The summons came at dawn—a single sharp knock and a gruff voice: "The princes request your presence in the Western Training Ground."

  Azaril knew this wasn't a request. In the three days since the incident in the training yard, he'd been rgely isoted, excused from regur training and avoided by most of the court. The whispers followed him through the corridors of the royal fortress: mind magic, weakness, abnormality.

  Now, it seemed, his brothers had decided to address the situation themselves.

  He dressed without assistance, choosing the simplest of his training gear. Whatever was about to happen, eborate royal garments would only get in the way. As he fastened the st buckle, Azaril caught his reflection in a polished obsidian wall. His horns—smaller than any of his brothers', barely curving upward at all—seemed particurly pathetic today. His pale reddish-purple skin cked the hardened texture of a proper warrior demon. Even after centuries of existence, he still looked like a half-grown youth.

  The Western Training Ground was the most private of the royal practice areas, built into a secluded volcanic crater with high walls that prevented observation. As Azaril approached, he heard his brothers' voices echoing off the obsidian surfaces.

  "...should have been addressed centuries ago," came Vexus's distinctive sneer.

  "Mother has been too lenient," Makar's deeper voice replied. "It makes us all look weak."

  "Perhaps there's another way to—" Drakomir's more measured tone was cut off as Azaril entered the training ground.

  All three brothers turned to face him. They formed an intimidating wall of demonic strength—Makar towering and massive, his four horns gleaming in the light from nearby va flows; Vexus lean and predatory, copper-red skin seeming to radiate malice; Drakomir solid and watchful, his expression the least hostile but still guarded.

  "Brother," Makar said, the word somehow conveying both acknowledgment and dismissal. "We've been discussing your... incident."

  Azaril stopped at a cautious distance. "Have you."

  "Mind magic," Vexus spat the words like a curse. "As if our bloodline didn't suffer enough embarrassment from your physical failings."

  "I didn't choose it," Azaril replied, keeping his voice neutral. "It simply happened."

  Makar stepped forward, his massive form casting a shadow over Azaril. "Many things 'simply happen,' little brother. It's how we respond that defines us as demons." He gestured to the training weapons arranged on a nearby rack. "We've decided to help you rediscover your proper demonic nature."

  The way he said "help" made Azaril's skin prickle with warning. "I have training scheduled with Master Stonefist tomorrow."

  "Stonefist coddles you," Vexus said with a ugh. "Six hundred years, and he still has you practicing basic forms."

  "Today, you train with us," Makar decred. "Real demons. Real strength."

  Before Azaril could protest, Drakomir tossed him a training sword—heavier than the ones Stonefist usually assigned him. Azaril caught it awkwardly, the weight nearly pulling it from his grasp.

  "Pathetic," Vexus muttered.

  Makar circled to Azaril's left. "Let's begin with endurance. A proper demon prince should be able to withstand significant punishment."

  The first blow came without further warning—a strike to Azaril's side that sent him staggering sideways. Though Makar had clearly held back much of his strength, the impact still drove the air from Azaril's lungs.

  "Stand straight," Makar commanded. "A prince does not bend."

  Azaril forced himself upright, gripping the too-heavy sword with both hands. The pressure behind his eyes began to build, but he fought to suppress it. Using mind magic now would only make things worse.

  "Your stance is all wrong," Vexus said, moving with arming speed to deliver a sharp strike behind Azaril's knees. "How many times must the basics be beaten into you?"

  Azaril's legs buckled, but he caught himself before falling completely. As he struggled to regain his bance, Makar delivered another blow, this one to his shoulder.

  "Demons learn through pain," the eldest prince intoned, as if reciting a lesson. "Each scar is knowledge earned."

  What followed was less a training session than a carefully orchestrated beating. Makar tested Azaril's endurance with punishing blows, each delivered with just enough restraint to avoid permanent damage but enough force to cause significant pain. Vexus, meanwhile, employed psychological cruelty, pointing out every failure, every flinch, every moment of weakness with cutting remarks honed over centuries of practice.

  "Mother must be so disappointed," Vexus taunted as Azaril struggled to stand after a particurly harsh sequence. "Six children, and only five true demons."

  "Five?" Azaril managed between ragged breaths.

  "Surely you don't count yourself," Vexus ughed. "And Seraphine, for all her scheming, at least has the decency to look like a proper demon princess."

  Drakomir, who had been mostly observing, finally stepped forward. "That's enough, Vexus. We're here to train him, not break him."

  "Are we?" Vexus raised an eyebrow. "I thought the point was to finally make him understand his pce. Or ck thereof."

  While they argued, Azaril tried to catch his breath. His body ached from dozens of impacts, and he could feel blood trickling from his nose and a cut above his eye. The training sword y on the ground where he had dropped it after a particurly brutal strike from Makar.

  The pressure behind his eyes had intensified to a painful degree, and he could feel something building within him—a response to the pain and humiliation. For a moment, he was tempted to release it, to let whatever power had rearranged the training ground surge forth against his tormentors.

  Instead, he reached for the sword with trembling hands. "Again," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

  His brothers turned to him in surprise.

  "What did you say?" Makar demanded.

  "Again," Azaril repeated, forcing himself into a proper stance despite the pain. "If this is training, then train me. Don't just beat me and call it a lesson."

  Something shifted in Makar's expression—a flicker of what might have been respect, quickly suppressed. "Very well. Defensive postures, then counterattack."

  What followed was still brutal, but had more structure. Makar delivered measured strikes that Azaril was actually expected to counter, not merely endure. Vexus continued his verbal assault, but focused more on technical criticisms than personal insults. Drakomir occasionally offered corrections to Azaril's form, his instructions more practical than punishing.

  It was still far beyond Azaril's capabilities. After an hour, he was barely standing, his body a map of developing bruises. Blood from various small cuts stained his training clothes, and his grip on the sword had weakened to the point where he could barely lift it.

  "Enough for today," Makar finally decided. "We'll continue tomorrow."

  "If he can still walk tomorrow," Vexus added with a smirk. "Though I suppose dragging himself here on his belly would be appropriately humbling."

  Drakomir shook his head but said nothing, collecting the training weapons while studiously avoiding looking directly at Azaril.

  Azaril used the st of his strength to remain standing as his brothers prepared to leave. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him colpse.

  "One more thing," Makar said, turning back. "No more of that mind magic. If it happens again, our next session will make this one seem like gentle encouragement. Understand?"

  Azaril nodded once, not trusting his voice.

  His brothers were nearly at the exit when a new presence entered the training ground. The shift in atmosphere was immediate—all three princes straightening to attention, even Makar losing his domineering posture.

  Queen Morghana stood in the entrance, her obsidian-bck skin absorbing the volcanic light, her crown of horns casting dramatic shadows across the training ground. Her amber eyes took in the scene with a single sweep—Azaril's battered form, the discarded weapons, the guilty expressions of his brothers.

  "What is happening here?" she asked, her voice like stone grinding against stone.

  "Training, Mother," Makar answered. "Azaril has fallen behind in his combat skills. We thought additional practice might help."

  The Queen's eyes narrowed, shifting momentarily to the blood-red that indicated displeasure. "Three against one. Is that how I taught you to train?"

  None of his brothers answered.

  Queen Morghana crossed to where Azaril stood, still struggling to remain upright. She didn't touch him or offer any support, merely examined his injuries with clinical detachment.

  "Prince Makar, Prince Vexus, Prince Drakomir," she said, each name pronounced with precise authority. "You will each take additional combat duties with the border patrols for the next month. Perhaps controlling your strength against actual enemies will remind you how to behave with family."

  "Mother—" Vexus began to protest.

  "Dismissed." The word carried such finality that even Vexus fell silent.

  His brothers filed out, Drakomir casting one st unreadable gnce back at Azaril before departing.

  Alone with his mother, Azaril finally allowed himself to sink to one knee, his body unable to maintain the pretense of strength any longer.

  Queen Morghana looked down at him, her expression hardening. "Weakness invites predators, Azaril. If you cannot grow talons, grow a shell."

  With that cryptic statement, she turned and strode from the training ground, leaving Azaril to make his own way back to his quarters.

  As the Queen rounded the corner into the main corridor, her guard captain, Fmeheart, fell into step beside her.

  "Should I send a healer to the prince, Your Majesty?" he asked quietly.

  For just a moment, when no one could see, Queen Morghana's expression softened with something that might have been concern. "No," she said, her voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "He must learn to defend himself. I won't always be there to intervene."

  Back in the training ground, Azaril finally allowed himself to colpse fully, the cool obsidian floor soothing against his battered body. The pressure behind his eyes had subsided, but the memory of its power lingered.

  His mother had arrived just as the situation was becoming truly dangerous—not for him, but possibly for his brothers. He had been so close to releasing whatever force had built up inside him, consequences be damned.

  With painful slowness, Azaril pushed himself back to his feet. His mother was right about one thing—he needed some kind of protection if he was to survive in this realm of strength and cruelty. Physical power might never be his advantage, but perhaps there were other forms of armor.

  Knowledge. Strategy. The forbidden scrolls hidden in his chambers.

  And, though he was afraid to fully acknowledge it, the strange power building within his mind.

  Different strengths, as Grimshaw had said. Now he just had to survive long enough to develop them.