Azaril's quarters were unlike those of his brothers. Where their chambers dispyed weapons, battle trophies, and the occasional skull of a particurly worthy opponent, his walls held shelves of scrolls and rare texts. His brothers called it his "weakness collection." Azaril called it his sanctuary.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor, a forbidden scroll spread before him. The parchment was made from a material he didn't recognize—not the fire-hardened hides used for demon records, but something delicate, almost translucent. The script itself was foreign, but Azaril had spent decades secretly learning the nguages of other realms.

  "The Human Empire values order above chaos," he read aloud in a whisper, "finding strength in mathematical precision rather than brute force. Their formu magic..."

  A noise in the corridor outside sent him scrambling to hide the scroll beneath a stack of permitted texts on demon battle history. His heart pounded as he waited, but the footsteps passed by without pausing.

  Once sure he was safe, Azaril retrieved the scroll from its hiding pce. It had been provided by Grimshaw, the ancient royal archivist, who seemed to find Azaril's curiosity more intriguing than treasonous. The old demon was the only one in the entire kingdom who didn't look at the youngest prince with disappointment.

  "Prince Azaril," a scratchy voice called from the doorway, as if summoned by his thoughts.

  Azaril startled, nearly dropping the scroll. "Grimshaw. You shouldn't sneak up on someone reading treason."

  The ancient archivist chuckled, the sound like stones grinding together. Grimshaw's appearance matched his voice—withered and worn by centuries. His horns were broken, his eyes clouded with milky blindness, and his skin so pale it bordered on translucent. By demon standards, he looked extraordinarily weak, yet somehow he had survived countess regime changes and court intrigues.

  "Treason is a matter of perspective, young prince," Grimshaw said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Despite his blindness, he moved with perfect confidence. "Have you found anything of interest in the human texts?"

  "They harness power through mathematical formus," Azaril replied, gesturing to the scroll. "Their magic doesn't rely on physical strength at all, but on mental precision."

  Grimshaw nodded, settling himself on a stone bench with a grunt. "And what of the Sylvan account? Did you finish it?"

  "Yes. They draw strength from connection to pnts and the natural world. Their power is in harmony, not dominance." Azaril rolled up the human scroll carefully. "These fragments you've provided—they describe such different worlds, such different types of strength."

  "Different, yes. But strength nonetheless."

  Azaril stared at the collection of scrolls. Besides the human and sylvan fragments, there were scraps describing floating isnds where beings valued flight and freedom, underwater domains where pressure and memory formed the basis of society, and desert nds where survival itself was the ultimate demonstration of power.

  "Why do you share these with me?" Azaril asked, not for the first time. "If the Queen discovered—"

  "Your mother has many concerns beyond an old blind demon and her schorly son," Grimshaw interrupted. "Besides, knowledge is its own protection."

  Before Azaril could question that cryptic statement, another set of footsteps approached, these heavy and purposeful.

  "Training Master Stonefist," Grimshaw announced, somehow identifying the visitor before he appeared.

  The gray-skinned veteran demon entered without knocking, his right arm petrified from an ancient battle—a mark of honor rather than disability in demon culture.

  "Prince Azaril," he growled, "you're te for afternoon training."

  "I lost track of time," Azaril replied, rising to his feet and carefully pcing the scrolls on a high shelf.

  Stonefist's gaze swept over the chamber with barely disguised contempt. "Reading won't build muscle, princeling. Your brothers are already at the training grounds."

  "Of course," Azaril said, adopting the neutral tone he'd perfected over centuries of simir interactions. "I'll come at once."

  Grimshaw rose as well. "I should return to the archives. Perhaps, Training Master, you might permit the prince to visit me after training? I have some historical battle accounts that might... inspire him."

  Stonefist grunted, neither agreeing nor refusing. "Move, prince. Now."

  As Azaril followed Stonefist through the obsidian corridors, he caught Grimshaw's farewell whisper: "Remember, young prince—different strengths."

  The training ground was a nightmare of volcanic heat and flying obsidian shards. Azaril's brothers were already deep into combat drills, their massive forms moving with the fluid grace that came naturally to them but always eluded him.

  "Begin with the perimeter run," Stonefist ordered. "Twenty circuits."

  Azaril nodded and began jogging around the edge of the training ground. The heat from nearby va flows made the air shimmering and difficult to breathe. By his fifth circuit, his lungs burned. By the tenth, his legs trembled. His brothers, meanwhile, had completed simir exercises and moved on to weapon drills, showing no signs of fatigue.

  From the sidelines, one of the servant demons watched Azaril's struggle with poorly concealed amusement. Ashbearer was responsible for maintaining the training weapons, a lowly position that nonetheless gave him opportunities to curry favor with the stronger princes. His small horns and hunched posture marked him as barely above the untouchable Ash Walkers in demon hierarchy.

  "Something amusing, Ashbearer?" Azaril called out as he passed, frustration getting the better of his usual caution.

  The servant straightened, surprise repcing his smirk. "No, Your Highness. I was merely... observing your form."

  "My form," Azaril repeated, slowing to a walk despite knowing Stonefist would punish the break in routine. "And what expert observations might you have?"

  Ashbearer gnced around, realizing too te he'd drawn attention. Several warrior demons paused their training to watch.

  "I... that is..." The servant stumbled over his words.

  "Speak freely," Azaril said, the command carrying a hint of his mother's authority despite his lesser status. "Since you find my training so fascinating."

  Ashbearer's face darkened, his subservient demeanor slipping. "I simply wonder why you bother, Your Highness. Six centuries of training, and you still move like a newborn imp. Everyone knows you'll never be a true warrior."

  A hush fell over the nearest training circles. For a servant to speak so to a prince—even the weakest prince—was unthinkable.

  The familiar pressure began building behind Azaril's eyes, stronger than before. Heat flushed through his body that had nothing to do with the volcanic vents. He opened his mouth to respond, but something strange happened instead.

  The pressure peaked, and suddenly Azaril could see the thoughts flickering through Ashbearer's mind. The servant's fear of punishment warred with resentment that even a "weak" prince lived in luxury while he scrambled for scraps. More surprisingly, beneath the resentment y envy—Ashbearer actually admired Azaril's persistence despite failure.

  Just as quickly as this awareness came, it disappeared. Azaril blinked, disoriented. Around him, the training ground had gone completely still. He realized that every weapon, shield, and training implement had arranged itself in perfect order—swords lined up by size, daggers grouped by style, axes and maces in precise formations.

  Even the obsidian gravel of the training ground had reorganized itself into intricate geometric patterns around his feet.

  Ashbearer stared at the phenomenon, his mouth hanging open. "How did you—"

  "Prince Azaril!" Stonefist's voice cut through the silence. "What is the meaning of this?"

  Azaril looked around, as confused as everyone else. "I don't know what happened."

  "He used magic," one of the younger warriors whispered. "Mind magic."

  The whisper traveled through the training ground, growing louder with each repetition. Mind magic was rare among demons, considered a curiosity at best and a mark of weakness at worst. Real demons used blood magic to enhance their physical prowess, not to move objects or peer into thoughts.

  Stonefist approached cautiously, his expression unreadable. "Return to your chambers, Prince Azaril. Now."

  "But my training—"

  "NOW."

  Azaril didn't argue further. As he walked away, he heard Stonefist ordering the others back to their drills and threatening Ashbearer with punishment for disrespecting royalty. But these typical training ground conflicts seemed far away compared to the implications of what had just happened.

  For a brief moment, Azaril had seen into another's mind. And somehow, without touching anything, he had organized the entire training ground according to a pattern that existed only in his thoughts.

  Back in his chambers, Azaril paced, his mind racing. The strange pressure behind his eyes had subsided, but he could still recall the sensation of Ashbearer's thoughts and the invisible force that had rearranged the weapons.

  A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He opened the door to find a young warrior named Cinderspark—the same demon who had defeated him in yesterday's ceremony.

  "Your Highness," the warrior said, his voice low. "Training Master Stonefist sent me to inform you that you are excused from evening training."

  Azaril frowned. "Excused or banned?"

  Cinderspark hesitated. "The Training Master did not specify, Your Highness."

  "I see." Azaril started to close the door, then paused. "Cinderspark, did you... did you see what happened in the training ground?"

  The young warrior shifted uncomfortably. "Everyone saw, Your Highness."

  "And what did you think of it?"

  Cinderspark's eyes darted down the corridor to ensure they were alone. "It was... impressive, in its way. Different from blood magic." His voice dropped further. "Some are saying it's the mark of weakness, but my grandmother used to speak of ancient demons who could move mountains with their minds."

  Before Azaril could ask more, Cinderspark bowed hastily and departed, clearly uncomfortable discussing such matters with a prince, especially one with questionable abilities.

  Alone again, Azaril returned to his collection of scrolls, pulling down the oldest text Grimshaw had provided. It was a fragment of demon history so ancient that most of the text had crumbled away, but one passage remained clear:

  "Before the great division, demons of the mind stood equal with demons of the body, each strength honored in its domain."

  Azaril traced the words with his finger, the pressure behind his eyes a dull throb now, like a second heartbeat. The strange incident in the training ground had changed something—revealed something about himself he had always suspected but never confirmed.

  He might never be the warrior his brothers were, but perhaps he had a different kind of strength altogether. One that, according to this ancient text, was once valued even in the Demon Realm.

  "Different strengths," he whispered, echoing Grimshaw's words. As if in response, the scrolls on his desk rearranged themselves into perfect order, without him lifting a finger.