To most, he was a tyrant cloaked in myth—a demon king who razed empires and bent mountains to his will. To others, he was a guardian, a father, a legend born not of cruelty, but survival.
But to the boy, he was simply Grandfather.
King Karnus—The Heavenly Demon—sat beneath the ancient flame in silence, its glow painting his scars in amber. Age had not dulled his strength, but time had grown heavy. He had conquered the world, only to find it smaller than he remembered.
Yet even he could not conquer death.
He heard soft footsteps approaching from the entrance of the cave. The king opened his eyes.
A boy stumbled into the chamber, clutching his hand. A thin line of blood traced his wrist from a shallow cut. His breath hitched, but he stood tall.
"I'm fine, grandfather," he mumbled.
Karnus rose without a word and knelt before him. One finger hovered over the wound. A faint heat shimmered—and the flesh closed.
"Not fine," Karnus said simply.
The boy lowered his gaze, cheeks flushed. "I didn't mean to be careless."
"You weren't."
Karnus's eyes shifted to the cave entrance. A young demon stood there, robed and silent. One of his own.
"You saw him enter," Karnus said.
The servant bowed deeply. "Yes, my king."
"You saw his blood?"
"I… I did not."
The flame behind them flickered. The shadows stilled.
Karnus didn't speak.
In the space between one blink and the next, the servant was gone. No cry. No resistance. Only ash drifting in the still air.
The boy's fingers curled into Karnus's cloak, small and shaking.
"Why did you…?" His voice barely reached a whisper.
Karnus spoke without turning. "If you bleed, and they do not see it—then they were never watching to begin with."
The boy's gaze dropped to his hand, now healed, and then to the ash. His grandfather's words were cold and ruthless.
"I need to get stronger," he said.
Karnus's eyes flicked to him. "Why?"
The boy swallowed. "Because if I'm weak, people get hurt. I don't want others to pay for my mistakes."
"And who do you think will come for you?"
"The humans," he answered. "The elves. The dwarves. They all hate us. I hear the stories… I listen when you talk to the others."
His voice held only curiosity—an innocent ache for a reason. But his words struck Karnus like a relic unearthed too soon.
"Because it's easier to fight what they fear than to understand it. If they tried to understand, they'd see the enemy wasn't all that different—and that is a truth too cruel for them to bear."
"But you're not evil. Neither Mom nor Dad. Or the others I play with."
Karnus rested a hand on the boy's head, gently brushing his hair. His horns were still short. His fangs, dull. One day, they would grow, just like his burdens.
"One day, you'll understand," Karnus murmured. "We're not monsters. But the world rarely waits for proof."
The boy frowned. "Then why do they fight us?"
Karnus exhaled slowly, eyes heavy with memory. "Because seeing truth in your enemy makes them harder to kill. So they blind themselves. It is easier."
The flame crackled between them. Outside, the moon hung cold and whole.
The boy gripped the hilt of his training blade. "Will it ever stop? Will they ever stop hating us?"
Karnus met his eyes—eyes still unclouded, still hoping. His chest tightened. That question had haunted him longer than the war itself.
"I don't know," Karnus said. "But maybe… one day, someone will rise. Someone who questions everything. Not just with strength, but with truth."
The boy opened his mouth again, another question forming.
Karnus waved a hand. Sleep took him gently, like mist curling into a dream. Within moments, he slumped against the king's side, breathing softly and even.
Karnus drew his cloak over the boy and stared back into the fire. His hands hovered over the flame, casting shadows across old wounds—scars carved not by battle, but betrayal, silence, and time.
"Maybe someone will come," he whispered. "Not with bloodlust, but with understanding. Someone who dares to speak where I stayed silent."
For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to hope.
But time was running out. His people faded, their stories turned to myth, their deaths used as stepping stones for the legends of their enemies.
King Karnus closed his eyes.
Let fate send someone—before the last of his kind vanished into dust.