Asher's small frame trembled, but he forced himself to his feet, gripping the blood-streaked sword with shaking hands. He stepped forward, placing himself between Ava and the new demon, his breath ragged. No magic pulsed in his veins, no aura shielded him—just a boy's fragile will against a nightmare. A cold wind sliced through the courtyard, carrying the stench of death, and in an instant, the air shifted. The Demon of Death moved—faster than a shadow, faster than his eyes could follow. A sickening crunch echoed as her claw pierced Ava's chest, blood dripping in thick, dark rivulets onto the stone.
Asher froze, his mind blank with shock. Ava's body slumped in the demon's grasp, her life fading as the creature's pale, veined hand twisted, absorbing her soul in a swirl of green embers. The light in her eyes dimmed to nothing, and Asher's legs buckled. He collapsed, his body screaming from exhaustion, but his eyes remained wide, locked on the horror before him—his sister, gone.
"Mmmh, this was not fun at all," the Demon of Death muttered, her voice a venomous purr. She turned her glowing ember eyes to her fallen servant's ashes, then to Asher. "You're interesting, little one. I've killed your owner, so from now on, I'll be your master, my sweet plaything." Her clawed hand reached for him, the air thickening with dread.
A thunderous shout shattered the silence. "Don't you dare touch my child!" Queen Luna's voice roared across the courtyard. She stood alone, her armor dented and streaked with dirt, her sword drawn. No soldiers flanked her—she'd burned every ounce of energy racing back from the neighboring kingdom. Her presence was a storm, but her eyes were hollow, her hands trembling faintly with a mother's grief.
The Demon of Death tilted her head, her cruel smile widening. "It's so boring to fight you, Queen." With a flick of her raven hair, she vanished into the shadows, taking Ava's lifeless body with her. Asher's vision blurred, his strength finally giving out, and the world faded to black.
He awoke to the dim glow of his room, the air heavy with the scent of herbs. A woman knelt beside him, her graying hair tied back, her stern face softened by weary lines—the palace healer, Mara. "Don't get up, Prince," she said, her voice clipped but laced with quiet pity. "You're still recovering."
Asher shoved the covers aside, his voice breaking. "Where… where's my sister?" His chest tightened, a sob clawing at his throat.
Mara's hands stilled on her satchel, her gaze dropping. "I'm sorry, Prince, but… she's gone."
"Gone?" The word cracked like glass. Tears spilled over, and he pounded his fists against the bed, his small body shaking. "It was because of me! I couldn't save her—I just stood there!" His screams echoed, raw and jagged, until his voice gave out, leaving him gasping in the silence.
The door creaked open, and King Lucas entered, his delicate features etched with sorrow, his silver hair disheveled. Queen Luna followed, her towering figure rigid, but her sword hand twitched, her eyes red-rimmed and distant. "Son, don't cry," Lucas said, wrapping Asher in a gentle embrace, his voice trembling. "It's not your fault."
"If I'd been stronger—if I hadn't been so weak—she'd still be here," Asher choked out, burying his face in his father's chest.
"No, son," Lucas murmured, stroking his hair. "A man cannot fight in this world. It's not your burden."
Luna said nothing, her gaze fixed on the floor. She turned abruptly, her boots scuffing the stone, and left the room. Later that night, Asher glimpsed her through a cracked door—alone in the throne room, her grand sword resting against the wall. She knelt before it, shoulders hunched, a choked sob escaping her lips. "Ava… I failed you," she whispered, her voice breaking as her fists clenched the hem of her cloak. The queen who'd conquered armies was crumbling, and Asher's heart sank deeper into despair.
Days blurred into a haze of grief. He barely ate, pacing his room, replaying Ava's death—her blood, her fading light. "There has to be something," he muttered, kicking over a chair in frustration, the clatter ringing in the empty space. His hands shook as he tore at his hair, tears streaking his face. "I can't let her suffer like that—I won't!" Stumbling to the library, he began clawing through dusty tomes, his fingers smearing ink across brittle pages, desperation fueling each turn. Finally, he found it—a passage on the Demon of Death. "The Demon of Death controls the end, trapping absorbed souls within its body, a never-ending hell of torment." His blood ran cold, the words searing into his mind.
Clutching the book, he staggered through the palace halls, his steps uneven but driven, until he reached his mother's study. He thrust it under her nose, his voice hoarse. "Look at this! We can save her!"
Luna stood by the window, her silhouette stark against the gray dawn. She took the book, her fingers tracing the passage with a trembling slowness. Her face tightened, lines deepening around her eyes as if the words carved into her soul. She exhaled shakily, her voice low and heavy with a raw, gnawing guilt. "Asher, I know you're drowning in this, but be practical. Do you think I could've beaten the Demon of Death?" Her gaze flickered to the floor, her shoulders sagging. "The Protectors exist to kill it with the goddess's blessing. Ava was chosen, but she needed to reach twenty for that power. The demons knew—they lured me away with a lie about the neighboring kingdom." Her hand clenched the book's edge, knuckles whitening, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "I should've seen it. I should've stayed. She'd still be here if I weren't so blind."
Asher stumbled back to his room, her words a hammer against his skull. He sank to the floor, confusion and frustration clawing at his chest. Men were shackled in this world—no magic, no aura, no strength beyond fleeting speed. But he couldn't accept it. Rising with a shaky breath, he grabbed a practice sword from the corner and swung it hard against the air, the motion sharp and defiant. "If I can't have power," he whispered, "I'll make my own way."
That afternoon, he ran—sprinting through the palace grounds until his lungs burned, the acrid scent of sweat and dust filling his nose, the crunch of gravel underfoot drowning out his thoughts. He collapsed in the dirt, only to rise and run again, his gasps ragged, his legs screaming. Day after day, he trained alone—beneath the shadowed cliffs beyond the castle, where the wind howled like a mourner's wail; in the rain-soaked forest, the damp earth squelching under his boots, the tang of pine stinging his throat. His sword sliced through the air, the rhythmic whoosh a grim lullaby, each swing a vow to defy his limits.
Over eight years, his mind hardened as much as his body. Ava's trapped because I was weak, he'd think, driving his blade into a tree trunk until bark splintered, the sap's bitter scent mingling with his sweat. I'll cut through anything to reach her. The thought fueled him—through sleepless nights, through the ache of every muscle, through the silence that became his only companion.
Eight years bled into shadow. The palace had grown quieter, its halls echoing with the ghosts of laughter. Asher had changed—once a trembling boy, he'd forged himself through relentless toil. He'd sparred with phantoms in the abandoned quarry, the clang of steel against stone reverberating in the stillness, his hands bleeding from the grip. He'd raced the winds across the northern moors, the salty bite of sea air searing his lungs, his speed honed to a razor's edge. Once, a rogue beast had crossed his path—a fleeting victory won with sweat and steel, though it left him scarred across his shoulder, a silent mark of his resolve.
A knock rattled his door, and a male maid's voice broke the stillness. "Prince, the Princess of Whitewood is waiting." Young Milo stood there, his lanky frame awkward in the frilled uniform, his freckled cheeks flushing as he adjusted his apron nervously. "You… you look different today, sir," he mumbled, his eyes darting to the floor with a mix of awe and unease.
Asher opened the door, his once-slender frame now a chiseled testament to unyielding effort—lean muscle sculpted into athletic grace, his body honed like a blade. The tailored clothes fit him perfectly, but his face was a mask of sorrow, his eyes dull and emotionless, haunted by a grief that never faded. He brushed past Milo without a word, his silence heavier than any reply.