By the time Raizel turned seven, death no longer disturbed him.
It was simply part of the rhythm of the castle. Screams at dawn. Executions at dusk. Servants disappearing between meals. A court that smelled of blood and incense, where smiles were knives and loyalty was purchased in pain.
Raizel walked its halls like a ghost in a child's skin—silent, watching, absorbing everything.
He was never touched with kindness, not even by accident.
Not by his tutors, who flinched at his stare.
Not by the maids, who bowed too low, too long.
Not by his father, who taught with blades instead of words.
Kael Valthorr's version of parenting was simple: "If he bleeds, he learns."
Raizel learned quickly.
He memorized the layout of the castle by age six. Knew which doors led to weapons caches, which tapestries hid passageways, which guards were loyal and which drank too much.
His favorite place was the west tower—a long-abandoned observatory filled with dust and rusted arcane devices. No one bothered to go there. Which made it perfect.
It was the one place he could think.
Not plan, not scheme—think.
He often sat by the cracked window, staring out at the dead forest beyond the walls. The world outside was cold and gray. This realm, wherever it was, had no mercy for the weak.
Raizel didn't know if there were gods in this world. If there were, they were cruel, and probably laughing.
But that didn't matter.
He had stopped waiting to be saved.
He would become the danger that others prayed to avoid.
The first time Raizel manipulated someone, it was almost an accident.
One of the stable boys had stolen a dagger from the armory—a sleek, curved blade meant for ritual sacrifices. When the theft was discovered, the guards prepared to execute all five stable hands.
Raizel stepped in.
He didn't protest. He didn't plead.
He asked a simple question: "May I interrogate them?"
The guards looked to each other, uneasy. The boy was seven. But his eyes were cold, his posture perfect, his tone devoid of emotion.
And when the request reached Lord Valthorr, he merely laughed.
"Let the cub play with his prey."
They brought the five boys into the dungeon, hands bound, eyes wide with fear.
Raizel said nothing at first. He walked in silence, hands behind his back, studying them.
Then he chose the youngest.
Kneeled beside him.
Whispered in his ear.
"Tell me who stole the blade, and I'll make sure you lose only a finger. Stay silent, and you'll watch them peel your face off first."
The boy broke instantly.
Raizel didn't smile. He didn't even nod.
He simply turned to the guards and pointed.
"Him."
The boy was executed by nightfall. The others were spared.
Raizel didn't watch the execution. He was already walking back to the tower, hands clean, thoughts sharper than ever.
Fear is blunt. But fear mixed with choice—that's precision.
His father summoned him that evening.
Raizel entered the war chamber, the long table lined with generals and dark-robed sorcerers. Kael Valthorr stood at the head, staring at a war map etched into the stone floor.
He didn't turn.
"You didn't flinch today."
Raizel answered calmly.
"There was nothing to flinch at."
Kael glanced over his shoulder. "Good."
He walked to his son, towering over him like a statue made for war.
"A tyrant rules by power. But a true sovereign… makes others beg for the chains."
He placed a gauntleted hand on Raizel's head.
It wasn't affection.
It was claim.
Raizel continued his studies—dark magic, history, torture techniques, ancient tongues—but he preferred human behavior.
Why people lied.
What made them betray.
How ambition whispered in silence.
He tested it in small ways.
He lied to a tutor just to see if he could detect the lie. He whispered rumors among the servants to watch how they spread. He deliberately dropped information in front of the wrong ears—then traced the fallout back to its source.
It was a game.
And he was winning.
But not everything could be controlled.
Some nights, the dreams came.
Not nightmares—memories.
His old life. The city. The noise. Music. A birthday cake. A dog he once had. A woman's voice calling his name.
He'd wake in the tower, drenched in sweat, staring into the moonlight.
This world was not his.
He had died.
He had been taken.
And now, he was trapped in the body of a boy bred for violence, raised in a dungeon masquerading as a kingdom.
But still—he endured.
His magic deepened with age.
By nine, he could summon shadows to cloak his presence.
By ten, he learned to rot flesh without touch.
By eleven, he reversed a curse placed on him by one of his own instructors—and fed the curse back to its caster.
Kael Valthorr was delighted.
"Soon, even I will fear you," he said.
But Raizel didn't want his father's approval.
He wanted leverage.
By the end of his twelfth year, rumors had begun to spread through the empire.
That the prince of Valthorr was not a child but a demon reborn.
That his eyes saw through lies, that he never blinked.
That he smiled only once—and that person was never seen again.
Raizel didn't encourage the rumors.
But he didn't deny them either.
Let them be afraid. Fear was the only truth in this world.
Still, in the quietest hours, when no one watched, Raizel stood at the edge of the tower and whispered to the sky.
"I'm not like him."
And sometimes, he almost believed it.