Irene felt the chill of revelation—and the promise that knowledge, once unbarred, could no longer be contained. The hush between them was both a truce and a thunderclap: she would not relent until every shadow of his past lay bare. And Daemon, at last, would have to decide whether truth could redeem the betrayals he'd once thought necessary.
A few days later, candles trembled in wrought-iron sconces as the family gathered around the long oaken board. Plates gleamed with roast quail and braised root vegetables; a feast meant to soothe frayed nerves. Irene sat at the head, her spine straight against the carved chairback. Daemon took the seat to her right, his posture rigid in onyx armor trimmed with runic filigree. Allisiario and Ellinaskariya faced them, swords and knives left sheathed but ever-present by their chairs.
Daemon cleared his throat and lifted his goblet. "Tomorrow's envoy arrives at first light. We need to finalize our strategy." He met Irene's eyes and added, "Shall we review the border patrol map, Ire?"
Irene's fork paused midair. A tremor in her chest grew until she could no longer pretend calm. She set down her silverware and let the prophecy scroll—folded in her lap—rest against her robes. "Why did you keep the truth buried, Daemon?" Her voice was soft but unyielding. "Why did you hide the version with your mother?"
Daemon's hand froze on the map he'd drawn in the candlelight. He swallowed and glanced at the twins, gauging their reactions. Allis's jaw clenched. Ellina's wings twitched against her back. Daemon forced a smile and casual tone. "There are many variations of the prophecy. Some lines were later additions, scribbled by opportunists."
Irene leaned forward. "You found those lines in the citadel archives before you ever met me. You let me believe you were innocent of any foreknowledge."
Daemon swept his hand across the tabletop as though brushing away her question. "Ire, our priorities now must be defense, not academic debate-"
Allisiario set down his glass abruptly and suddenly stands up. "Father, we deserve to know the entire story." His voice was steady, measured. "You taught me to face storms. But you never warned me of this one. Ever."
Daemon's eyes darkened. He drew a breath that rattled goblets. "I work to protect you. I work to protect this family." He turned to the empty chair at the far end of the table. "Enough. We will discuss this later." He pointed at the door. "Fetch more wine."
Ellina rose suddenly as well, voice firm. "You will not change the subject, father. Every time you deflect, you deepen the fracture between us."
Daemon's grip tightened on his goblet until his knuckles whitened. He drained the wine in a single motion, slammed the cup down, and tried a new tactic. "Do either of you know the demon's terms of engagement? I've measured our resources—"
Irene cut him off. "Your demon council can wait. But our home cannot." Her gaze moved from Daemon to the twins. "We are a family, not advisers in court. We deserve honesty."
Daemon ran a hand through his hair. "If I told you everything now, you'd see only fear. I spared you that burden."
"All burdens are shared," Allis said quietly. "We are not children anymore, father."
Daemon rose, chair scraping stone. "I will not debate my intentions tonight." His voice cracked with frustration. "You speak of honesty, yet you question every act I do that kept us safe."
Irene's eyes glistened. "Safety built on secrets is a prison, Daemon."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the hearth. Daemon's chest heaved. He looked at each of them—wife, son, daughter—before he turned and strode from the hall, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Irene exhaled and laid a hand on Allisiario's arm. The twins exchanged a glance heavy with relief and new resolve. The feast lay untouched, cooling in the flickering candlelight. Across the empty space where Daemon's chair still stood.