Unexpected guest

Her eyes flew open with a sharp gasp. Darkness wrapped around her as she pushed herself upright, heart pacing like a hunted doe. The air felt wrong—too still. Something unseen watched her, and the hairs on her neck stood tall as cold sweat traced her spine.

"Just a dream," she whispered, shoulders easing as her grip on the sheets loosened. Yet her fingers drifted to the hidden sword beneath them, clinging to its bite like a promise.

****

Morning light poured in. Alena dressed Prudielle in her training robe, pinning her hair high to ensure it won't get in the way of her training. Her hands landed on the human's shoulders as she admired the service just rendered.

"Don't forget, My Lady —" Alena began.

"—avoid blind corners and guardless halls," Prudielle cut in, her reflection calm but distant. A scoff played at her lips.

Alena beamed, a proud mother admiring her child, then patted the bun. "And we're good to go. Not like you ever follow through, My Lady."

"I love how deeply we understand each other. Soulmates," Prudielle drawled, rolling her eyes as she rose. The magenta robe hugged her frame, regal and defiant. Shoulders straight, chin high, she reached the exit—only to be halted by a guard.

"My Lady, the Lord requests your presence in the dining hall," he said, bowing.

She glanced at Alena, confused, but offered no reply as she brushed past.

____

Silence settled like dust, thick and unmoving.

Summoning his daughter had taken longer than expected. Still, Lord Michaelson couldn't fault the poor guard for choosing delay over the scorching weight pressing down the halls.

At the end of the long table, Zarathys sat. His gloved hand cradled his head, ember eyes locked on Lord Michaelson. Calm. Too calm. It chilled more than rage ever could.

"Took her a good while," Zarathys finally spoke, his voice slicing through the silence. Lord Michaelson gave a stiff nod.

"I would've gone to check—"

"No need." A smirk curled his lips, like he'd heard an inner joke no one else was privy to. To the poor demon hosting him, the smile was anything but reassuring.

The doors burst open. Prudielle entered, calm on the surface, but laced with quiet defiance. Every step she took was deliberate.

Then she saw him.

Her breath nearly caught at the sight of the deep-crimson hair, held high in a regal updo. His presence was impossible to ignore, an effortless command wrapped in beauty. Just like the night before, his aura was suffocating, heavy.

Her stride faltered. What was he doing here?

She hated what his presence did to her. Hated it enough to turn on her heel, ready to bolt.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Zarathys murmured, eyes still shut, voice laced with amusement. He could taste her fear even under the defiant mask she quickly wore.

"Sit." The command rolled from his lips, firm and unwavering.

Prudielle's shoulders dipped. She turned back to the table, jaw tight.

Behind her, Alena blanched at the sight of the unexpected guest. A tremor snaked through her arms. She could feel it. That oppressive, suffocating power. Instinct took over, and before she realized it, she had stumbled back, seeking distance.

Prudielle pulled out a chair across from the King. His dark robe mirrored the one he wore the night before, but the ember-lined embroidery now shimmered under the light, catching her gaze. Her eyes darted up, locking with his; still, unreadable, and maddeningly calm.

'Again with this look!' she groaned inwardly.

"What are you doing here?" Prudielle asked flatly, her tone far too casual for the room.

Lord Michaelson smacked a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. So much for formality. She'd been raised better than that. If this kept on, he feared even the demons wouldn't get the chance to strike. She'd doom herself first.

"To speak," Zarathys replied. "With him."

The Lord blinked. He hadn't expected an answer. And that made him wonder... boldness, immunity to the King, a defiant tongue... Was there more to his daughter than met the eye?

"You summoned me, father."

Prudielle finally turned to Lord Michaelson, as if the charged exchange with Zarathys had never happened.

That effortless shift pulled a flicker of intrigue into the King's eyes — brief, gone in an instant.

"Yes, I..." Lord Michaelson hesitated, his words suddenly caught on a heavy tongue. Everything was happening too fast. He hadn't expected Zarathys to arrive before the Archs.

"I called for you because it was His Majesty's command."

"What is it?" Her voice was flat, emotionless. She turned to Zarathys, who blinked away his lingering curiosity.

"You'll be staying in the Castle. From now on."

The words dropped like stones in still water, sending ripples through the room. Father and daughter froze, stunned.

"Your Majesty—"

"And I'll follow that order because?" she cut in, voice sharp and unbothered.

"It's the only way to keep that defiant head of yours on your shoulders."

Zarathys leaned back, calm, smug, letting her full attention soak into him.

Prudielle's jaw slackened. She scoffed and flicked her gaze away, then pointed at him as if she were addressing an equal.

"And what makes you think I'd ever stay in your palace, Your. Majesty?"

Her fingers laced together, index fingers steepled, eyes narrowed in calculation.

"I'm not fond of repeating myself."

His reply hung heavy in the air. A silent standoff sparked between them, the gravity of his words slowly seeping into her thoughts.

A sharp bang echoed in the hall as the straw holding her last resolve broke in two. Her face darkened as she sneered.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

====

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