The volcanic fields beyond the royal fortress stretched into hazy distance, a ndscape of ash and fire that most demons found invigorating. Azaril walked alone, a rare moment of solitude in a society where weakness invited predators. His mind still churned with the revetions from Grimshaw's forbidden texts—the existence of mind demons, the ancient purge, the possibility that his "weakness" was actually a suppressed heritage.

  He had deliberately chosen this remote area for his excursion, far enough from the fortress to avoid casual observation, yet not so distant as to require expnation. The official purpose, should anyone ask, was to study volcanic formations for historical context—a suitably boring endeavor that would reinforce his reputation as the schorly, ineffectual prince.

  The real reason y in the small specimens he sought.

  Azaril paused at the edge of a cooling va flow. The bck rock still radiated intense heat, but the surface had solidified enough to walk upon. Near the edges, where ash had already begun to accumute, he spotted what he was looking for—thin, twisting shoots of red vegetation pushing through seemingly impossible terrain.

  Ashroot.

  Kneeling, Azaril carefully brushed away the gray ash to reveal more of the pnt. Its roots extended deep into the volcanic soil, somehow finding sustenance where nothing should grow. The tuber itself was bck as night, with veins of glowing red pulsing like a heartbeat. When he touched it, the root was surprisingly cool compared to its surroundings.

  "Collecting food for the weak, schor prince?"

  Azaril controlled his startled reaction, turning slowly to face the warrior who had approached unnoticed. He recognized Mockra, one of Vexus's preferred training partners—a brutish demon with impressive horns and a reputation for unnecessary cruelty in combat.

  "Research," Azaril replied evenly, standing to face the warrior. "The resilience of certain pnts in volcanic terrain has historical significance."

  Mockra ughed, the sound like rocks grinding together. "Pnts. While your brothers train for war and pn raids, you study weeds." He kicked at the exposed Ashroot, crushing several delicate shoots. "Weak food for the weak."

  The casual destruction made Azaril's jaw tighten, but he kept his expression neutral. "Is there something you needed, Warrior Mockra? Or do you regurly patrol the outer ash fields?"

  "Prince Vexus sent me to find you. The Queen has called for a strategy meeting regarding the eastern territories." Mockra's tone made it clear he found the errand beneath him. "Though why she wants the schor prince present is beyond my understanding."

  "I'll return immediately," Azaril said, brushing ash from his robes.

  As they walked back toward the fortress, Mockra continued his needling. "They say you dispyed mind powers in the training ground. Like a sylvan tree-hugger instead of a proper demon."

  Azaril remained silent. News of the incident had clearly spread throughout the fortress, though few mentioned it directly to his face.

  "Mind magic," Mockra spat. "No wonder you're studying pnts instead of sharpening your cws." He gestured dismissively at the ash fields. "Ashroot is emergency ration at best. Real demons feast on the spoils of conquest, not dig in dirt for roots."

  Again, Azaril chose silence over engagement. Arguing with Mockra would serve no purpose except to provide the warrior with the confrontation he clearly sought. Physical challenges from Azaril would be ughable; verbal ones would only escate to physical anyway.

  They reached the fortress gates, where Mockra finally departed with a mocking bow. "Enjoy your strategy meeting, schor prince. Try not to rearrange the furniture with your mind while the real demons speak."

  Alone again, Azaril paused to brush the remaining ash from his clothing before entering the fortress proper. As he did so, he carefully extracted a small Ashroot specimen he had managed to preserve despite Mockra's interference. He slipped it into a hidden pocket in his robes, already pnning his experiments.

  Later that evening, after a strategy meeting where he had been predictably ignored, Azaril returned to his chambers. The Ashroot specimen sat in a shallow dish of volcanic soil on his desk, its red veins pulsing faintly in the dim light.

  A soft knock interrupted his observation. Quickly covering the pnt with a cloth, he called, "Enter."

  A small servant girl named Ember slipped into the room, carrying a tray with his evening meal. She was a retively new addition to the household staff, barely a century old, with minimal horns and a perpetually nervous expression.

  "Your dinner, Prince Azaril," she said, setting the tray on a side table. "Cook said to tell you it's prepared as requested—no blood sauce."

  Azaril nodded his thanks. His preference for simpler foods was yet another quirk that marked him as different from his siblings, who favored raw meats dripping with fresh blood.

  As Ember turned to leave, her gaze fell on the partially covered dish. "Is that... Ashroot, Your Highness?"

  Azaril hesitated, then removed the cloth. "You recognize it?"

  The young servant nodded, approaching the desk with unexpected interest. "My grandmother taught me about it. She said that during the great famine three centuries ago, many demons survived by eating Ashroot when the raids failed."

  "Your grandmother survived the famine?" Azaril asked, genuinely curious.

  "Yes, Your Highness. She was from the outer settlements, far from the fortress. When the raiders couldn't bring back enough supplies, the common demons had to find alternatives." Ember's eyes widened, suddenly realizing she might have spoken too freely. "I mean no disrespect to the raiders or their strength, of course."

  "Of course," Azaril echoed, fascinated by this unexpected source of information. "What else did your grandmother tell you about Ashroot?"

  Encouraged by his interest, Ember continued. "She said it's more nutritious than it appears. The red veins contain concentrated minerals from the volcanic soil. One small tuber can sustain a demon for days." She gestured to the specimen. "But it must be prepared properly. Raw, it's too bitter and can cause stomach pain."

  "How is it prepared?"

  "Buried in hot ash until the veins brighten, then peeled and mashed. The inner flesh becomes almost sweet." Ember smiled at the memory. "Grandmother would mix it with whatever small game she could catch. She said it saved our family when stronger demons were falling to starvation."

  Azaril sat back, processing this information. Here was practical knowledge absent from any official history—common demons surviving through innovation rather than strength when the traditional raid economy failed. Exactly the kind of alternative approach he'd been considering since reading the reports of current food shortages.

  "Your grandmother sounds like a wise demon," he said. "Is she still alive?"

  Ember's smile faded. "No, Your Highness. She died defending our settlement during a human counter-raid fifty years ago. She wasn't a warrior, but she fought anyway."

  "A different kind of strength," Azaril murmured.

  "Your Highness?"

  "Nothing." He dismissed the comment with a wave. "Thank you for the information about Ashroot. It's... historically significant."

  Ember curtsied. "Will there be anything else, Your Highness?"

  "Actually, yes. Could you possibly obtain more Ashroot specimens without drawing attention? For my research."

  The servant girl looked surprised but nodded. "The kitchen gardens have a small patch. Cook keeps it for emergencies and medicinal purposes. I could bring some when I deliver your meals."

  "That would be very helpful." Azaril considered for a moment, then added, "And if you know others with simir knowledge—survival techniques, alternative food sources, anything your grandmother might have taught—I would be interested to hear more."

  Ember's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, Your Highness. Though..." she hesitated, "such topics aren't commonly discussed among the fortress staff. It might seem... undemonic."

  "I understand the need for discretion," Azaril assured her. "Speaking of which, I would appreciate if you didn't mention my interest in Ashroot to others."

  "Of course, Your Highness." Ember curtsied again before slipping out of the chamber, leaving Azaril alone with his specimen and thoughts.

  He turned back to the Ashroot, examining it with new appreciation. If the servant girl's information was correct, this humble pnt—dismissed as "weak food" by warriors like Mockra—contained enough nutrition to sustain demons through famine. Yet the official histories barely mentioned Ashroot, focusing instead on heroic raids and battles for resources.

  How many other solutions existed beyond the narrow confines of demon tradition? How many alternatives to the raid economy had been dismissed as "weakness" by those who valued only physical strength?

  Azaril moved to his desk and unrolled several bnk parchments. He began documenting everything he knew about Ashroot—its growing conditions, nutritional properties, preparation methods. Then he expanded his notes to include questions and theories. Could it be cultivated rather than simply harvested from wild growth? Could other pnts with simir properties exist? Could volcanic soil, seemingly barren, actually support deliberate agriculture?

  As he wrote, the pressure behind his eyes—his mental ability—flickered occasionally, as if responding to his focused thought. The revetion that this power might be a heritage rather than a defect had changed how he perceived it. Instead of suppressing the sensation as he had for centuries, he allowed it to flow naturally as he worked.

  Several scrolls on his desk rearranged themselves into neat categories without him touching them. A quill rose from its holder and dipped itself in ink before floating gently into his waiting hand. Small demonstrations of the power, but controlled this time, deliberate rather than accidental.

  A different kind of strength, indeed.

  The next morning, Azaril returned to the outer ash fields, this time with specific locations in mind based on his observations of where Ashroot seemed to thrive. He brought collection tools disguised as geological sampling equipment—a cover story that would bore most demons into ignoring his activities.

  As he carefully unearthed several prime specimens, he noticed patterns in their growth. The healthiest Ashroots appeared in areas where ash had accumuted to a specific depth over cooling va flows, suggesting optimal conditions that could potentially be replicated.

  "Still pying in the dirt, brother?"

  Azaril stiffened at the familiar voice. Turning, he found Prince Drakomir standing several yards away, watching with arms crossed. Unlike the previous day's encounter with Mockra, Azaril couldn't simply dismiss his brother with silence.

  "Research," he replied, using the same excuse he'd given the warrior.

  Drakomir approached, his heavy form leaving deep footprints in the ash. Unlike Makar or Vexus, who would have immediately kicked at the pnts or mocked his interest, Drakomir actually knelt to examine the exposed Ashroot.

  "These grow in the harshest conditions," he observed. "Where nothing else survives."

  "Yes," Azaril confirmed, surprised by his brother's interest. "They're remarkably resilient."

  "And you study them because...?"

  Azaril hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. Drakomir had shown occasional moments of something almost like understanding, but he was still firmly embedded in traditional demon culture.

  "Alternative food sources," he finally said, deciding on partial honesty. "The raid reports show increasing resistance from neighboring kingdoms. It seems prudent to consider contingencies."

  Drakomir's expression remained unreadable. "You think we should eat roots instead of conquering our enemies?"

  "I think having options beyond a single strategy benefits long-term survival," Azaril countered carefully. "Even the strongest warrior needs backup pns."

  To his surprise, Drakomir nodded slowly. "Military strategy includes supply considerations. A force that can feed itself has tactical advantages." He picked up one of the Ashroot specimens, examining its glowing red veins. "You believe these could be significant?"

  "They sustained outer settlements during the great famine," Azaril said. "When raids failed to bring sufficient resources, common demons survived by adapting."

  "Adaptation," Drakomir repeated thoughtfully. "An unusual concept for our kind."

  "Yet here we are, surrounded by pnts that have adapted to volcanic conditions that would destroy most life." Azaril gestured to the Ashroot. "Perhaps there's strength in that ability too."

  Drakomir was silent for a long moment, then returned the Ashroot to Azaril. "Your methods are unorthodox, brother. But unorthodox doesn't always mean wrong." He straightened to his full height. "Just be careful who hears your theories. Vexus would be less... contemptive."

  With that warning, Drakomir departed, leaving Azaril both puzzled and cautiously optimistic. The interaction suggested that at least one of his brothers might be capable of considering alternatives to pure physical dominance.

  Azaril carefully packed his Ashroot specimens and continued his survey of the ash fields. By midday, he had collected enough samples to begin more structured experiments in his chambers. He also had pages of observations about growing conditions and patterns of distribution.

  As he headed back toward the fortress, he spotted Ember near the kitchen gardens, gathering herbs under the supervision of an older servant. She caught his eye briefly and gave an almost imperceptible nod—their arrangement for Ashroot specimens was apparently proceeding.

  In his chambers, Azaril arranged his collected specimens in various conditions—different soil compositions, moisture levels, heat exposures—to test their resilience and growth patterns. It was a small beginning, but it represented something powerful: a concrete alternative to the raid economy, growing literally from the ashes of demon territory.

  The revetion of the mind circle's historical existence had shown him that demon society once valued different kinds of strength. Perhaps the humble Ashroot could help demonstrate that different strategies for survival deserved consideration as well.

  Late that night, as Azaril documented his initial observations by the light of a volcanic crystal, Ember arrived with his evening meal and, hidden beneath the tray cloth, several additional Ashroot specimens from the kitchen gardens.

  "These are cultivated rather than wild," she whispered. "Cook says they grow rger and produce more flesh when tended properly."

  "Your cook grows them deliberately?" Azaril asked, surprised.

  Ember nodded. "Many of the kitchen staff come from outer settlements. They bring practical knowledge that the warrior css..." she hesitated, "...might not consider important."

  "Yet it keeps them fed when raids fail," Azaril noted.

  "Yes, Your Highness. And..." she hesitated again, "I asked about other survival knowledge, as you suggested. Several of the older servants have offered to share what they know, discretely."

  Azaril felt a surge of excitement. "That would be extremely valuable. Please thank them for me."

  After Ember departed, Azaril examined the cultivated Ashroot specimens. They were indeed rger than the wild versions, with more prominent red veins and thicker tubers. The implications were significant—deliberate cultivation could improve yield and nutrition beyond what naturally occurred.

  He added these observations to his growing notes, the pressure behind his eyes pulsing gently as his mind worked through implications and possibilities. The traditional demon approach—taking what was needed through force—was increasingly costly and unreliable. But here, literally growing from the ashes of their volcanic home, was an alternative that had sustained common demons through previous famines.

  Different kinds of strength, indeed. Not just in his own mental abilities, but in approaches to survival itself. The mind circle demons of ancient history had valued creation alongside conquest—perhaps it was time for that bance to return.

  Azaril worked long into the night, drafting pns for expanded experiments and collecting the knowledge that had been preserved not in official histories but in the practical wisdom of those deemed too weak to matter.