I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, the 2nd Prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and I am on a journey to the Kingdom of Hyperion.

After leaving the dense shadow of the Erwin Forest, long after the sun has dipped below the horizon, our wagon creaks and rumbles over the uneven dirt road, emerging into the sweeping hills of Hyperion. All around us, vast stretches of farmland roll into the distance.

The scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and spring pollen drifts on the cool night breeze, while the steady chorus of nocturnal insects hums in our ears, filling the silence between the creaks of wood and clatter of wheels.

"Thank you for escorting us, Sir Kane," I say, glancing at the ram-horned Hyperion soldier marching beside the wagon. Moonlight glints along the curves of his dented helmet and battered cuirass.

"It's the least we could do after what you did for our men, Prince Drakemore," Kane replies, dipping his head with quiet dignity. His steady hoofbeats clop softly along the dirt road as he keeps pace.

"I still can't believe you took the time to heal half the garrison," Captain Daniels adds from the other side of the wagon. The young officer—who a few hours ago was preparing to confiscate our potion stock—now leads our escort himself, accompanied by three of his comrades. A small gesture of repayment for what he likely sees as a debt too large to settle.

"We haven't seen a proper healer in over a year," Daniels continues. "Some of my men have been suffering with those wounds for arcs... Words fail to express my gratitude."

"I couldn't believe it when he said he was a prince," chimes in Shiro, the slender red-furred foxkin walking ahead. He tosses a glance over his shoulder. "Foreign royalty, out in the wilderness, patching up foot soldiers like a common field medic? Unheard of."

"And he's just a child," Daniels adds with a tone of humorous disbelief. "No older than my own son."

"Not only that—he fed us and restocked our supplies," adds Thalen, the broad-shouldered dwarf bringing up the rear. As he speaks, his thick fingers drift unconsciously to his left forearm where there had been a festering injury not long ago.

"Escorting you to the capital hardly seems like equal repayment," Kane chuckles.

I offer a modest smile. "Still, as guests in your land, we appreciate your protection and guidance."

That was a lie. My group is more than capable of defending ourselves, and no guide could be more reliable than Lady Willow.

The real reason I asked for an escort was to borrow their authority. When we reach Astradel, being accompanied by Hyperion soldiers should make it easier to gain an audience with the king—and save me from having to convince every gatekeeper that I'm truly a prince of Arcadia.

My original plan was to find a stable buyer—an apothecary or merchant willing to purchase potions through regular deliveries. But after seeing the state of this kingdom, and learning that all potions are being confiscated and redistributed by royal decree, it's clear there's only one customer worth negotiating with now.

The king himself.

"I see a village ahead," comes Shadow's deep voice from the towering, cloaked figure walking beside Huckleberry, one hand steady on her reins. His footfalls land with a distinct weight, heavier than those of our four Hyperion escorts—even heavier than the horses themselves.

Earlier this evening, as we tried to leave the Hyperion border post, Huckleberry had planted her hooves and refused to move. Not even Buttercup's persistent nips at her mane could convince her otherwise. It wasn't until Shadow dismounted that she finally snorted and began pulling the wagon again.

Honestly, I can't blame her. Asking two horses to haul a wagon full of cargo and a walking fortress made of mithril for three days straight was probably pushing it.

It's not just the horses that are exhausted. Maribel, curled up in a blanket on the floor of the wagon, has been making a valiant effort to stay awake, but it's obvious the journey has worn her down. Her overzealous spell practice earlier today probably didn't help either.

As for me, I started the day already drained, still recovering from the taxing process of integrating Maribel's memories. Then I burned through most of my mana healing fourteen Hyperion soldiers back-to-back without a single break. Now, sitting in the wagon, every dip and bump in the road sends a fresh jolt up my spine. It's done nothing to help me recover.

Shadow and Willow, of course, show no signs of weariness.

"You can see that far in the dark, big guy?" Daniels remarks, squinting into the night.

"The four of us see just as well at night as we do in daylight," I reply casually, glancing down the road.

Sure enough, about two miles ahead, the scattered thatched rooftops of a small farm village begin to rise into view.

"That so?" Daniels mutters, sounding a bit disappointed. "You Arcadians sure are impressive."

"Just Shiro and I have the gift of night sight," Thalen grunts, slightly out of breath as he trudges behind the wagon, his shorter legs working twice as hard to keep pace.

"That'll be the village of Ravengate," Kane explains, gesturing ahead. "It's mostly farmland—good hard working folk there who supply food for a good bit of the region."

"How long have their crops been struggling?" I say, my gaze sweeping over the passing fields of young grain stalks swaying in the night breeze.

"Pardon?" Kane looks up, caught off guard by the question. His brow furrows in uncertainty.

"They look uneven," I clarify, nodding toward the farmland. "The color's off, and they're growing at different rates."

The road winds between patchy, underperforming fields. It's late spring—everything should be vibrant by now. But instead, I see pale leaves, dry soil, and stunted stalks that look like they've already begun to wilt.

Kane exhales heavily. "They've been failing for years now. Almost a decade now."

That explains the poorly provisioned outpost. And if even the military is struggling to get fed… the commoners must be on the brink of starvation.

"I suppose the reason they don't restore the crops with magic is because there aren't enough mages available?" I ask. In Arcadia, it's standard practice to cultivate farmland using magic. The only logical explanation for neglecting it here is a lack of mages.

"There are far fewer mages in our country compared to Arcadia," Captain Daniels replies. "Arcadia's Magical Academy only accepts one student per year from each foreign nation. Our local mages are sponsored directly by the king, and they're assigned wherever they're needed most—usually the war front."

"Your country is at war?" I wheel around to face Daniels. "With who?"

"We've been in conflict with the Demon Lord for nearly thirty years," Daniels replies, sounding both surprised and slightly indignant. "You didn't know?"

I quickly search my mental catalog, scanning through what I've studied. Where did I get the impression the war was over?

"I read that the Demon Lord was gravely injured… that he ended his campaign to expand his borders," I reply defensively, recalling the history text I studied years ago.

"Your father did wound the Demon Lord, forcing him to halt his advance," Willow adds, her voice calm, almost nostalgic. "But the war didn't end for the nations that share a border with the Demon Lord's realm."

I suppose that time of war must have suited her—so many souls to reap on the battlefield.

"The Demon Lord's forces may have stopped advancing," Daniels continues, "but they now occupy lands that used to be homes to humans, elves, and dwarves. Those who didn't die in the initial invasion still suffer—living as slaves under the Demon Lord's rule."

His voice hardens with emotion. "Arcadia might act like the war ended after your father's heroic retreat. But we're reminded every day—by the friends, families, and villages we've lost—that the war is still going."

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"I wasn't aware of that…" I say slowly.

I stop myself from offering the reflexive apology. It wouldn't help—not here. This war has clearly taken a toll on the people of Hyperion, and I can see why there would be resentment toward Arcadia. After all, we've acted as though the war ended with my father's so-called victory. We've praised him as a hero, reaped the benefits of peace, and quietly ignored the fact that Hyperion continues to bleed in our absence.

But none of that is my fault.

Still… their suffering may present an opportunity.

A lesson Lady Willow drilled into me early on: helping people—solving their problems—is the most effective way to earn loyalty. And loyalty gives you options. It gives you pieces on the board.

Desperate, suffering people are opportunities in disguise, because there are so many ways to help them. And helping them binds them to you.

Willow always said she loves desperate people.

Of course, her reasons are… different. But there's a pragmatic wisdom to her words.

Maribel has been curled up in the wagon for nearly an hour, looking like she's on the verge of sleep but refusing to let herself drift off. I've noticed her eyes flickering open anytime the wagon jolts, her fingers occasionally tightening on the edge of the blanket. What strikes me most is how her watchfulness isn't general—her gaze has been fixed almost entirely on Kane.

She yawns, which triggers one from me as well.

"You should try to get some rest," I say gently. "We still have a ways to go."

"I can't sleep with that thing around…" she mutters, barely above a whisper, but loud enough to reach Kane's ears.

His jaw tenses, and though his eyes remain fixed forward, the flicker of restrained anger is clear.

"What thing?" I ask, glancing over at Kane in confusion, half expecting to spot something strange or out of place on him.

Maribel doesn't answer me. Instead, she straightens a little, her voice louder and sharper. "Strange, isn't it? If Hyperion is still at war with demons, then why do you employ them in your military?"

Our procession continues in tense silence, the village of Ravengate slowly drawing nearer. The question hangs heavy in the air. The other guards glance uneasily at Kane, then quickly look away. No one answers. Kane shifts uncomfortably in his stride, his posture tightening under the weight of their silence—and hers. But he says nothing. He doesn't look back.

"Kane, are you a demon?" I break the icy silence, my tone genuinely curious. "I've never met one before. I actually thought you were some kind of beastkin I hadn't seen before." I offer the explanation quickly, hoping to clarify my ignorance rather than offend.

"It's Draemorian…" Kane mutters, still looking away, his voice tight with restraint.

"What's a Draemorian?" I ask.

"That's what demons call themselves," Maribel interjects dryly, her tone dismissive, almost mocking.

"No," Kane snaps, his voice cutting through the night as he finally turns to face her. "Draemorian is the name of my people. Demon is the word you people gave us."

"Enough, soldier," Captain Daniels cuts in sternly.

Kane clenches his jaw and turns his gaze away again, clearly holding back the rest of what he wants to say. Maribel lifts an eyebrow at Daniels, silently daring him to direct that same reprimand her way.

Captain Daniels turns to me, his voice respectful but edged with caution, as though bracing for disagreement. "Prince Drakemore, I understand this may seem strange to you. In Arcadia, history and values are taught… differently. But our war is with the Demon Lord—not the Draemorian people. Sergeant Kane is half-Draemorian. He takes after his father in appearance, yes—but he's also half-human. And he, along with his family, has served Hyperion with honor."

"I understand," I say, turning my gaze to Kane. "Sergeant Kane, I believe anyone—regardless of race—should be judged by their own actions, not by the actions of others."

It's the most sincere truth I can offer to someone I've only just met.

Kane looks up at me, visibly surprised. After a moment, he gives a grateful nod.

"Despite his honorable service, he's still been met with suspicion and hatred—even from some within Hyperion," Daniels continues.

Maribel shifts slightly, recoiling at the words, her jaw tightening as if itching to respond.

Daniels presses on, a hint of humor creeping into his voice as he tries to lighten the mood. "But contrary to what you may have heard, Kane rarely eats people."

"Draemorians don't eat people. That's a lie—we never have," Kane says with an eye roll.

"You don't?" Maribel shoots back with disbelief.

"No, ma'am," Daniels chimes in. "Draemorians are essentially another branch of beastkin. They're not even the only ones with horns, dark skin, or red eyes."

"Those traits are only skin deep anyway," I add. "When I was healing you earlier, I had to analyze your internal structure to understand how to mend your injuries. Physically, you're no different from any other beastkin."

Because I'd never treated some of the non-human races present at the outpost before, I'd taken care to study their healthy tissue before healing the wounded areas.

"The only thing that separates the Draemorians from other beastkin," Kane continues, still avoiding Maribel's gaze, "is that full-blooded Draemorian aren't born with mana. Instead, they rely on the life force stored in blood to cast magic. That kind of magic is seen as taboo—barbaric, even—by races with innate mana. But for us, it's the only way we've ever had access to magic."

"I get that you trust him, and I'm too tired to argue," Maribel says, her voice edged with exhaustion and a note of finality. "But after so many years of hearing about all the terrible things demons have done, I just can't trust one that easily."

I roll my eyes. She can be such a pain sometimes. And I'm far too tired for this kind of drama.

"Don't worry, Maribel," Willow chimes in cheerfully. "I won't let him drink your blood."

Not helping, Willow.

"I, for one, am grateful you chose to come with us," I say, glancing over at Kane. "I'm interested in learning more about you and your people, Sir Kane." I sigh and run a hand through my hair. "But maybe tomorrow—after I've had some sleep." I barely stifle a yawn as I speak.

"I appreciate that," Kane says, his voice touched with surprise. "That's far more generous than I would've expected from an Arcadian."

"Heh," I chuckle. "Sounds like you've got a few assumptions of your own."

Shadow guides the wagon down a narrow side road veering off from the main highway, leading us into the quiet village of Ravengate. We pass simple wooden homes with thatched roofs, most of them paired with stables housing beasts of burden or aging farm equipment. Some yards have empty corrals, others tall grain silos, though I doubt any are full. The village feels... tired.

Every home we pass is dark—no lanterns lit, no movement inside. It seems the whole town has gone to sleep.

"Up ahead on the right is Ravengate's only inn," Daniels calls as the buildings grow closer together. This part of town is clearly the village center—storefronts and tradesmen's shops packed tightly along the road.

Where he points, I see a two-story building with lamps burning in its windows—the only one still awake.

"That's The Fairy's Tail," Kane adds. "It's both an inn and the home of the village's resident mystic."

"Resident mystic?" I ask, uncertain I heard him right.

As I speak, Shadow brings the wagon to a stop in front of the glowing inn. Through the wide windows, I spot worn wooden tables and chairs arranged around a large stone hearth. Behind the service counter, a staircase winds up—no doubt leading to the rooms for rent.

"You see that arrangement of bones over the door?" Kane asks, pointing to a goat skull adorned with smaller bones tied together with bits of twine. The macabre ornament hangs just beneath the large wooden sign that reads The Fairy's Tail. "That symbol means a blood magic practitioner offers services here."

"I thought you said blood magic was taboo?" I reply, offering my hand to Maribel as she rises to her feet.

Willow has already hopped down from the driver's bench, striding toward the inn with an expression of focused curiosity. Shadow, meanwhile, is busy hitching the horses to a wooden post just outside.

"It is taboo," Daniels confirms, eyeing the bone totem with visible discomfort. "Blood magic's traditionally associated with full-blooded draemorian, but some with mixed draemorian lineage can learn it as well."

"Our lack of trained mages over the last decade has pushed people to desperate alternatives," he continues. "A lot of villages without magical support have turned to blood practitioners for help they can't get elsewhere."

"It's regulated," Shiro adds, stepping beside us. "Practitioners are only permitted to use their own blood, or small amounts willingly donated by others. That limits the scale of spells they can cast, but in places like this, even minor magic can make a huge difference."

"Oh great, so we're spending the night in a demon witch's inn," Maribel mutters, her voice thick with exhaustion. Wrapped in a blanket, she glares warily at the door as though it might cast a spell on her at any moment.

"You all go ahead and get some rest," Shadow says calmly. "I'll stay out here and keep watch."

"My men and I will take shifts as well," Captain Daniels offers, nodding toward the wagon. "Sad truth is, if it's left unguarded, your goods—and your horses—might not be here by morning."

"I appreciate that," I say aloud, offering him a polite smile. Internally, I roll my eyes. Shadow doesn't sleep, doesn't blink, and certainly doesn't need backup. It's almost comical that the same people who tried to confiscate our potions are now offering to protect them.

"Good night," I say instead, holding the door open for Maribel.

We step into a wave of welcome warmth and light. The hearth crackles with life, casting flickering orange hues across the wooden walls. The scent of old herbs and firewood clings to the air.

At the front counter, Willow stands across from a thin, pale-skinned elderly woman. Her thick-lensed glasses magnify deep red eyes beneath a halo of curly gray hair. The two women are locked in an unexplained tense stare.

"Is there a problem, Willow?" I ask cautiously as Maribel and I step up to the worn counter.

"No problem," Willow replies slowly, her eyes still locked on the woman behind the desk. Her tone, however, says quite the opposite.

"Maribel, go on upstairs. First room on the right is open," Willow continues, still not looking away. "I just have something to discuss with the innkeeper."

Maribel glances between them, clearly sensing the tension, but she's too tired to care. With a shrug, she heads up the stairs, dragging her blanket behind her like a cape.

I, on the other hand, am far too curious to leave. Whatever has Willow—the ancient, unflappable Willow—this tense must be serious. I plant my feet and fold my arms. The moment Maribel vanishes around the corner upstairs, I speak up.

"Okay, what's going on?"

"You can't stay here," the old woman growls through clenched teeth, her eyes flicking to me, then back to Willow.

"And yet... we will," Willow answers, calm and cold.

The innkeeper's gaze darts between us again. "We can't discuss this in front of the boy," she hisses.

"The matron," Willow says, her smile turning sharp, "is a lesser fae."

The moment the words leave her lips, the woman's eyes blaze with fury. She shoots to her feet, her chair clattering to the floor behind her.

"You traitor!" she snarls, her voice suddenly losing all pretense of humanity. Her yellow eyes glow with unnatural light as her glamor slips, revealing the creature beneath.

"You would reveal your own kind to a mortal?!"

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