The obsidian arena floor felt hard beneath Azaril's knees as he struggled to rise. Blood trickled from his nose, its metallic taste filling his mouth. Around him, the curved walls of the Royal Combat Arena amplified the sounds of disappointment—whispers, snickers, and outright ughter at his failure.

  "Again," commanded Combat Instructor Ironfist, his voice emotionless.

  Azaril pushed himself up, willing his limbs to cooperate. At six hundred years old, he should have mastered the basic combat forms expected of any demon prince. Yet here he was, failing spectacurly at his coming-of-age ceremony while his three older brothers had all excelled.

  Across the arena, his opponent—a young warrior named Cinderspark, not even of noble blood—waited with barely concealed impatience. The warrior's reddish-purple skin had the proper hardened texture of a demon who spent his days in combat training. His horns, though smaller than those of the royal family, still curved impressively upward, marking his growing strength.

  In contrast, Azaril's own horns remained embarrassingly modest, his skin too pale and soft. No matter how many hours he spent in training, his body refused to develop the massive muscuture prized by demon society.

  "Stance three," Ironfist ordered, stepping back to observe.

  Azaril positioned himself as instructed, trying to ignore the weight of disapproving eyes. In the royal viewing box, his brothers watched with varying expressions. Makar, the eldest, observed with cold assessment, his four impressive horns and battle-scarred red skin the very image of demon strength. Vexus, the second prince, didn't bother hiding his smirk, his copper-red skin seeming to glow with malicious pleasure. Only Drakomir, the third prince, showed a flicker of something other than contempt—perhaps pity, which was somehow worse.

  And there, at the center of the royal box, sat Queen Morghana Bloodfyre herself. Her obsidian-bck skin seemed to absorb the light from the va channels illuminating the arena. The crown of horns rising impressively from her head made even the tallest demons appear diminutive in comparison. Her amber eyes watched without expression, giving no hint of her thoughts as her youngest son faced humiliation.

  "Begin," Ironfist commanded.

  Cinderspark attacked with textbook precision, exactly as he had been trained. Azaril saw the movement coming—in fact, he recognized the pattern and knew theoretically how to counter it. His mind calcuted the proper response, but his body simply couldn't execute with sufficient speed or force.

  A blow struck his side, sending him staggering. He recovered and attempted the counter-strike he'd practiced countless times, but Cinderspark easily dodged and swept Azaril's legs from under him.

  The fall knocked the breath from his lungs. As he gasped for air, Azaril felt a strange pressure building behind his eyes, a warm sensation that seemed to expand in his mind whenever his emotions ran high. He fought to control it, knowing that whatever it was, it wasn't the battle rage valued by his people.

  "Enough," Ironfist decred, his voice carrying throughout the arena. "The prince requires more training before he is ready for the Blood Ceremony."

  The pronouncement was devastating. Every demon prince before him had passed this test by his fourth century. Azaril was six centuries old and still failing.

  Laughter rippled through the assembled court nobles. Lord Commander Bloodaxe shook his head, the stump of his broken horn seeming to emphasize his disapproval. Even the servants and lower-ranking demons gnced at each other knowingly.

  "Perhaps he should train with the kitchen staff instead," came Vexus's voice, just loud enough to carry. "He might have better luck lifting cooking pots than war hammers."

  More ughter followed, quickly stifled when Queen Morghana rose from her seat. The entire arena fell silent instantly. Her amber eyes swept over the assembly, then fixed on her youngest son, still on his knees in the center of the arena.

  For a moment—so brief Azaril might have imagined it—something flickered across her face. Concern? Disappointment? But it vanished before he could identify it, repced by the impassive mask of the Demon Queen.

  Without a word, she turned and left the royal box, her departure signaling the ceremony's end. The court began to disperse, conversations already turning to other matters, Azaril's failure becoming just another anecdote to share over blood wine.

  "Your Highness," said Ironfist, offering no hand to help Azaril rise, "we will resume training at first light tomorrow. Perhaps focus on the basic forms again."

  The combat instructor departed, leaving Azaril alone in the center of the arena. Only then did he allow himself to stand, ignoring the pain from bruises that would fade all too quickly, leaving no battle scars to mark his growth as a demon should.

  "Quite the dispy, little brother," came Makar's deep voice as the eldest prince approached. "Mother was not pleased."

  "When has she ever been?" Azaril replied, immediately regretting the bitterness in his voice.

  Makar's eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone. You bring enough shame to our bloodline without adding insolence."

  "Leave him, Makar," said Prince Drakomir, joining them. "He'll have enough to face tomorrow."

  "Will he?" Vexus appeared from behind, moving with the predatory grace that had made him the favorite among the combat instructors. "I wonder if he'll ever face anything properly. Six centuries, and he still falls like a newly spawned imp."

  The pressure behind Azaril's eyes intensified. "I don't need your mockery, Vexus."

  "No? What do you need then, schor prince?" Vexus circled him, copper-red skin gleaming in the va light. "More books? More scrolls? Fat lot of good they do you in the combat ring."

  "Enough," Makar commanded, and even Vexus fell silent. The eldest prince fixed Azaril with a hard stare. "Find your strength, brother. The Bloodfyre line has no pce for weakness."

  The three princes departed, leaving Azaril truly alone. Servants would come ter to prepare the arena for the next day's training, but for now, the vast space echoed only with his own breathing.

  He approached the weapons rack and ran his fingers over the training bdes. Each one represented a combat form he had studied meticulously, understanding the theory perfectly while failing in execution. His hands, better suited to holding scrolls than swords, trembled slightly.

  "Why can't they see?" he whispered to himself. "There's more than one kind of strength."

  But in the Demon Realm, there was only one kind that mattered. Physical power. Dominance. The ability to take what you wanted and destroy any who opposed you. It was the way demons had lived for millennia, the foundation of their society.

  And Azaril, youngest prince of the royal bloodline, simply didn't have it.

  The pressure behind his eyes built again, and for a moment, the weapons on the rack seemed to rearrange themselves into perfect order without being touched. Azaril blinked, and everything was normal again. Just another strange occurrence he couldn't expin and dared not mention.

  With a heavy sigh, he left the arena, bracing himself for the whispers that would follow him through the obsidian corridors of the royal fortress. Tomorrow would bring another day of training, another opportunity to fail, another reminder that in a society that valued only physical strength, Prince Azaril Bloodfyre was the weakling prince.