CHAPTER ONE
Reyna had never imagined her first sight of Avalon would be through chains.
The demon guards pulled them forwards by the chains on their hands, through towering obsidian gates into a grand hall filled with demons, their boots striking stone etched with ancient runes that glimmered like dying embers. The air was sharp with cold and power, heavy enough to press against her lungs. Above, the ceiling vanished into shadow, supported by colossal black columns carved with scenes of conquest—worlds burned, kings slain, kingdoms conquered.
They were all gathered here for one purpose.
The Feast of Selection
A feast described as beautiful- the way a blade was beautiful.
Ceremonial.
Glittering.
And meant to draw blood.
Reyna was hearded with the other slaves into the hall—girls and boys sold from the human realm—were forced into long lines down the center of the hall, made to kneel on polished obsidian floors that reflected their fear back at them. Reyna kept her head low, not daring to look up. If there's something she learnt in Asheville was, keeping her head low, attracted lesser attention.
Raised balconies circled the chamber, crowded with demon nobles: horned, winged, scaled, or flawlessly beautiful in ways that felt wrong. Their laughter was soft, sharp, eager. The feast of selection was their sport, and
the slaves were their entertainment.
Above them, the Hall of Kings stretched wide and merciless. Black columns spiraled upward, carved with scenes of conquests, sacrifices, and victories painted in demon fire. Crimson banners hung from the rafters, each stitched with the crest of Avalon—a crescent blade sinking into a beating heart.
Five thrones stood tall.
At the center loomed King Eldron's Throne of Dominion, carved from abyssal stone veined with molten crimson. Even empty, it radiated absolute authority. Beside it rested Queen Alvira's throne, elegant and lethal, wrought of dark black and bone.
The king and queen were absent today.
They had always attended the Feast. Always watched. Their absence whispered of war, rebellion, or threats grave enough to pull them away from even this ancient ritual.
Flanking the empty central seats were two occupied thrones.
Prince Arkes, the eldest, reclined like a satisfied predator. His beauty was decadent—golden skin, crimson eyes heavy with desire. Known as the Demon of Lust and Decadence, his gaze roamed the slaves like hands already claiming them.
Beside him sat Prince Vaelor, smiling lazily. His beauty was sly rather than overwhelming, his eyes glittering with mischief. The Demon of Mischief and Cruelty, already plotting how best to break whatever soul caught his interest.
Together, they were terrifying.
And yet—
At the edge of the dais stood a third throne, carved entirely from shadow, it was entirely black, and the armrest was made entirely of pure silver. Light refused to touch it. Power coiled around it like something alive.
It was none other than,
Prince Damiel's throne,
but it was empty.
Prince Damiel had never cared for events like this, He found it meaningless—humans were weak, fragile things, easily broken. There was no challenge in them.
A herald's voice rang through the hall.
"Let the bidding commence."
Names were called. Slaves were forced to stand, examined, bid upon, and claimed. The hall buzzed with anticipation as Prince Arkes and Prince Vaelor watched the proceedings like wolves circling prey.
Then the torches flickered.
A sudden, unnatural cold swept through the chamber.
A cold hush fell like a dropped veil.
The doors opened.
Silence fell—not commanded, but instinctive.
Prince Damiel entered, with his two most trusted men. They followed him everywhere, silent and lethal as drawn blades.
His footsteps were soundless, but the air changed with each one. The power around him was palpable—dark, vast, ancient. Reyna felt it like ice running down her spine.
The beauty of his brothers dimmed instantly. Arkes' decadence became gaudy. Vaelor's charm faded.
Damiel was something else entirely—cold, ethereal, devastating. His silver eyes held no warmth, only control. When he reached the dais and sat upon his throne of shadow, the hall seemed to bow.
"Continue," he said calmly.
The Feast resumed.
Reyna kept her head down, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. She focused on the floor, on her breathing, on becoming invisible. Even with Prince Damiel's arrival, she refused to look up—whether from fear or stubborn resolve, she could not tell.
Then—
"From the Kingdom of Asheville," the herald announced. "Reyna of Greywood."
Her breath caught.
A demon guard yanked her to her feet.
"Raise your head," he ordered coldly.
She obeyed.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Night‑black hair framed a face far too gentle for a place like this. Ocean‑blue eyes, wide with fear, scanned the chamber. On the dais, both elder princes leaned forward, interest flaring brightly.
But Reyna barely noticed them.
Because she felt it.
A gaze—cold, intense, unavoidable.
She looked up… and met Prince Damiel's eyes.
Silver met blue.
He was perfection incarnate. Silver hair spilled over his broad shoulders. His lips were the deep color of blood. His features were sharp and flawlessly sculpted. But it was his eyes—those silver eyes—that stole her breath.
The world fell away. The hall, the nobles, the whispers, the bidding—all vanished.
He studied her the way one studied a weapon—measuring balance, sharpness, worth.
" Fifty silver uns," a voice called out from the crowd.
" One Hundred silver uns" , Prince Arkes voice called
" Two hundred silver uns" , Prince vealor voice called.
The bidding continued.
Then the corner of Prince Damiel lips curved into a dangerous smirk.
"I'll take her." Prince Damiel said.
The hall plunged into stunned silence, even his two most trusted soldiers looked at each other silently but they didn't question him, they never did.
Reyna's thoughts shattered as reality crashed back into place.
Her heart stopped—then plummeted as her thoughts screamed one sentence.
I'm doomed.