The great hall sat silent, emptied of nobles and guards — only the soft crackle of the fireplace filled the space.
Daemon leaned back slightly, his crimson eyes drifting across the room, landing on the man seated across from him.
King Velrick.
He didn't look old, not even close. His face still held the sharpness of youth, but his eyes — those told another story entirely. Deep, calculating, as if they'd aged decades beyond his body.
Daemon knew the rumors. In his past life, the name Velrick had barely meant anything to him. Just another minor king in a minor border nation. The tale went that Velrick's parents — the former king and queen — were killed in a carriage accident when Velrick was barely ten. Alone, orphaned, and thrown onto the throne, he'd ruled with only his uncle, the duke, as his shadow.
Back then, Daemon had never paid attention.
