Azaril's chambers seemed different now, transformed by the Queen's decration. The scrolls and specimens that had represented hope for change now felt like relics of a na?ve delusion. He moved through the space with deliberate calm, taking inventory of what truly mattered, what would be necessary for the journey ahead.

  "Two thousand years, no prince of demons."

  The words echoed in his mind as he pulled a travel pack from beneath his sleeping ptform. It was old but serviceable, crafted from fire-resistant hide and reinforced with obsidian csps. He had used it for expeditions to distant volcanic formations, always within demon territory, always returning by nightfall. Now it would hold everything he took into exile.

  Azaril knew the banishment hadn't been a formal decree. His mother had spoken in anger, provoked by his persistent questioning of demon traditions. In six centuries, he had seen her temper fre countless times—against foreign emissaries, disappointing generals, even his siblings when they failed her expectations. But never had her fury been directed so completely at him, perhaps because she had never expected enough to be disappointed.

  He could, if he wished, remain in the fortress. Ignore the outburst. Continue his quiet research and isoted existence. No one would dare contradict the Queen's statement, but neither would they enforce an exile she hadn't formally commanded.

  But something had broken within him when those words left her lips. Some st thread of hope that he might eventually earn her approval, that the demon realm might someday value his different strengths. The pain of that breaking now hardened into resolve.

  If he wasn't a prince of demons for two thousand years, he would become something else entirely.

  Azaril carefully selected items for his journey. First, the forbidden texts from Grimshaw—knowledge of other realms that would guide his path. The scrolls on human formu patterns, sylvan growth techniques, floating isnd wind currents. He had memorized much of their content, but the physical documents contained details his memory might not perfectly preserve.

  Next, practical necessities. A fire-starting kit, though he could manage small fmes through blood magic if necessary. A bde, more for utility than combat. A water fsk. Dried provisions that would sustain him until he could find other sources. A small pouch of volcanic crystals that served as currency in border regions.

  His fingers brushed against a hidden compartment in his desk, revealing the Ashroot seeds he had carefully preserved from his most successful specimens. He hesitated, then added them to his pack. Perhaps they would prove useful in foreign soil, a small piece of the demon realm that thrived through adaptation rather than dominance.

  As he continued his preparations, a soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Azaril quickly covered his pack with a robe before calling, "Enter."

  His personal servant Ashbearer stepped into the chamber, eyes lowered respectfully. "Your Highness. I've come to prepare your evening meal and chamber."

  "That won't be necessary tonight," Azaril replied, watching the servant carefully. Had word of his banishment already spread through the fortress? Ashbearer's demeanor revealed nothing unusual.

  "As you wish, Your Highness." The servant began to withdraw, then paused. "Forgive me, but there are rumors circuting about... tensions in the war chamber. If you require anything special in preparation for tomorrow's council, I could—"

  "There won't be a council for me tomorrow," Azaril interrupted. "Or for some time after."

  Ashbearer's eyes widened slightly. "Your Highness?"

  "You may hear that I've been sent away," Azaril said carefully. "Or that I've left of my own accord. In either case, my chambers should remain untouched until my return."

  The servant's expression revealed his understanding of the situation—and its gravity—but he simply bowed. "Of course, Your Highness. Shall I inform the kitchen staff not to prepare your morning meal?"

  "That would be appropriate." Azaril hesitated, then added, "And Ashbearer... if anyone should ask about my experiments or research after I'm gone, you know nothing. Understood?"

  "I have never understood Your Highness's schorly pursuits," Ashbearer replied with perfect composure. "And would have nothing of value to share with any who inquired."

  Despite everything, Azaril found himself smiling slightly at the servant's careful phrasing. "You've served well. That will be all."

  Alone again, Azaril continued sorting through his belongings. He would need to see Grimshaw before departing, to secure a way past the border guards. The old archivist knew paths and secrets few others remembered. But that would wait until ter, when the fortress slept and fewer eyes might notice his movements.

  For now, he needed to prepare himself mentally for what y ahead. Two thousand years of banishment—a punishment that spanned lifetimes for shorter-lived beings. The human empires he had read about might rise and fall multiple times during such an absence. He would witness changes across realms that most demons, fixed in their eternal volcanic territories, could hardly imagine.

  The thought brought unexpected calm. Perhaps this banishment was exactly what he needed—freedom from the constant struggle to fit within a society that never valued his strengths, opportunity to explore worlds that might offer different measures of worth.

  As night deepened over the demon fortress, Azaril continued his preparations. He would need to work quickly. By tomorrow, word of the Queen's decration would spread throughout the realm. If he wished to leave on his own terms, rather than being escorted to the border by his brothers' guards, he must depart before dawn.

  He had just begun sorting his most valuable scrolls when another knock came at his door—this one firmer, more confident than Ashbearer's hesitant tap. Azaril quickly covered his travel preparations once more before calling for entry, wondering who else would seek him out after the day's events.