At dawn, Azaril moved through the shadows of the fortress's eastern corridors, his footsteps nearly silent on the obsidian floors. The disguise enchantment had altered his appearance enough that a casual observer would not recognize the royal prince, but he still avoided the main passages. Royal guards were fewer at this hour, but even a single witness to his departure might complicate his pns.

  Seraphine's amulet hung warm against his chest, a constant reminder of his connection to the royal family even in exile. Azaril had considered discarding it after discovering the tracking enchantment, but something in Seraphine's manner had suggested there was more to her gift than simple surveilnce. The protection magic woven into the amulet was genuine, and in the dangerous nds beyond demon territory, any advantage might prove essential.

  The journey to the eastern passage had been pnned with precision. Grimshaw's map, memorized in detail before being secured in his pack, showed not only the secret tunnel beneath the Firefall Border but also the least-traveled routes through the fortress itself. Azaril followed these now, timing his movements around the guard rotations he had observed for centuries.

  As he approached a junction where two corridors met, he pressed himself into an alcove to avoid a patrol. Two guards passed, discussing the previous day's events in low voices.

  "—Queen's temper in the war council. They say the youngest prince questioned raiding traditions in front of everyone," one said.

  "Questioning strength itself," the other replied with a scornful ugh. "What did he expect?"

  "Still, banishment seems excessive. The prince may be odd, but royal blood is royal blood."

  "The Queen's word is w. If she says he's no prince for two thousand years, then he's no prince."

  Their voices faded as they continued down the corridor, unaware of the subject of their conversation pressed into the shadows mere feet away. Azaril waited until they turned a corner before continuing his journey, their casual discussion of his fate hardening his resolve. He was already becoming a story, a cautionary tale of challenging tradition.

  The eastern sections of the fortress were less frequented, housing storage chambers and rarely used ceremonial halls rather than living quarters or administrative spaces. Azaril moved more confidently here, though still with caution. According to Grimshaw's map, a seldom-used side exit would lead him to the path toward the ravine where the hidden tunnel could be found.

  He was nearing this exit when a prickling sensation at the back of his neck made him pause. Someone was watching him. Slowly, he turned, scanning the shadows but seeing nothing. The pressure behind his eyes fred briefly, that unwelcome mind circle power responding to his sudden wariness.

  For a moment, he thought he sensed something—a presence, familiar yet distant, like a reflection in troubled water. Then it was gone, and he was alone in the corridor once more.

  Attributing the sensation to nerves, Azaril continued toward the exit. The side door was small, designed for servants rather than royal processions, its heavy metal surface dark with age. It opened with surprising ease, suggesting recent use despite its obscure location. Grimshaw's doing, perhaps, preparing the way.

  Outside, the air carried the familiar scents of sulfur and ash, the perpetual volcanic haze casting a reddish glow over the ndscape even as dawn broke. Azaril pulled his hood lower, obscuring his features further as he slipped from the fortress grounds and began making his way eastward, toward the ravine Grimshaw had described.

  The terrain grew increasingly rugged as he moved away from the developed areas surrounding the fortress. Few demons ventured this far east without purpose; the intense heat and treacherous footing made the region suitable only for the hardiest patrols. Today, that inhospitality served Azaril well—he encountered no one as he navigated the jagged ndscape of cooling va flows and ash deposits.

  By mid-morning, he reached the ravine marked on Grimshaw's map. Three pointed stones arranged like a broken horn stood at its entrance, just as the archivist had described. The ravine itself plunged steeply downward, its walls narrowing as it descended toward the distant roar of the Firefall—the perpetual curtain of va that formed the eastern boundary of demon territory.

  The heat intensified as Azaril made his way down the ravine, the air shimmering with thermal distortion. Even for a demon, the temperature here was challenging, the proximity to the Firefall creating conditions few could tolerate for long. He understood now why guards avoided this route; prolonged exposure would be dangerous even for creatures evolved in volcanic environments.

  Following Grimshaw's directions, Azaril navigated a series of sharp turns that took him deeper into the ravine. The roar of falling va grew louder with each step, the air becoming thick with mineral-den steam. Finally, he rounded a bend and found himself facing the Firefall itself—a massive, continuous cascade of molten rock pouring from the cliffs above into the depths below, creating a curtain of liquid fire that stretched across the entire ravine.

  For a moment, Azaril stood transfixed by the sight. The Firefall Border was a ndmark known to every demon, the literal edge of their world, but few ever saw it this close. Its raw power and beauty made even his schor's mind momentarily silent with awe.

  Then, remembering his purpose, he scanned the base of the Firefall for the tunnel entrance Grimshaw had described. There—a dark opening barely visible behind a spur of partially solidified va, just rge enough for a single demon to pass through. Approaching carefully, Azaril confirmed it was the tunnel shown on the map, a passage that would take him beneath the Firefall and beyond demon territory.

  Before entering, he paused for one st look back. From this vantage point, he could see the distant silhouette of the royal fortress rising against the volcanic skyline. For six centuries, that fortress had been his home—his sanctuary and his prison. Everything he knew, everything he was, had been shaped within those obsidian walls.

  Now he was leaving it all behind for two thousand years of exile in nds he'd only read about in forbidden texts. The weight of that reality settled upon him, momentarily overwhelming in its finality.

  Unknown to Azaril, high on a ridge overlooking the Firefall Border, a solitary figure watched his departure. Queen Morghana's tall silhouette remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the diminutive form of her youngest son as he prepared to pass beyond her realm.

  _*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5"> At the tunnel entrance, Azaril took a deep breath and stepped into the darkness. The passage was narrow, forcing him to stoop slightly as he moved forward. The heat was intense, the walls of the tunnel still carrying the warmth of the va that had formed it centuries ago. He counted his steps as Grimshaw had instructed, navigating by memory through the lightless passage.

  Two hundred and twelve steps ter, he felt the tunnel begin to slope upward. The heat diminished slightly as he approached the outer side of the Firefall. Finally, he reached what seemed to be the exit—a small opening barely visible behind the edge of the falling va curtain. Beyond it y the neutral territory that separated demon nds from the nearest human settlements.

  Azaril paused at the threshold, suddenly hesitant. Once he crossed, he would truly be exiled—a demon alone in hostile worlds. For a moment, doubt seized him. Perhaps he should return, apologize to the Queen, accept whatever lesser punishment she might impose instead.

  Then he remembered the war council. The contempt in Vexus's eyes. The crack of the obsidian table as his mother banished him without a second thought. Six centuries of being the disappointment, the anomaly, the weak prince.

  "Two thousand years," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what I can become in that time."

  With a deep breath, he stepped through the opening, past the edge of the va falls, and onto foreign soil. The first demon prince in recorded history to leave the kingdom by choice rather than conquest.

  Ahead of him stretched a ndscape unlike any he had known—sparse vegetation gradually giving way to actual forests in the distance. The air itself tasted different, cleaner, though his demon senses found it almost bnd without the familiar mineral tang of home.

  Azaril squared his shoulders and began walking eastward, where the first human settlements would be found. The rising sun at his back cast his shadow long before him—a solitary figure moving steadily away from everything familiar and toward worlds known to him only through words on parchment.

  He did not look back again, didn't see the distant figure of his mother watching his departure from the high ridge. Didn't know that for a brief moment, the Queen of all demons allowed a single tear of liquid fire to fall as her youngest son vanished into the mists of exile.

  In that moment, for both mother and son, a chapter closed and another began—with two thousand years of separation stretching between them.