None of Asvaldur’s knights or the magic wielders from the inn lived to see the next day. The sa fate befell those in the second inn Florian visited. And the third. And the fourth.
By the ti he fully grasped what he had done—by his own hands, in full awareness—he had wiped out every knight and magic wielder permitted to enter Eira.
He stood trembling, staring at his bloodstained palms. His legs felt numb, his mind floating, drifting.
Then ca the voice.
"You did this."
It slithered through his thoughts, growing fuller, heavier, until Ol’gaz took shape before him—another Florian, a wicked imposter. He stepped closer, his fingers gliding over Florian’s face, almost tenderly.
"I didn’t tell you to. I had no part in it. It was all you."
Florian had no defense. Ol’gaz was right. The weight of it all rested squarely on his shoulders.
"You’ve beco ."
There was irritation in Ol’gaz’s tone. The magic wielders had been snuffed out too swiftly, their fear cut short before it could fester into sothing richer. Worse still, they had simply perished—wasted. Not even one had been savored.
But all roads led to Ro.
A minor indulgence lost ant a greater feast ahead. If sacrificing a fleeting pleasure made Florian stronger, so be it. The more stained he beca, the more powerful Ol’gaz would be when the ti ca to take everything from him.
"No," Florian managed to reply, his voice strained. "I’m not you. I didn’t kill for the thrill. I’ll prove it."
He was cornered, but he refused to give in. Frustration twisted inside him, but more than that, there was fear that Ol’gaz was right. That he was already lost.
He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, and forced himself to ignore the figure walking beside him. It sickened him to see his own face twisted into sothing so vile, to hear his own voice dripping with amusent at his horror.
The urge to vomit churned in his gut, but he swallowed it down.
"Running is exhausting, isn’t it?" Ol’gaz mused, his tone light, almost teasing. "Why insist on the long, painful road when there’s such a simple way out?"
He moved with an unsettling cheer, hopping alongside Florian as if returning ho from a pleasant afternoon tea. His grin stretched too wide, sharp at the edges, unnatural.
"I told you, didn’t I? You’d be strong—with ." His voice dropped to sothing softer. "Did you really think you did all that alone? That those knights and magic wielders fell by your hand alone? No, no, child... You’re using . You’re borrowing my power. And you love it."
"No, I don’t," Florian muttered under his breath. His fists were clenched as he strode towards the royal palace. He had to move quickly—before Ol’gaz slithered back into his thoughts, twisting reality with his venomous words.
The vampires and magic wielders from Asvaldur had died because they dared to challenge this kingdom—not because of so personal vendetta.
The Royal Guards had said it themselves: King Valentin had been buckling under Asvaldur’s pressure. If Florian removed that pressure, the king would see it for what it was—a service, not a cri. A necessary act.
And if the king accepted him, if he was granted a permanent place within the kingdom, then he would have his proof. Proof that his choices were his own. That he wasn’t just a puppet dancing on Ol’gaz’s strings, no matter what the demon whispered.
I’m not you, Florian thought.
***
Standing before the king’s office, Florian felt the weight of every stare fixed upon him. The Royal Guards didn’t know the truth about his birth—about the demon lurking within him—but they must have sensed sothing. Sothing unnatural. Sothing wrong.
Their faces paled at the sight of him, and not one of them regarded him the way they once had, before he escaped the palace.
No servant dared to call him the mute anymore. Partly because he was no longer mute. Mostly because they had learned better.
He had spent years locked away in the northern tower, and in that isolation, he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be watched—to be judged.
The way people looked at him now was nothing like before. It was no longer disgust. No longer dismissiveness. It was fear. And while the drastic change unsettled him, a small, treacherous part of him felt sothing else.
Relief.
"It’s not relief, boy. It’s joy," Ol’gaz purred in his mind. "You love it. Watching those weaklings finally bow their heads. Seeing them cower before you—it thrills you."
The demon had returned to being nothing more than a voice in his head. But Florian knew better. Ol’gaz was never just a voice.
"Inform His Majesty that his nephew, Florian, requests an audience," he said to one of the Royal Guards.
This was a calculated move. A show of restraint. Florian could have slipped in through a window undetected. He could have barged in outright—none of these guards could stop him if he chose to force his way through. But he didn’t.
Instead, he followed protocol, speaking with asured civility. It was his way of proving to King Valentin that he was not a threat but an asset. That his presence was not a burden but a show of loyalty.
He would act as the dignified vampire his uncle had always told him to be.
"Pfft! Nephew?" Ol’gaz sneered. "You’re not even his nephew. You were born from a lonely, foolish woman the king never loved. What makes you think he’ll ever see you as family? Your very existence is proof of his indifference—he ignored your mother, and you were the result."
He twisted the truth, reshaping it into sothing pitiful, sothing bitter. In his version, the late queen was a sad, forgotten figure, abandoned and unloved.
In reality, the late queen had been content, thriving in her quiet life, untouched by the palace’s relentless drama. The only thing missing had been a child—and she had found a way to bring him into the world through dark magic.
Ol’gaz, of course, would never tell it that way. That version held no weight. No power. It wouldn’t dig into Florian’s heart the way lies wrapped in half-truths always did.
While Florian focused on ignoring Ol’gaz, the Royal Guard opened the door, and Margrave Boris gestured for him to enter. Florian strode into the office, his chest puffed with confidence. This was it—his first real decision, one made entirely by his own will. And it would work.
King Valentin didn’t speak, but Florian had expected that. His uncle had always been a man of few words. Wasting no ti, Florian launched into what he had co to say.
"Your Majesty, Asvaldur had the audacity to station their troops here and smuggle magic wielders into our lands—clearly for their own gain. I understand that this has caused unrest among our people."
"Our people? You’re hilarious, child," Ol’gaz mocked.
Florian ignored him. "So I took it upon myself to provide the kingdom with my ultimate service. I have cleansed the pestilence, and now you may stand before the citizens of Eira and assure them—they have nothing to fear anymore."
Silence settled over the room. King Valentin pressed his lips into a thin line. He considered Florian’s words for a long mont before finally speaking.
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