The deepest hour of night had settled over the fortress when Azaril finished gathering his supplies. The volcanic light channels had dimmed to their lowest glow, leaving only faint crimson illumination that cast long shadows across his chamber. It was the hour when even the most vigint guards grew less attentive, when the fortress seemed to breathe more slowly.

  The perfect time for final preparations.

  Azaril carefully arranged everything he would take into exile. The amulet from Seraphine hung around his neck, its weight both reassurance and reminder of his sister's complex motives. He had decided to keep it despite the tracking enchantment. Its protective magic would be valuable beyond the borders, and there was something almost comforting in knowing that, should true disaster befall him, someone might come looking – even if only out of curiosity or political calcution.

  He checked his travel pack one final time. The forbidden texts were securely wrapped in fire-resistant cloth. Food provisions, water fsk, basic tools – all present. The pouch of Ashroot seeds nestled against a small collection of survival implements. He had packed lightly, knowing that adaptability would serve him better than burdensome supplies.

  A soft knock at his door froze him in pce. Visitors at this hour could only mean trouble.

  Azaril quickly covered his pack and moved toward the door, preparing excuses for his obvious preparations. When he opened it, however, relief flooded through him. Grimshaw stood in the corridor, his ancient frame cloaked in shadow, milky blind eyes somehow finding Azaril despite his sightlessness.

  "You should be more cautious about who you admit at this hour, young prince," the archivist whispered, slipping into the chamber with surprising stealth for one so old.

  "I knew it was you," Azaril replied, though they both recognized the lie.

  Grimshaw's withered lips curved in a slight smile. "Of course you did." He moved directly to Azaril's desk, unerringly finding the half-packed bag despite his blindness. "I see preparations are well underway."

  "I need to leave before dawn," Azaril confirmed, closing the door. "Word of my banishment will spread quickly."

  Grimshaw nodded, settling his frail body onto a stone bench with a soft grunt. "Indeed. The Queen's words have already reached the lower levels. Servants whisper, guards specute. By morning, the entire fortress will know that the schor prince has fallen from his mother's already limited grace."

  "Then you understand why I must go quickly." Azaril resumed his packing, no longer bothering to hide his intentions from the archivist. "But I didn't expect you to come here. We could have been seen."

  "At my age, one develops certain... invisibilities." Grimshaw's sightless eyes somehow conveyed amusement. "Guards see an old, blind servant shuffling through the corridors. Nothing worthy of report or memory."

  "You're hardly a mere servant," Azaril said.

  "True. But perception creates its own reality." Grimshaw reached into his robes and withdrew a rolled parchment, worn at the edges and sealed with wax that had been broken and resealed many times. "This is why I risked coming to your chambers. You'll need it for the journey ahead."

  Azaril accepted the scroll carefully. "What is it?"

  "A map," Grimshaw replied, "showing secret passages beyond the Firefall Border. Most are ancient, forgotten by all except those who've spent centuries studying the realm's oldest records."

  Unrolling the parchment, Azaril found detailed renderings of the eastern bordernds. Thin red lines marked paths through territories he had thought impassable, including a hidden tunnel beneath the Firefall itself – a curtain of perpetually falling va that marked the realm's eastern boundary.

  "How did you come by this?" Azaril asked, studying the markings with growing excitement.

  "I wasn't always confined to the archives," Grimshaw said, a hint of something like wistfulness in his voice. "In my younger days, I traveled more widely than most demons dare imagine. These passages served me well then. They'll serve you now."

  Azaril looked up from the map to study the old archivist more carefully. There were many rumors about Grimshaw's past – that he had once been a warrior of significant rank, that his blindness had come from a magical battle rather than age, that he knew secrets even the Queen didn't suspect. For the first time, Azaril wondered how many of those rumors might contain truth.

  "This path here," Grimshaw continued, his finger unerringly finding a specific route on the map despite his blindness, "will take you beneath the Firefall through a tunnel formed during the Great Eruption eight centuries ago. The entrance is hidden in a ravine marked by three pointed stones arranged like a broken horn. Guards never patrol there – the heat is too intense for prolonged exposure."

  "And on the other side?" Azaril asked.

  "A stretch of deadnd, then the neutral territory before human settlements begin." Grimshaw's expression grew serious. "The deadnd is dangerous – corrupted by ancient battles – but passable if you move quickly. Beyond that, you'll need your disguise enchantments. A lone demon in human nds is a dead demon, unless well-concealed."

  Azaril nodded, committing every detail of the map to memory before rolling it carefully and pcing it in his pack. "This is an invaluable gift, Grimshaw. I won't forget it."

  "It's knowledge, young prince. Knowledge is meant to be shared with those who will use it wisely." The old archivist shifted slightly, his blind gaze somehow finding Azaril's face with unnerving accuracy. "Now, there is one more matter to discuss before I leave you to your final preparations."

  "What's that?"

  "Your return."

  Azaril paused in his packing. "Return? The Queen banished me for two thousand years."

  "Indeed she did. And when that time has passed, what then?" Grimshaw leaned forward, suddenly intense. "Will you remain in foreign nds forever, or will you bring what you've learned back to a realm that desperately needs new perspectives?"

  The question caught Azaril off-guard. He had been so focused on escape, on the journey ahead, that he hadn't truly contempted what might come after. Two thousand years seemed an eternity, even to a demon's lifespan.

  "I... don't know," he admitted. "The demon realm has never valued what I offer."

  "Not yet," Grimshaw agreed. "But time changes all things, even demons. Two thousand years from now, our realm may face challenges that cannot be overcome through strength alone. The knowledge you gather across the kingdoms may prove the difference between adaptation and extinction."

  "You speak as though you've seen such a future," Azaril said, studying the archivist curiously.

  Grimshaw's expression remained unreadable. "I've studied enough history to recognize patterns. Resources grow scarce. Traditional solutions fail. Societies either adapt or perish. The demon realm is not exempt from these cycles."

  He reached out, finding Azaril's arm with surprising accuracy, his grip unexpectedly strong for such withered fingers. "Promise me you will return when your banishment ends. Not as the same prince who left, but as whatever you will have become. The realm will need your perspective then, whether it knows it now or not."

  The intensity in the old archivist's voice gave Azaril pause. This was more than casual advice or sentimental farewell. Grimshaw spoke with the weight of genuine concern for the realm's future.

  "I promise," Azaril said finally. "When two thousand years have passed, I will return – if only to share what I've learned."

  Grimshaw's grip rexed, and he nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Now, one final gift before I go." He reached into his robes once more and withdrew a small object wrapped in dark cloth.

  Unwrapping it, Azaril found a strange crystal, roughly the size of his palm. Unlike the common volcanic crystals of the demon realm, this one had a deep blue hue that seemed to shift and swirl within its facets.

  "A focus stone," Grimshaw said simply.

  Azaril recognized it immediately. "For mind circle abilities."

  He felt the crystal's resonance with his own powers – the same abilities that had revealed themselves so dramatically in the arena when that servant had mocked him. The memory still burned clearly: the servant's sneering comments about the "weak prince" as he arranged weapons for training, the sudden pressure behind Azaril's eyes, and then every weapon in the arena rearranging itself perfectly while the servant's thoughts became briefly, shockingly clear in Azaril's mind.

  The incident had caused an uproar. Mind magic – long believed purged from demon bloodlines as a sign of weakness – manifesting in a royal prince. His mother had swiftly ended the public spectacle, but the damage was done. Everyone in the fortress knew of his aberrant powers, making him even more of an outcast than before.

  "I thought all such focus stones were destroyed during the strength purges," Azaril said, turning the crystal in his hand.

  "Most were," Grimshaw confirmed. "This one remained hidden in the deepest archives, misbeled as a simple scrying tool. I've kept it safe, waiting for someone who might actually use it."

  "Someone like me," Azaril said quietly. "The prince with the wrong kind of strength."

  "The wrong kind according to current values," Grimshaw corrected. "Before the purges, mind circle abilities were cultivated alongside physical prowess. The ancient texts speak of demon mind masters who stood equal with the greatest warriors."

  Azaril had read the fragments that remained of those accounts, preserved in texts Grimshaw had secretly shared with him after the arena incident. "Those texts didn't help my standing in the fortress. If anything, the knowledge that such powers were deliberately culled from our bloodlines made my situation worse."

  "But beyond our borders?" Grimshaw raised an eyebrow. "Other realms may view such abilities differently. The crystal will help you develop control. In the quiet of night, hold it while focusing on that pressure behind your eyes. It responds to mental energy, strengthens connections that have been forcibly dormant in our people for generations."

  Azaril studied the stone, feeling its subtle pull on the energy he'd spent years trying to contain since that public revetion. "And if I master these abilities? What then?"

  "Then you return with strength our realm has forgotten it needs," Grimshaw replied. "In other kingdoms, you may find those who understand such powers better than any demon now living. When you do, the stone will serve as both tool and proof of your potential."

  Azaril carefully wrapped the crystal and tucked it into an inner pocket of his travel clothes, close to his body. "Thank you, Grimshaw. For this, and for everything you've taught me through the years."

  The old archivist nodded, his expression softening into something almost like affection. "You were always the most promising student I never officially had." He moved toward the door with surprising certainty for a blind man. "Dawn approaches sooner than you might think. Complete your preparations and leave by the third night bell. The guard rotation at that hour will give you the clearest path to the eastern ravine."

  "Will I see you again?" Azaril asked, suddenly struck by the realization that this was truly farewell – perhaps forever.

  Grimshaw paused at the doorway. "Two thousand years is a long time, young prince. But knowledge endures. As do those dedicated to preserving it." With that cryptic statement, he slipped into the corridor and was gone, moving with the silent efficiency that had always made Azaril wonder about his true past.

  Alone once more, Azaril returned to his preparations with renewed purpose. Grimshaw's map and crystal were carefully secured in his pack, along with the texts and supplies he'd already gathered. Since the arena incident with the servant, when his abilities had erupted for all to see, he had learned to suppress the pressure behind his eyes, to avoid the whispers and suspicious gnces. Now, beyond demon borders, he might finally explore what those abilities truly meant.

  He changed into practical traveling clothes – dark, unadorned garments that wouldn't mark him immediately as royalty. Over these, he wore a hooded cloak that could conceal his horns, another marker of his bloodline despite their embarrassing smallness by demon standards.

  From a hidden compartment in his desk, he withdrew components for a disguise enchantment. Demons rarely traveled beyond their territories, and a solitary demon in foreign nds would attract deadly attention. Blood magic came naturally to his kind, but shape-altering enchantments required precise application of that power.

  Azaril drew a small knife across his palm, letting blood pool before carefully tracing symbols on his forearms and face. The ancient marks represented transformation, concealment, and protection – the best disguise formu he could create with his limited magical knowledge.

  He whispered the activation words, feeling magic twist around him. His reflection in a polished obsidian wall shifted, features blurring slightly before resolving into a different face. Still recognizably himself, but with smaller horns that could pass for those of a common demon rather than royal blood, skin a darker shade that would attract less attention, eyes a more typical red instead of his unusual bright amber.

  The disguise wasn't perfect, and maintaining it would require regur renewal of the blood symbols, but it would suffice for the initial journey beyond demon nds.

  By the time the third night bell echoed through the fortress, Azaril Bloodfyre had transformed himself from schor prince to nondescript traveler. His pack contained everything he would need for the journey ahead – practical supplies, forbidden knowledge, and the unexpected gifts from those who, in their different ways, seemed to believe in his potential.

  He cast one final gnce around his chambers – the space that had been both sanctuary and prison for centuries. Whatever returned here after two thousand years – if anything returned at all – would not be the same being who now prepared to leave.

  With silent determination, he shouldered his pack and slipped into the darkened corridor, beginning the journey that would change him forever.

  In the shadows of the archive chamber far below, Grimshaw sat alone among ancient texts, his blind eyes turned toward the eastern wall as if watching Azaril's departure through stone and distance. His withered fingers traced patterns on a map much older than the one he had given the prince.

  "Safe journey, mind circle prince," he whispered to the empty room. "Return stronger than you left."