Azaril stood at the periphery of the massive throne chamber, a position that suited him well—close enough to observe, far enough to avoid unwanted attention. His injuries from his brothers' "training session" had healed quickly; demon physiology ensured that. But the memory remained raw, another lesson in his lifelong education on weakness in the Demon Realm.

  The royal court was gathered for the monthly war council. Obsidian pilrs rose like massive teeth around the circur chamber, supporting a domed ceiling where ancient battles had been carved in exquisite detail. Lava channels snaked through precisely engineered grooves in the floor, providing both light and warmth. Between the channels stood the court nobles, arranged in concentric circles according to their status.

  At the center, on a throne carved from a single massive volcanic stone, sat Queen Morghana. Her obsidian-bck skin absorbed the reddish light, making her seem like a shadow given form. The crown of horns rising from her head cast dramatic patterns across the floor. To her right stood the royal siblings: Makar, Vexus, Drakomir, and Princess Seraphine, the only daughter, her crimson-gold skin and elegant curved horns setting her apart from her brothers.

  "Herald Fmevoice," the Queen commanded, "begin the proceedings."

  The unusually tall and thin demon stepped forward, his elongated neck allowing his voice to project throughout the chamber. "Her Majesty Queen Morghana Bloodfyre, Ruler of the Ashen Wastes, Conqueror of the Firefall Mountains, Sovereign of the Burning Reaches, opens this war council on the day of the Ember Moon."

  The formal titles washed over Azaril, who had heard them countless times. His attention was drawn instead to the subtle power dynamics pying out across the chamber. The way certain nobles positioned themselves closer to Makar, the expected heir. How others kept gncing at Vexus, whose unpredictable cruelty made him both feared and courted. The cautious distance maintained around Seraphine, whose political maneuvering was legendary despite her retively young age of six hundred and fifty years.

  None looked toward Azaril. The weakling prince was irrelevant to court politics.

  "General Bloodfist," Queen Morghana said, "your report."

  The scarred military commander stepped into the central circle, his missing fingers and extensive battle tattoos marking him as a veteran of countless campaigns. "Your Majesty, I bring news from the eastern territories."

  Azaril watched intently. The eastern territories bordered the Human Empire, traditionally the demons' primary raiding target for resources.

  "The situation has grown worse," General Bloodfist continued, his scarred finger tracing a region on the massive obsidian map table that dominated the chamber's floor. "Total crop failure in three of our border settlements. The human nds have strengthened their defenses since our st major raid."

  A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles. Food shortages were becoming increasingly common, though few would openly acknowledge the pattern.

  "Numbers," the Queen demanded.

  "Twenty warriors lost taking half the supplies we needed," Bloodfist replied, his voice matter-of-fact despite the devastating report. "The humans have deployed new defensive weapons—some kind of formu-enhanced ballistas that unch liquid fire."

  "Liquid fire?" Vexus questioned, leaning forward with sudden interest. "Against demons?" The irony made several nobles chuckle darkly.

  "Different from our natural fmes," Bloodfist crified. "It clings and burns even demonic flesh. Melted Raider Bckhorn's face entirely off."

  The chamber fell silent at that. Demons prized battle scars, but total disfigurement was another matter entirely.

  Queen Morghana's expression remained impassive, but Azaril noticed the slight tightening of her jaw—a tell he had observed over centuries of careful study. She was concerned, more than she would show.

  "Then we send forty warriors next time," she stated, her voice like stone grinding against stone. "We take what we need by strength, as demons always have."

  Approving nods swept through the court. The solution to any problem in demon society was always more strength, more warriors, more force.

  Azaril frowned, calcuting quickly. Forty warriors meant forty families potentially losing providers. It meant training repcements. It meant resources spent on vengeance raids afterward. The cycle never ended, and the costs grew each season.

  General Bloodfist continued his report, moving to other territories and border issues, but the pattern was the same everywhere—increasing resistance from neighboring kingdoms, higher casualties, diminishing returns.

  As the General concluded his report, Queen Morghana opened the floor to the court. Various nobles and military officials offered their perspectives, each emphasizing strength and dominance as the only acceptable approach.

  "Double the raid parties—" "Make an example of the next human settlement—" "Train more elite warriors for specialized strikes—"

  From his position on the periphery, Azaril could see the fundamental fw in their thinking. The neighboring kingdoms were adapting, developing new defenses against demon raids. Simply applying more of the same force wouldn't solve the underlying problem.

  The massive obsidian doors swung open, interrupting the discussion. A bloodied demon warrior staggered into the chamber, supported by two guards. The court parted to allow him passage to the center circle.

  "Raider Ashwalker," Herald Fmevoice announced, though the introduction was hardly necessary given the warrior's dramatic entrance.

  The wounded demon fell to one knee before the Queen, his breathing bored. Blood seeped from multiple wounds, and one of his horns had been partially sheared off—a grave injury both physically and symbolically.

  "Your Majesty," he rasped. "I bring news from the southern raid party. We... we failed."

  An angry murmur rippled through the court. Failure was the gravest sin in demon society.

  "Expin," Queen Morghana commanded, her voice betraying no emotion.

  "The humans were prepared. New weapons, as General Bloodfist described, but also something else." Ashwalker's voice trembled with exhaustion and fear. "They had... knowledge of our coming. Ambushes set in precise locations. It was as if they anticipated our exact approach."

  "Impossible," Vexus snapped. "Unless there was betrayal."

  The wounded raider shook his head. "No betrayal, my prince. Something else. Their mages... they had formu patterns I've never seen before. They knew where we would be before we arrived."

  Queen Morghana's eyes narrowed. "And the raiding party?"

  "I am the only survivor, Your Majesty."

  The silence that followed was heavy with shock. An entire raiding party—at least fifteen elite warriors—eliminated completely.

  "And yet you live," Vexus said, his voice dripping with suspicion.

  Ashwalker lowered his head further. "I... I fled when it became clear the battle was lost. To bring warning."

  In the demon realm, there was no greater admission of weakness than acknowledging retreat. The tension in the chamber became palpable as everyone awaited the Queen's response.

  "You abandoned your comrades to save yourself," Queen Morghana stated ftly.

  "Your Majesty, I—"

  "Silence." The Queen rose from her throne, her tall form suddenly seeming to fill the entire chamber. "You bring valuable information, Raider Ashwalker. For that, your execution will be quick rather than prolonged."

  Ashwalker's head dropped further, accepting the judgment without protest. It was the best outcome he could have hoped for under the circumstances.

  "Take him away," the Queen ordered. "The punishment will be carried out at dusk."

  As guards dragged the defeated raider from the chamber, Azaril felt a wave of revulsion. Not at the raider's cowardice, as the court would assume, but at the waste of it all. A warrior who could have been retrained, who had battlefield experience and intelligence about new human tactics, would instead be executed simply for surviving a losing battle.

  Drakomir, standing with the other royal siblings, caught Azaril's expression. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the chamber. Something passed between them—not agreement, exactly, but perhaps a shared momentary doubt about the wisdom of demon ways. Then Drakomir's face hardened again, and he turned his attention back to the court proceedings.

  The Queen had returned to the matter at hand. "The southern territories will require reinforcement. Prince Makar, you will oversee the deployment of additional warriors to secure our borders."

  "Yes, Mother," Makar replied with a respectful bow.

  "Prince Vexus, investigate these new human weapons. Find weaknesses we can exploit."

  Vexus smiled, the expression more predatory than pleased. "With pleasure."

  "Prince Drakomir, review our raiding strategies. If the humans can anticipate our standard approaches, we must develop new ones."

  Drakomir nodded solemnly. "I'll begin immediately."

  "Princess Seraphine, assess our food supplies. Determine how long we can sustain our popution if raids continue to fail."

  Seraphine curtsied gracefully. "As you command, Mother."

  Azaril waited, wondering if he too would be given a task, but the Queen moved on to other matters without acknowledging him. It was not surprising—he had no official role in court beyond his title—but the exclusion stung nonetheless.

  As the council continued, Azaril's attention drifted to the ancient archivist standing near one of the pilrs. Grimshaw's milky blind eyes seemed to be looking directly at Azaril despite his supposed ck of sight. The old demon gave an almost imperceptible nod toward a side exit, then slowly made his way in that direction.

  Understanding the silent message, Azaril circled the periphery of the chamber, careful not to draw attention. When he reached the small side door, he slipped through, finding Grimshaw waiting in the dimly lit corridor beyond.

  "You see the pattern, don't you?" the old archivist asked without preamble.

  "The increasing failures of the raid economy?" Azaril replied. "It's been happening for decades, but no one wants to acknowledge it."

  Grimshaw nodded, his broken horns casting strange shadows on the wall. "And what would you propose instead, young prince?"

  Azaril hesitated. What he was thinking bordered on treason by demon standards. "There are alternatives to raiding. The scrolls you've shown me—the Human Empire's agricultural methods, the Sylvan Territories' sustainable harvesting..."

  "Dangerous thoughts," Grimshaw murmured, though his tone carried approval rather than warning.

  "Necessary ones," Azaril countered. "We can't continue losing warriors at this rate. The other kingdoms are adapting, developing new defenses. We must adapt as well, or—"

  He fell silent as footsteps approached. A moment ter, the door opened, and Drakomir emerged from the council chamber. He paused, clearly surprised to find Azaril and Grimshaw in quiet conversation.

  "Brother," Drakomir acknowledged with a nod. "Archivist."

  "Prince Drakomir," Grimshaw bowed slightly. "I was just discussing historical raid patterns with your brother. The archives contain valuable precedents that might inform your new strategies."

  Drakomir's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "I may consult you ter, then." He turned to Azaril. "You left the council early."

  "My presence was hardly essential," Azaril replied.

  Something flickered across Drakomir's face—perhaps discomfort, perhaps guilt. "Mother's assignments are not random. Your exclusion doesn't mean your observations ck value."

  It was the closest thing to encouragement Azaril had received from any of his siblings in decades. Before he could respond, Drakomir continued down the corridor, his purposeful stride quickly carrying him out of sight.

  "Interesting," Grimshaw murmured.

  "What is?"

  "Prince Drakomir has always been the most thoughtful of your brothers. Perhaps he sees more than he admits." The old archivist straightened his robes. "Come to the archives tonight. I have some additional texts you should review—historical accounts of times when the demon realm faced simir challenges."

  As Grimshaw shuffled away, Azaril remained in the corridor, processing what he had witnessed in the council chamber. The raid economy was failing. The other kingdoms were developing effective countermeasures. Yet the demon solution remained unchanged: more strength, more warriors, more force.

  There had to be a better way. And perhaps, in the forbidden texts hidden in Grimshaw's archives, he might find it.

  With that thought, Azaril slipped away toward his chambers, already pnning his night's research. The pressure behind his eyes—his strange mental power—pulsed gently, as if approving this course of action.