Chapter 216: Tension Over Succession [1]
Demon world, Drazroth Empire.
The chamber trembled faintly as another distant explosion rumbled through the underground fortress. Dust drifted from the vaulted ceiling, catching in the flicker of enchanted torches.
"Lord Dreck, we have located Velra," a subordinate reported, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the black stone floor. His voice quivered despite his best effort to sound calm.
On the obsidian throne, Dreck Disaster rested one hand lazily on the armrest, his long claws tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. His crimson eyes, half-lidded, barely acknowledged the kneeling demon.
"Do I need to concern myself with losers?" he asked, voice smooth and detached, as though discussing the weather.
The subordinate stiffened. The words carried no heat—yet the very lack of it sent a cold ripple down his spine. That tone belonged to an absolute ruler who needed only a glance to decide life or death.
Still, the report demanded courage. "She... she has risen to be a candidate for Nolkk. A thorn in our side, my lord. If left unchecked—"
"Even so," Dreck cut in, tilting his head slightly, "she is only a mosquito. Annoying, but easily crushed when one grows tired of the buzzing."
The subordinate swallowed hard. "Does that mean...?"
"Pick someone suitable and send them," Dreck said with a flick of his clawed hand, as though swatting the invisible insect. "I’m busy."
His gaze shifted toward the distant sounds of chaos echoing through the fortress. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Beyond the walls, another scream pierced the air.
A royal gargoyle knight, clad in diamond-etched armor, fell from the sky with a spear lodged through his chest. A priest following close behind was split in half by a single careless sweep of an ax that glittered with cursed runes.
The subordinate dared a glance through the broken archway and immediately regretted it. Warriors who once prided themselves as the fortress’s finest defenders were being cut down like dry reeds.
The fortress of Kael’dara—unbreached for centuries—was crumbling before his eyes.
And the one responsible lounged upon his throne, unhurried, unbothered.
Dreck Disaster.
The King of Demons.
The inevitable ruler of all who dwelled in shadow.
The subordinate lowered his gaze again, heart hammering. "Understood, my lord."
He backed away carefully, each step deliberate, as if retreating from a sleeping predator.
Outside the throne room, he exhaled sharply and wiped the cold sweat from his brow. The tracking sigil pulsed faintly in his palm, revealing Velra’s last known location—far beyond the demon border, in lands crawling with hostile races and ancient magic.
’A place thick with danger,’ he thought, rubbing his chin. ’An assassin skilled in disguise... one who can vanish like smoke. Yes, that would be best.’
His eyes narrowed as another scream echoed behind him, abruptly cut short.
Even the strongest walls meant nothing before a king who treated fortresses like toys.
The servant demon forced his breathing into a steady rhythm as he made his way down the long, shadow-draped corridor.
The fortress walls, once humming with protective wards, now pulsed with an unstable rhythm—like a dying heart struggling to beat. Each flicker of torchlight stretched the shadows into monstrous shapes that seemed to follow him with hungry eyes.
He stopped before a massive iron door engraved with sigils of concealment. From behind it came the sound of steel being whetted—slow, precise, and patient.
"Enter."
The voice was neither loud nor harsh, yet it struck like a blade across the mind. The subordinate pushed the door open with trembling hands and stepped into the chamber.
A single figure sat cross-legged on a blackstone dais, sharpening a thin, curved dagger that shimmered with a greenish hue.
Their features were hidden beneath a hood stitched with the sigil of shifting forms. Only the faint glimmer of amber eyes cut through the darkness.
"You have work to do," the subordinate said, bowing low. "Lord Dreck commands a hunt."
The hood tilted slightly. "Target?"
"Velra. Your orders are simple—remove her quietly. Leave no trail."
Shadowblade’s grin flashed like a knife in moonlight. "Velra... the Nolkk candidate who believes herself untouchable. How entertaining."
"She is dangerous," the subordinate added quickly. "The King wants no spectacle. He merely wishes her gone."
The assassin rose in a fluid motion that barely disturbed the air. "Then I shall make her absence feel like a dream she never woke from."
---
Back in the throne room, Dreck Disaster remained exactly as before—lounging with a predator’s ease while the fortress shook around him. Another distant explosion rattled the pillars; a cascade of dust drifted down like gray snow.
One of the gargoyle sentinels staggered in, half its face cracked and leaking molten stone. "Lord Dreck," it croaked, "the eastern bastion has fallen. The enemy—"
"Let it fall," Dreck said without opening his eyes. "The bastion was old. I’ll build another when I feel like it."
The sentinel faltered, then knelt in silence.
A slow smile curved Dreck’s lips as he finally looked toward the shattered archway, where firelight bled into the endless night.
"Run, little Velra," he murmured, voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Every path you take only leads you closer to me."
A fresh tremor rippled through the fortress. Somewhere in the distance, a tower collapsed with a thunderous roar.
And in the swirling darkness beyond, a shadow detached itself from the flames—already following the trail of a doomed quarry.
----
Julies Evans POV:
Human world, Solhaven Empire — Northern Territories, Draken Duchy.
"Sigh..."
Alice’s sigh was deep enough to sink into the marble floor beneath us.
I leaned closer and lowered my voice. "Are you nervous?"
Her eyes flicked to me, cool and composed despite the weight in her breath.
"...Nervous? What’s there to be nervous about? Attending the vassal meeting is a duty I must bear as a member of the family."
Her tone was even, but the faint tension in her shoulders betrayed her.
Today was no ordinary day. It was the quarterly vassal meeting—a gathering where every matter of importance to the Draken family was discussed and decided. From the Duke himself to his most trusted administrators, down to the household stewards, every figure of influence would be present.
And after her recent birthday, Alice had officially earned both the right and the obligation to attend for the first time.
Naturally, as her personal servant, I would be at her side.
"Miss Alice," I said with a small smile meant to reassure her, "you’ll do well. You never make mistakes when it matters."
Despite my words, her expression didn’t soften. The slight furrow in her brow remained.
Observing the master’s mood is part of a servant’s duty, and her mood was unmistakable.
"Is there something in particular weighing on you?" I asked quietly.
"Well..." Her lips curved into a faint, wry smile. "If I had to name one thing, it’s that not everyone in the family is on my side. There’s always tension over succession, isn’t there?"
Succession? That caught me off guard.
"Isn’t Lord Lucas Draken already designated as the next Duke?" I tilted my head, genuinely puzzled. "And besides, you’re engaged to the crown prince. You wouldn’t pose a threat even if you wanted to."
There had been no hint of internal strife in any of the records or gossip I’d encountered.
’Could there really be such conflict brewing beneath the surface?’ I wondered.
Alice noticed my questioning look. The corners of her lips softened into a small, almost amused smile.
"Even someone with your political instincts seems unsettled by the current situation," she said lightly.
"Um... what can I say? It sounds like everyone’s worrying over nothing," I replied, sharper than intended.
She chuckled faintly at my bluntness and nodded.
"My brother doesn’t see me as a rival either. He’s quite secure in his position. The trouble comes from the lower vassals—they’re the ones stirring things up."
Her gaze shifted to the ancestral sword displayed prominently in the drawing room.
"Aha..." I murmured, following her eyes.
That sword—the emblem of Draken authority. Once a simple heirloom, now a quiet spark threatening to ignite old ambitions.
The signs of strain in what should have been an unshakable succession were clear. Some vassals, wary of change or hungry for leverage, were watching Alice far too closely.
"Looking back, Julies," she said suddenly, her voice carrying a touch of amusement, "you’ve always had a sharp eye for political currents."
I blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about...?"
"Let’s not pretend. You notice things. If you were in my position, how would you handle it?"
How, indeed.
In the north, power is more than ceremony. Influence is a currency as real as gold—and vassals are quick to invest in whichever heir promises the greatest return.
Alice waited, calm but expectant, her red eyes fixed on me like a chess player studying her next move.
Alice had already made a name for herself among her peers and the lord’s subjects with her exceptional swordsmanship.
And she had even drawn the ancestral sword, the symbol of the family.
’If she really wanted to, securing the position of successor would be possible.’
....And by doing that she will become duchesse of the north and in the process her engegment with crown prince would be meaningless.
Her desire would be complete.
But I know she won’t do anything of that.