The briefing room is circular, built for strategy rather than ceremony.

Sunlight pours through tall windows, spilling across a massive table of dark wood worn smooth by years of use. Beyond the glass, the city stretches outward—white rooftops packed tight, slender spires rising between them, canals catching the light like threads of glass. Farther still, fields roll toward distant mountains, their edges softened by distance.

On the horizon, a faint violet discoloration stains the sky.

Easy to miss if I weren’t looking for it.

The prince relocated us here; the shift from summoning chamber to strategy space deliberate and unspoken. Less ritual. More reality. The kind of room where decisions are made and people live—or die—by the consequences.

He rests his hands on the table now, expression sharpening as he meets my gaze.

“This world is called Valemore,” he says. “And yes—we have a Demon King problem.”

A pause.

“More accurately,” he adds, “a Demon King cycle.”

The scholar steps in, clearly more at ease now that he’s explaining something instead of reacting to it. “Every few centuries, demonkind consolidates under a singular will,” he says. “A monarch. Their expansion isn’t just territorial. It’s corrosive—land, people, magic.” He adjusts his grip on the book. “Left alone, it doesn’t end quickly.”

“It spreads,” the knight adds, nodding toward the window. “That haze on the horizon? New. Means the cycle’s already turning.”

The prince looks back at him, then returns his attention to me.

“Our records agree on one point,” he says evenly. “The cycle has never been broken by this world alone.”

A brief pause.

“Every lasting victory involved an outsider,” he continues. “Someone who didn’t belong to our systems, our limits, or our failures.”

He doesn’t soften it. He doesn’t dress it up.

“That is the advantage you represent.”

Sunlight frames the city behind him. Life moves beyond the windows, distant and indifferent to the conversation happening in this room.

“So,” the prince says, tilting his head just slightly. “Hero. What is it you want to know?”

I cross the room to the windows and look out over the kingdom below.

Spires. Canals. Organized, old, built to last.

He said magic. That rules out anything truly modern. Demon kings don’t just kill—they corrupt. That means purification, which means religion. There’s going to be a church involved.

Maybe several.

I turn to face the prince.

“What kind of prince are you? Crown?”

The prince moves to join me at the window, approach unhurried. He stops beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brush, hands folded loosely behind his back. From here, with sunlight instead of ceremony framing him, he looks younger. Real.

Then, he turns to me.

“Crown Prince,” he says. “Heir apparent. No regent. No younger sibling waiting in the wings. When my father dies—or steps down—the crown is mine.” A beat. “Assuming the world is still standing.”

He glances back out the window briefly, his expression tightening just a fraction, then returns his attention to me.

“My turn,” he says softly.

His eyes search mine. Curious. Appraising. Not unkind.

“Tell me, hero from another world—”
A pause.
“—do you intend to save us with force… or with reform?”

The question hangs between us.

I give him a sidelong look. Suspicious. Measuring.

“I can’t reform a Demon King, Your Highness,” I say. “Unless their kind has a history of being placated with friendship.”

I scoff, sharp and dismissive.

“Don’t get me wrong. There are worlds like that. But generally, once corruption is involved, the only solution is elimination.”

Alaric doesn’t answer right away.

Beyond the windows, the haze pulses—thicker now, darker, like ink bleeding into parchment.

“We are not looking to redeem a Demon King,” he says at last. Flat. Certain.

He turns fully toward me now.

“This cycle ends one of two ways,” he continues. “Either we destroy the monarch at its core… or the corruption reaches a point where the world can no longer sustain resistance.”

He stops there.

Lets it breathe.

Then, quieter—but no less firm:

“Elimination is the answer.”

I let that settle for half a beat.

“Alrighty then,” I say nodding. “My turn again.”

I let my gaze move across the room as I speak, slow and deliberate, taking inventory.

It lands on the knight.

He notices immediately. His shoulders tighten a fraction, jaw setting.

“Childhood best friend,” I say, eyes still on him. “Of the prince. Yes?”

He stiffens fully this time, then exhales through his nose, resigned.

The prince doesn’t look at him.

That confirms it more cleanly than any answer.

My attention shifts to the scholar next. He blinks when I meet his eyes, then straightens instinctively, posture snapping rigid like he’s bracing for evaluation.

“Former commoner,” I continue. “Born with talent. Promoted on merit… am I right?”

“…Yes,” he says slowly. “Arcane aptitude tested at eight. Sponsored at twelve. Retained at court at nineteen.” He frowns, clearly distracted now by a more pressing problem. “But—how did you know that?”

I don’t comment. I’m already moving on.

The rogue is watching me with open interest, grin sharp and unapologetic, like he’s enjoying the process more than the answers. I pause on him, just long enough to be deliberate.

Rogues always have a story. Usually tragic.

I let my gaze slide past him.

It settles on the prince again.

“Looks like we’re missing our priest,” I say. “Or do we need to summon a saintess as well?”

The prince laughs softly.

There’s no humor in it.

“Ah,” he says. “You noticed.”

He pushes off the window and walks back toward the table, fingers trailing over its carved edge where old maps have been worn thin by anxious hands.

“We didn’t forget the priest,” he says. “The institution collapsed.”

The scholar steps closer, expression darkening now that we’re back on familiar ground. “The Church of Radiant Accord was the only institution capable of large-scale purification,” he says. “Their high clergy vanished six months ago. The rest fractured immediately after.”

The knight’s jaw tightens beside him. “Some were taken. Some defected. Some…” He shrugs. “Didn’t survive.”

The prince meets my eyes again, steady and unflinching.

“No saintess,” he says. “Not yet. The last one burned out her soul sealing a breach three years ago. We won’t repeat that mistake.”

I stare at the prince, genuinely dumbstruck.

“You lost the priest,” I say. “And the church?”

The prince grimaces.

Not the polished court expression. Not the dangerous smile.

This one is real—brief, irritated, and deeply tired.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m aware how that sounds.”

The knight snorts, arms folding tighter across his chest. “If it helps, we didn’t lose them all at once. It was more of a… slow-motion disaster.”

The scholar winces immediately. “With paperwork.”

I look between them, disbelief written all over me.

“You lost the entire institution responsible for purification,” I say flatly. “In a world where demon corruption is a known, recurring existential threat.”

The rogue lifts a finger, already halfway into a grin. “In our defense—”

“No,” the knight cuts in. “We deserve that.”

The prince drags a hand through his hair and turns back toward the window, staring out at the city like it personally betrayed him.

Silence settles over the room, heavy and unmoving.

Then the rogue breaks it, head tilting, eyes bright with irreverent honesty. “So. Welcome to Valemore. We’re short a church, low on time, and the apocalypse is technically ahead of schedule.”

The prince looks back at me, expression dry but unguarded. “You see now why we resorted to summoning.”

The sunlight through the windows feels thinner now. The haze on the horizon hasn’t moved, but it feels closer all the same.

The prince straightens, shoulders squaring. Not distance—resolve.

“We can rebuild purification,” he says. “But not quickly. And not safely.”

His gaze locks on mine, sharp and steady.

“Which means, hero, you may be standing at the beginning of a problem no one here has solved before.”

The knight smirks faintly. “No pressure.”

I sigh. Deeply.

Then I sigh again.

“To start with,” I say, “names. What are your names.”

For a moment, no one answers.

Then the prince lets out a soft huff—almost a laugh—and turns fully toward me. Some of the tension drains from his shoulders, replaced by something more human.

He inclines his head, formal without being distant. “Prince Alaric Aurelion. Crown Prince of Aurelion.” A pause. “Unfortunately.”

The knight rolls his eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He hated the title before the demons showed up too.”

He steps forward and offers me a hand. The grip is solid. Warm. Grounded.

“Knight Commander Cassian Vale,” he says. “Captain of the Royal Guard. And yes,” he adds dryly, “I knew him when he was shorter and less insufferable.”

Alaric clicks his tongue. “I was never shorter.”

“You absolutely were.”

The scholar clears his throat, cheeks faintly pink, clearly relieved to move on to something he can handle without politics attached.

“I’m Edrin,” he says. “Edrin Haleo. Royal scholar. Arcane theory, historical cycles, and—” he gestures vaguely at the maps and scattered notes, “—organizer of paperwork.”

The rogue pushes off the table with a lazy grin. “Rook,” he says. “That’s the name I answer to. If anyone tells you differently… they’re either lying or very confused.”

Alaric studies me again, his expression softer than before. “And you?” he asks. “What should we call the man who showed up when everything started falling apart?”

Outside the windows, the city keeps breathing. Bells ring somewhere in the distance. Life—stubborn, unaware.

“Cael Hart,” I say. “Professional hero. Not by choice.”

I turn back toward the window, toward the sun sinking slowly toward the horizon, light stretching long across the city.

“And, for starters,” I add, “we better get us a priest.”