Bound by blood and fire

It was well past midnight when the king finally donned his disguise.

The grand halls of the palace, once alive with courtly chatter and the rustle of silken robes, now stood silent, the cold moonlight casting long shadows along the marble floors. Guards walked in rigid formation outside the royal chambers, oblivious to the king's quiet departure.

Tonight, the palace would not be his prison. The truth he sought lay beyond the walls, in the home of a shaman—a man who could see what others could not.

The king, his face shadowed by a deep hood, moved swiftly through the palace corridors. His trusted companion enunch Jeong followed close behind. Though older, jeong movements were just as swift, though his back was slightly hunched from age, his gait steady with the years of service to the crown.

The two of them had come to know the shadows of the palace well. They had been walking them for years, but tonight felt different, filled with a tension neither had ever known.

They reached the outer courtyard, where a small, discreet carriage waited, cloaked in darkness.

The king's heart raced in anticipation. His life—his throne—depended on the answers that awaited him beyond the palace gates.

Jeong gave a nod to the coachman, signaling for him to drive them out of the city. No one would know of their departure. For tonight, they were simply two men on a secret journey.

The journey took hours, winding through dense forests and forgotten paths, until they arrived at a secluded house, barely visible in the moonlight. The shaman's dwelling was unlike any the king had ever seen—carved from ancient stone and nestled in the very heart of the wilderness, far from prying eyes. Its stone walls seemed to breathe, heavy with an energy that vibrated through the earth.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and sage.

The walls were covered in strange symbols—runes of protection, wards against evil, and talismans that glowed faintly, as if infused with the essence of the spirits themselves.

At the center of the room stood the shaman.

He was an Imposing figure, despite his frailty. His long white hair, braided with silver strands, cascaded down his back, tied in intricate knots and spirals. His robe was pristine white, almost glowing in the dim light of the room, and his eyes, hidden beneath a blindfold, seemed to pierce the very air around him.

"Welcome, King," the shaman's voice was smooth, almost musical, yet carried an undercurrent of something ancient. "I have been expecting you."

The king, wary but resolute, stepped forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. "You know why I've come," he said, his voice firm but laced with desperation. "I need to know the truth. What is happening to my throne?"

The shaman's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Truth, like a flame, burns. But once ignited, it can never be extinguish

The king's patience was running thin. He had come for answers, and this cryptic talk was of little use to him.

"Enough with the riddles, old man," the king snapped, stepping closer. "Tell me what I need to know."

The shaman's gaze never faltered, his hands steady as they rested on the carved wooden ant that lay before him. Slowly, he raised the ant to his blindfolded face, pressing it against the cloth. The room fell into an eerie silence, the air charged with anticipation.

Moments later, the shaman lowered the ant, his blind eyes seemingly focused on the king. "You are beautiful, King," the shaman's voice echoed, his words almost too soft to hear. "But your beauty conceals a bitter truth. You are not the true heir to this throne."

The king's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?" His voice trembled, despite his efforts to maintain control.

The shaman did not respond immediately. Instead, he stood there, silent, as if the weight of his words hung heavily in the room. Finally, he spoke again, his voice low and filled with gravity.

"The Dowager Queen and the Chief Advisor—your adoptive parents—murdered the true heirs to the throne: your father, the former king, and your mother. They killed them to place you upon the throne, to use you as a puppet to control the kingdom. You are not of royal blood, but of those who sought power above all else."

The king staggered back, the world around him spinning. His knees buckled beneath him, and he leaned against the stone wall for support. His entire life—the family he had trusted, the lineage he had believed in—had been a lie.

"It is true," the shaman replied, his voice unwavering. "You were chosen, not because you were the rightful heir, but because they believed you could be controlled. They sought power, and you were the vessel they needed to wield it."

As the king struggled to comprehend the weight of this new truth, the door to the shaman's house creaked open.

A woman entered, her presence like a breath of wind on a still night. Tall and poised, her robes simple but elegant, she seemed to exude a quiet strength. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, and her eyes—piercing yet compassionate—locked onto the king's with an unsettling intensity.

"You are not the one who can break the curse, King," she said, her voice calm but firm, a stark contrast to the king's turbulent emotions.

The king's eyes widened, confusion twisting his features. "What do you mean? I'm the king! I have the blood of the throne in my veins! I must be the one to end this!"

The woman shook her head slowly, her expression sorrowful. "You are not the one who can end this, King. The curse that binds your throne cannot be broken by you alone. It will be broken only by one who is neither fully human nor fully demon, but a being of both."

The king's heart raced, his thoughts a blur. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Who could this person be?"

The woman's gaze softened, but there was an unspoken sadness in her eyes. "A man of mixed blood—half demon, half human. The curse that plagues your throne can only be shattered by someone with the strength to bridge both worlds. Someone who is accepted by neither, but who carries the power to destroy the demons' hold over the throne."

The king felt his breath catch in his throat. "A half-demon, half-human?" he repeated, disbelief still thick in his voice. "But who could it be? Where do I find such a person?"

The woman stepped forward, her eyes meeting his with unwavering certainty.

"That is for you to discover, King. You must find him before the demons take what they seek. The throne will be theirs unless the one with the blood of both worlds comes forward."

The king's chest tightened as he absorbed the weight of her words.

The room seemed to freeze in the wake of the woman's words. The crackle of the burning incense, the faint whispers of wind against the stone walls—all faded into silence.

The king stood motionless, his mind a torrent of disbelief and confusion, but it was enuch jeong his loyal companion, who broke the stillness.

Jeong, despite his age, stepped forward with surprising vigor, his voice roughened by years but sharp with urgency. "A half-demon? Half-human?" he echoed, his gaze flickering between the blind shaman and the mysterious woman. "Forgive my intrusion, but… how can such a being exist? Where could we even find such a person?"

The woman turned her calm, knowing gaze to jeong. For a moment, it was as if she could see through him—through his doubts, his fear, and his loyalty to the king. "There are creatures who walk between worlds, unseen by most. Not all demons are monsters, just as not all humans are innocent. This 'child of two bloods' is not a myth, but a rare truth."

Jeong brows furrowed, his skepticism barely masked by his concern. "And where would such a person hide? If they are so rare, why would we even believe they exist now?"

The woman's lips curled into the faintest of smiles, mysterious and unreadable.

"Because the curse has awakened. The demons rise only when their counterpart exists—when a being capable of stopping them walks this earth."The king, silent until now, finally found his voice. "Then this person… this half-blood… they are already here? Somewhere in the kingdom?"

The woman nodded slowly. "The signs are clear. The darkness has begun to stir, but so has the light. They are bound together. Where there are shadows, a flame burns."

Jeong let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "And what happens if we don't find this person?" His voice trembled, uncharacteristically weak. "If the curse is allowed to take root…"

The shaman answered, his voice like the wind—cold and unfeeling. "Then the throne will fall, swallowed by darkness. The demon lord will claim it, and this kingdom will be no more than ash beneath his feet

The king's gaze narrowed as he looked at the woman, searching her face for answers she would not give.

Jeong tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden in his robe. "We must leave, Your Majesty. Now."

The king gave her one last look—part frustration, part gratitude—and nodded. "We will find this half-blood. If they are the key to saving my throne, then I will not rest until they are brought before me."

Jeong bowed deeply to the shaman and the woman before turning to the king. "Come, Your Majesty. We have seen enough for tonight."

The journey back to the palace was long and silent. The king sat in the carriage, his face shadowed by his hood, his thoughts heavy. Jeong sat beside him, his old eyes narrowed as he pondered the revelation.

"Your Majesty," jeong finally spoke, his voice low. "Do you believe the shaman's words? That this half-demon truly exists?"

The king did not answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the dark horizon beyond the window. Finally, he spoke, his tone resolute. "I don't have the luxury of disbelief, jeong. If this person exists, we must find them. No matter the cost."

Jeong nodded, though his expression remained troubled. "And what if this half-demon is not the ally we hope for? What if they bring danger to the kingdom instead?"

The king's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I will decide their fate. But until then, we search. This is our only chance to stop what's coming."

As the palace gates came into view, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, washing the city in pale gold. Yet, the warmth of the rising sun did nothing to ease the cold dread that had settled deep in the king's chest.

As they approached the palace walls, the towering silhouette of the grand structure loomed above them.

Lanterns flickered faintly on the battlements, and the faint shuffle of guards' boots echoed in the crisp night air.

Jeong led the way, his movements surprisingly nimble for his age. He gestured toward a smaller, less-patrolled side entrance. "This way. The old servants' passage—rarely used since the war. It will lead us to the lower corridors."

The king hesitated briefly, glancing toward the main gates where the guards stood, oblivious to their presence. Then, with a determined breath, he followed Jihong into the shadowed passage.

Inside, the air was damp and cold, the narrow tunnel lit only by the faint moonlight that seeped through cracks in the walls. They moved in silence, the king's heart pounding with every step.

As they emerged into the lower halls of the palace, jeong pressed a finger to his lips. "The guards will be patrolling soon. We must move quickly."

The pair navigated the labyrinthine corridors, ducking into alcoves and behind columns whenever the faint glow of a lantern approached. At one point, the sound of voices nearby forced them to flatten against the wall, holding their breath as two guards passed mere feet away.

When they finally reached the king's private wing, the king exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. He turned to Jihong. "Return to your quarters. Speak of this to no one."

Jeong bowed deeply, his face still lined with concern. "As you command, Your Majesty. Rest well."

The next morning, the grand council chamber of the palace was alive with activity. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow over the polished marble floor.

The king entered the chamber with measured steps, dressed in a regal crimson robe embroidered with gold thread.

His presence commanded immediate attention, and the room fell silent as he ascended the dais to his throne.

The throne itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, carved from dark mahogany and inlaid with gold and precious stones. The high back was adorned with the crest of the kingdom, and its armrests were shaped like the heads of roaring lions.

Gathered before him were the kingdom's most esteemed advisors and nobles, each marked by their distinct attire.

We are gathered here to address a matter of grave importance," he began, his voice steady but firm.

The room erupted in murmurs, the advisors and nobles debating strategies and risks.

The king raised his voice, cutting through the noise. "Enough!" He rose from his throne, his gaze sweeping the room. "This court was built on courage and unity. If the Queen Dowager remains a prisoner, it endangers not just her but the kingdom itself."

He turned to one of the scholars, a man whose blue robes shimmered faintly in the light. "We need intelligence. Maps, reports—anything that can give us an advantage. Begin preparations immediately."

Finally, he addressed the warriors. "Gather our finest men. I will not send an army, but we will need a select few brave enough to enter the demon's lair and return alive."

The council members bowed their heads in agreement, their expressions a mixture of determination and unease.

The grand council meeting had drained the king, but his responsibilities were far from over. Leaving the council chamber, he strode through the gilded hallways of the palace, his crimson robe sweeping the polished floors. Servants bowed as he passed, their gazes fixed on the ground.

His destination was his private chamber, where reports awaited his review—an endless stream of dispatches and intelligence that demanded his attention. The weight of his crown felt heavier with each step.

As he approached the archway leading to his quarters, a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor.

The queen.

Her gown was a masterpiece of fine silk, deep emerald with golden embroidery, shimmering in the soft light of the palace sconces. A delicate tiara sat upon her dark hair, but her beauty did little to soften the irritation that flickered in the king's eyes. He slowed his pace as she approached, her footsteps echoing softly against the marble floor.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice smooth yet carrying a hint of nervousness. She curtsied, her hands clasped in front of her.

The king inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Queen Lirien . What is it?"

"I wish to speak with you. Privately, if I may," she said, her tone cautious.

The king's jaw tightened. "Make it brief. I have much to attend to."

He gestured toward an adjacent chamber, a smaller sitting room adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of ancient battles. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension as they entered.

Queen Lirien hesitated for a moment, her hands smoothing the fabric of her gown. "I wanted to discuss the Queen Dowager," she said. "The court is anxious, and the whispers among the nobles grow louder. They wonder if the throne will act or…"

"The court will be informed when necessary," the king interrupted, his voice clipped. "Plans are already in motion. There's no need for you to concern yourself with such matters."

Queen Lirien lips tightened, but she pressed on. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I am concerned. The Queen Dowager is my family too. Surely, you understand the urgency of rescuing her."

The king leaned back against a carved wooden table, his arms crossed. "What I understand, Lirien, is that this throne carries burdens you cannot fathom. I advise you to let me carry them without interference."

The sting of his words was evident in the queen's expression, but she quickly masked it. She took a step closer, softening her tone. "I only wish to ease your burdens, my king. Perhaps if we—"

The sound of the chamber doors creaking open interrupted her.

The palace training grounds roared with activity, a cacophony of clashing steel, grunts of effort, and the rhythmic pounding of hooves against hard-packed earth. Dust rose in swirling clouds as warriors pushed their limits, their movements sharp, precise, and relentless.

On one side of the field, archers lined up in a neat row, their bows drawn tight. The twang of bowstrings sent arrows streaking through the air, striking straw targets with practiced precision. Instructors paced behind them, barking orders. "Faster! Your enemy won't wait for you to aim!"

To the right, a group of horsemen thundered across the grounds, their war cries blending with the pounding of their mounts.

Each rider balanced a long spear, aiming at wooden dummies placed along the track. Spears struck with dull thuds, some piercing the dummies cleanly, others glancing off. A young rider wobbled in his saddle, barely managing to stay atop his horse as he missed his target entirely.

"Keep your seat, boy!" an instructor bellowed. "You'll be thrown before the enemy gets the chance!"

In the center of the field, swordsmen were locked in fierce combat, the clang of blades ringing out like a battle hymn. Pairs of warriors circled each other, their eyes locked in intense focus. Blades flashed as strikes were parried and countered, sweat glistening on their brows.

Some moved with practiced ease, their movements a deadly dance of offense and defense. Others stumbled, their footwork clumsy, earning sharp rebukes from watching captains.

Near the edge of the grounds, two combatants squared off with shields and swords. One of them, a broad-shouldered warrior, swung his blade in a powerful arc, his opponent barely raising his shield in time. The clash of metal on metal echoed across the field.

"Again!" the larger warrior growled, stepping back and raising his weapon for another strike.

Amid the chaos, a group of trainees was practicing hand-to-hand combat. Dust coated their tunics as they grappled, their grunts of exertion punctuating the flurry of movements. One trainee managed to throw his opponent to the ground, pinning him with a triumphant grin.

"Don't get cocky," a senior guard warned, pulling him up by the collar. "In a real fight, your enemy won't wait for you to celebrate."

Across the field, a mounted archer demonstrated his skills, drawing his bow while his horse galloped at full speed. The arrow streaked through the air and struck the bullseye with a satisfying thunk, earning a cheer from the nearby trainees.

Meanwhile, Tristan moved through the crowd, his sword at his side. His steps were measured, but his mind was elsewhere. He barely noticed the young warrior stumbling past him or the instructor's sharp reprimand that followed.

"Focus, Tristan!" someone shouted, but the words barely registered. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword as he struggled to push thoughts of Maria from his mind.