Chapter 4
Old Ways
They hadn’t gone more than a few corridors from the library when it happened.
A thread of gold flared in the air and wrapped around Seraphae’s wrist, warm and insistent.
A messenger spell.
She didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t even slow.
Instead, she lifted her free hand slightly.
A soft mist of gold bloomed around her, swirling gently from her shoulders downward. Her librarian outfit shimmered, dissolving into light before reforming.
By the time the glow faded, leather boots hugged her calves, fitted leggings replaced the scandalous skirt, and a tightly fitted blouse settled across her frame, tailored for movement rather than court.
She flexed her fingers once.
And kept walking.
Her jaw tightened, shoulders squaring as she changed direction with purpose, boots striking stone hard enough to echo. Aldric fell into step beside her, already sensing the shift.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” he said quietly after a moment. “Someone has arrived in the palace.”
She scoffed, sharp and humorless.
“Not just someone. The one demon I cannot stand.”
That was all she said.
They emerged into the grand landing hall, the same vast space where they’d first arrived in Nerathys. It was already crowded. Courtiers, guards, and servants pressed back in a wide arc. Whispers skittered through the air like startled birds.
At the far end, Goroth stood calmly, unimpressed, arms folded across his chest, as if this were merely another interruption to his evening.
Beside him, Elathiel’s composure strained in a way Aldric hadn’t yet seen.
And then he saw why.
A massive shadow swept across the hall.
Wind roared inward as enormous wings folded, barely clearing the towering archways of the landing hall. Dust and loose banners snapped violently as the creature descended.
The dragon landed with a heavy thud that trembled through the stone floor. Not the placid, obedient kind Seraphae treated like a stable beast, but something truly formidable.
Its scales were black as burned obsidian, fractured with veins of ash-gray. Scarred. Old. Each movement produced the faint grinding sound of hardened plates shifting against one another.
Its wings slowly folded along its back, membranes torn in places, edges ragged from countless battles.
Its eyes, dull, pale gray, swept across the room with bored intelligence.
The air around it felt heavier.
Aldric drew a breath.
“Who—”
He never finished.
A low, rolling laugh reverberated through the hall, deep enough to rattle stone.
A figure dropped from the dragon’s back.
The impact cracked against the floor with a thunderous thump.
Tall. Broad. Wrapped in dark leathers marked with old sigils. His presence bent the space around him, not with magic, but with sheer certainty. He straightened slowly, eyes already locked on Seraphae.
A grin split his face as he titled his head.
“I remember you taller,” he drawled.
Aldric felt Seraphae stiffen beside him.
Her hand curled into a fist.
She didn’t look away.
“My brother,” she said flatly.
Then, under her breath—
“…Gods, I hate him.”
She looked at her brother and didn’t bother lowering her voice.
“Who did you bring this time?” she snapped. “Another tramp?”
Her brother didn’t even blink.
He waved the insult aside as if it were smoke.
“Saphie, please,” he said lazily. “Can’t I simply visit my home?”
She cut through the air with a sharp laugh.
“You? Just visiting?” Her smile was all teeth. “That’s rich.”
He stepped closer then, closing the distance with infuriating ease. He was slightly taller than Aldric, broader through the shoulders, carrying himself with an effortless, practiced confidence.
His eyes, golden like Seraphae’s, but muted, older, polished like worn metal, dropped to her hand.
To where it was entwined with Aldric’s.
A slow, curious smirk curved his mouth.
“Oh. I see you brought someone for a change.” His gaze lifted back to her face. “My, my.”
He turned to Aldric and extended a hand.
“Mareth.”
Aldric met his eyes, then took it.
“Aldric.”
The handshake locked.
It was immediate.
Intense.
Their grip tightened, knuckles whitening as pressure built.
Mareth’s hand began to tremble slightly.
He tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself.
Aldric’s jaw set, muscles coiling as he held his ground.
Then a voice cut cleanly through the tension.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming, my boy?”
Elathiel stepped forward, surprise plain on her face.
Mareth released Aldric’s hand at once and gave him a quick, infuriating wink.
Then he stepped forward and pulled Elathiel into a warm embrace.
“Mother,” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look radiant.”
Elathiel smiled, her tension easing as she held him for a moment longer than propriety demanded.
Seraphae’s eyes burned.
Aldric said nothing. He simply watched, though his jaw tightened slightly.
Goroth approached, looming, and clapped his son hard on the shoulder, a blow that would have dislocated another man’s arm.
Mareth grunted, but didn’t falter.
“Hi, Dad,” he said easily. “Let me guess… Lord Verth still can’t find the main entrance after a feast?”
Goroth snorted.
“Every time, he decides that the courtyard fountain looks more comfortable than following the servants out.”
Mareth laughed.
“Ah… I’ve missed this place.” He rolled his shoulder, then glanced around the hall. “So… what’s for dinner? Please tell me you still serve Gaar’t steak.”
Goroth’s grin widened.
“Of course.”
And with that, son, mother, and father turned back toward the palace.
Elathiel cast Seraphae a brief, apologetic look over her shoulder.
Silence swept as the hall emptied.
Aldric looked at Seraphae, brow furrowing slightly.
“What just happened?”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she watched her family disappear into the palace.
“My estranged older brother decided to crawl out of whatever hoochie hole he’s been hiding in,” she said flatly. “He’s probably slept with one too many nobles’ daughters and now someone wants his head. Gods… he’s such a prick.”
Aldric chuckled.
Then she noticed his hand.
Her gaze dropped to it, lingering a fraction too long.
“Are you all right? He’s nearly a millennium older than I am. And he’s… strong.”
Aldric smiled faintly. His hand remained clenched at his side, fingers stiff.
“I’m fine. It was just a handshake.” A beat. “Come. Let’s go.”
He turned and started toward the palace.
Seraphae blinked, caught off guard.
“What?”
“I’m hungry too,” he added without looking back.
“Ugh, fine. But if I end up throwing stuff at him you’ve been warned.”
Folding her arms tightly across her chest, she followed him—
reluctantly.
The dining hall was already alive with noise when they entered.
Mareth was in the middle of a joke, gesturing broadly as he spoke to Goroth. Something about a princess and two men trying to squeeze through a narrow doorframe.
Goroth roared with laughter.
The women did not.
Elathiel’s expression was tight.
The sisters looked unimpressed at best, irritated at worst.
As they reached the table, Aldric stepped ahead and pulled out a chair for Seraphae.
She paused, then sat.
He took his own seat beside her.
Mareth’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing.
“Well, well, well,” he said lightly. “A knight. I never would have guessed, Saphie.”
Seraphae responded by stabbing a piece of salad several times before depositing it onto her plate with unnecessary force.
Mareth plucked a grape from a bowl and tossed it into his mouth, eyes returning to Aldric.
“I have to say, crossing the passage under the Shadow Mountains alone? Impressive.”
The praise rang hollow.
Polished, performative.
Aldric poured himself some demon wine and took a slow sip, his gaze sliding past Mareth as if he weren’t there.
He said nothing just smiled politely.
Mareth drained his own goblet, set it down with a satisfied ahh, then leaned back.
“So,” he said casually, “Aldric. What exactly do you bring to the table? Any land or titles?”
The queen shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
The sisters groaned in unison.
Seraphae shot him a look that could have drawn blood.
Aldric lifted his goblet again, unhurried.
“Titles?” he asked mildly. “I didn’t realize I needed those.”
Mareth laughed, pressing his fingers to his temple as if amused.
“Of course you need titles. What did you think?” He gestured vaguely toward Seraphae. “That we’d just let you take Saphie?”
Silence fell.
Goroth took a sip from his goblet.
The queen opened her mouth, no doubt ready to intervene.
Aldric set his goblet down on the table.
The sound was soft. Deliberate.
He leaned back comfortably in his chair, one arm resting along its edge, posture relaxed, almost casual.
He met Mareth’s gaze evenly.
“Which demon do I need to kill to get one?”
A beat passed.
Mareth’s expression shifted.
Curiosity.
His head tilted slightly as he studied Aldric anew.
Then the hall exploded with laughter.
Goroth threw his head back, belly laughing, and slammed his fist against the table hard enough to rattle the dishes.
“Yes!” he bellowed. “That’s what I want! That fire. That will!”
The queen reached for his arm, trying and failing to calm him.
“Goroth—”
But he was already leaning forward, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.
“Now that’s the right question, boy! Titles in the Demon Wastes aren’t given. They’re taken. Earned. Claimed in blood and will.” He gestured broadly with one massive hand. “You want land? Then you challenge a lord. You want a title? Then you defeat someone who holds one. Simple.”
Seraphae groaned softly.
“Dad…”
But Goroth ignored her.
“There’s Lord Zareth of the Ash Cliffs. Old. Arrogant. Been sitting on his holdings for two centuries now. Or the twin sisters of the Ezeth Vale. Dangerous. Very dangerous. But defeating one of them would make quite the statement.”
Mareth watched quietly, his expression unreadable.
Goroth continued, warming to the idea.
“And of course…” he leaned back, grinning, “there’s always the Trials of Zendaris. Survive those, and even the high lords would take notice.”
Elathiel squeezed his arm more firmly.
“He hasn’t even finished his brand yet.”
Goroth snorted.