Royal Bastard’s Bloodstained Regression Chapter 3 3: Announcing the twins

The assassins carried them through the moonlit forest, their boots crunching over frostbitten leaves. The air was cold, sharp with the scent of pine and blood.

Daemon, wrapped tightly in bloodstained swaddling cloth, felt it—sothing old. Familiar.

A pulse. A vibration in the air that prickled across his newborn skin like static.

Astral Force.

Not just magic. Not that chaotic, corrupted surge he once wielded at death's edge. No—this was refined power, drawn from deep within. It was the convergence of Mana, Will, and Origin—the three pillars that ford the Astral Path.

And these assassins had it.

One especially. The leader's presence bent the air around him. It was like the man's very blood humd. Controlled. Weaponized.

Astral Force this strong... must be at least a Kindled Star.

Daemon's newborn eyes flickered open, narrow slits of red.

Since when could I sense this level of force?

He couldn't even move his limbs fully, but he could feel everything—the sharpness of the killer's aura, the vibrations of bloodlust. It pressed against him like a knife at his throat.

Then—a mory.

A massive, shadow-cloaked finger pressing against his forehead. A voice like grinding mountains.

"You'll learn... when you rember what you truly are."

A laugh bubbled up from Daemon's tiny chest—high, gurgling, utterly wrong for an infant.

The lead assassin glanced down, his masked face tilting. "Damn. This one's laughing."

His comrade snorted. "Poor little fella. Doesn't even know his real mum died giving birth to him."

But Daemon's laughter didn't stop. It only grew louder, his crimson eyes locking onto the assassin's face with a gaze far too sharp, far too aware, for a child born only hours ago.

Save your pity, he thought, his gums aching with the phantom mory of fangs he didn't yet possess. You'll need it for yourselves soon.

The assassins exchanged a glance, the first sliver of unease creeping in.

And that's when Gabriel chose to wake — his scream slicing through the night.

"Shh, little one," the assassin muttered, lifting the golden-haired twin. "You'll et your new mother soon enough."

The man's chuckle was dry and humorless as they stepped out from the shadowed forest, blood crusted like rust on his gloves.

After hours of silent travel, the royal palace finally rose from the horizon—a beast of white marble and gilded spikes, its towers clawing at the blood-red moon like hungry fingers.

Daemon's tiny fists curled tighter in his swaddle as the assassins scaled the outer wall like shadows. He could feel the stone under their boots, the rhythm of his own heartbeat, the rage coiling inside his infant chest.

Then—the window.

Warm candlelight flickered beyond the glass. The scent of jasmine and sothing far subtler: poison.

And there she was.

Bianca Donovan.

She stood in the archway like a portrait co to life — golden hair framing a face both regal and cruel, silver-threaded robes pooling at her feet like liquid rcury. Her beauty was still sharp enough to wound: high cheekbones, wine-dark lips, and eyes like frozen eralds.

The Marquis's daughter. The king's wife.

The one who ruined everything.

Daemon's breath hitched, the old, silent agony rising in his chest like bile.

Long ti no see, Bianca.

mories lashed at him like barbed wire.

Her serene smile as his ten-year-old self was whipped for "stealing" Gabriel's toy.

Her soft, cold voice ordering him to kneel on broken glass during a feast — "A demon shouldn't sit above nobles."

The hiss of hot iron branding his palm, her whisper lingering: "Let your filth show."

And now, as if no ti had passed, she reached for him with the sa jeweled fingers.

Now, she reached out with jeweled fingers.

"Ah," she cooed, her voice dripping with false affection, "my child. Give him to . I'm his mother."

The assassin bowed low and placed Daemon into her hands. "As you commanded, Your Grace."

Her touch was exactly as he rembered — cold, calculated, venom wrapped in silk.

"He looks like Rose... that wretched maid," she muttered under her breath.

Tilting his small face toward the light, her gaze lingered on his crimson eyes.

"Hmm. Both twins have the king's eyes," she mused. "But why does this one make my skin crawl?"

Daemon didn't look away. He t her stare, unblinking, his newborn glare sharp as a blade.

With a flick of distaste, she thrust him into a maid's arms.

"Take him. Now let see the other twin."

Across the room, Gabriel whimpered softly, and the queen turned — her entire deanor shifting like a mask sliding into place.

"Oh, he's blonde? Strange... why don't they have the sa hair color?" she gasped, snatching the golden-haired boy like a coveted prize. "Such perfect hair — like sunlight. No one will suspect a thing. They'll believe I'm their true mother."

Daemon didn't cry. He didn't flinch.

Not for long, Mother, he thought.

Yes, Bianca. Hold him. Coddle him. Call him yours.

One day, I'll make you beg to tell the truth — with your skin peeled back like silk.

Bianca turned, practically glowing with self-satisfaction.

"It's been five days since I locked myself away," she purred. "The servants are convinced I gave birth myself. Ha! The fake belly, the screams... I deserve a damn trophy for that performance."

"Yes, my Queen," the maids replied in unison, their smiles sharp and knowing — just like her own.

She peeled off the fake stomach and tossed it to a maid, still giggling. "Let's go share the good news with the king. I'm sure the court will be so happy for ."

The maids and assassins bowed low, murmuring congratulations like obedient dogs.

Daemon just watched.

Now it all made sense.

In his past life, on the day of her death, Bianca had confessed everything to him. She laughed in his face as her blood soaked the marble floor—told him he was the spawn of a maid. That she only kept him alive to punish him for reminding her of that woman.

And now here she was again, proud, smiling, dragging Gabriel deeper into her lies.

She thought she'd won.

Again.

Daemon stared down the palace halls as they carried him past velvet curtains and golden columns.

It hadn't even been a day since his rebirth.

But the mories, the hatred, the plan—it was all still there.

And this ti, he wasn't going to wait to be broken.

He was going to burn this place down.

BAM!

The grand doors of the throne room slamd open.

Queen Bianca swept in like a stage actress at the climax of her performance—Gabriel nestled in her arms like a divine gift. Behind her, a tight-lipped nursemaid held Daemon stiffly, like she was afraid the infant might bite.

The courtiers stirred, their silks rustling like a nest of vipers. At the far end of the hall, the Obsidian Throne lood.

King Alaric sat slouched in it, more shadow than sovereign. The silver in his beard had outpaced the gold in his crown. His eyes—once sharp enough to cut through lies—now looked dulled by years of war, betrayal, and weariness.

Beside him stood High Priest Orlan, draped in white and gold, hands folded over a sun-etched staff. His gaze was colder than any god's rcy.

Bianca's voice rang out, syrupy and bright.

"My king. The gods have smiled upon us—twin sons."

Gasps. Then whispers.

"So the eclipse was an on after all..."

"Two heirs? Twice the blessing—or twice the curse."

"At least that's a blessing we finally have two prince's"

King Alaric stood slowly. His joints cracked with age or maybe guilt. He approached, face unreadable.

The king's gaze settled first on Gabriel.

The golden-haired infant reached for his father's finger, crimson eyes wide and shining, a soft coo bubbling from his tiny chest — like the heavens themselves had already chosen him.

"Gabriel," the king murmured, his voice rare and uncharacteristically gentle. "A strong na. The na of a hero." His lips twitched into the faintest smile. "He reminds of the Archangel Michael, with hair like spun gold."

Bianca clung to his arm, her smile carefully asured. "Yes, my king. Fate has been generous."

But then — the king's gaze shifted.

To the other one.

To Daemon.

The dark-haired child lay perfectly still, his crimson eyes unblinking, locked onto his father's face. There was no soft coo, no reaching hand. Just silence.

But the look in his eyes wasn't innocent.

It wasn't new.

It was old. Ancient. Heavy. Like the boy had seen a thousand lives before this one and despised every single one.

The king's jaw tightened, the warmth in his voice replaced by cold steel.

"And... this one?" His words cut through the air like a blade. "Why is his hair so different from his brother's?"

Bianca hesitated, then forced a smile so sweet it was nearly poison.

"He takes after you, my king," she said, brushing her fingers against Daemon's black hair. "Dark, like His Majesty. But... he hasn't cried. Not even once."

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy for a room ant to welco newborns.

High Priest Orlan stepped forward, his ceremonial staff clicking against the marble floor. The amulet at its tip pulsed faintly, as if it too sensed sothing was off.

Orlan lowered his hand over Daemon's small head.

"The child is... quiet," he announced, voice calm but uncertain. "But that's not always a bad on. So newborns don't cry. Perhaps he is shy."

The king arched a brow, unconvinced. "Shy?" His gaze flicked back to Daemon, locking onto those unnatural crimson eyes. "Shyness isn't sothing I've ever seen in a creature that stares like this."

The priest cleared his throat, trying to soften the mont.

"We should not judge too soon," he added, his tone almost rehearsed. "The prophecy speaks of twins, after all. 'One shall carry the light, the other, the shadow beneath it.' Only ti will reveal which is which ,especially by their twelfth year."

The room fell silent. Even the fire in the hearth seed to dim.