The gates of the palace opened with slow, heavy groans.
Daemon stepped through them like a ghost returning to the house that buried him.
Everything was the same—the polished marble floors, the red carpets stitched with golden thread, the scent of lilac and waxed steel. Nothing had changed.
Except him.
He walked with quiet steps through the corridors until a figure appeared ahead of him.
Queen Bianca.
Standing in a flowing silver gown, her smile wide, arms open like she was welcoming a beloved son home.
"Daemon, my sweet child," she cooed, stepping closer. "You survived. Truly, the gods have shown mercy."
Daemon tilted his head, blinking slowly.
"I guess they did," he said, voice smooth. "Or maybe hell just wasn't ready for me yet."
Bianca's smile didn't twitch.
But her eyes—they flickered. Just for a second.
She stepped forward and hugged him lightly. He let her.
Her arms were cold. Too soft. Too careful.
She pulled back quickly, brushing nonexistent dust off his shoulder.
"Come. The king is waiting. He's been worried."
Daemon followed, hiding his smirk.
Worried? I doubt he remembered I was gone.
She led him down the long hall toward the royal throne chamber, her heels tapping neatly against the floor.
"Everyone's eager to see you," she said sweetly. "The High Council,even your brother."
Daemon said nothing.
She glanced sideways at him, still smiling. "You must be nervous."
"Not at all," Daemon replied. "I'm just curious what part of the show I play today. The villain? The cursed son? The monster?"
Bianca laughed softly. "Oh Daemon, you're so dramatic."
Fake.
He could feel it rolling off her in waves.
The royal hall doors opened.
The sound of conversation dulled instantly as Daemon stepped in.
Long tables lined the room, filled with nobles, generals, and clergy. At the end, on a raised platform, sat King Aleric—hard-faced, silver-bearded, his eyes heavy and sharp.
And beside him, in a smaller seat of gold—
Gabriel.
Cloaked in white and gold, radiant like a statue carved by faith itself.
The golden child.
The Crown Prince.
Daemon paused in the doorway.
Gabriel didn't smile. Didn't nod. Didn't even look at him.
Just kept his gaze forward, hands folded politely in his lap.
Like I'm nothing.
Daemon's fingers twitched slightly behind his back.
In his past life, he would've smiled wider, tried to earn his brother's approval. Said something kind. Lowered his head.
But that boy was dead.
Now?
He returned Gabriel's silence with a half-step forward and the smallest smirk.
"Your Majesty," Daemon said, bowing to the king. "I've returned from the sanctum."
A murmur passed through the nobles. The ones who had bet on his death shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
The king studied him for a moment, unreadable.
Bianca stepped forward.
"His Holiness the High Priest has verified the boy's purification. He is no longer a danger."
A moment passed.
Then the king spoke.
"Good. Then let it be known..." He rose slowly, the weight of his crown pressing deep into his presence.
"Gabriel is to be officially named Crown Prince of the Varyndor Empire."
The chamber erupted in polite applause.
Daemon stood still.
He even smiled.
"I understand," he said, voice calm. "It's what the people want. A hero to lead them."
The king nodded once.
"But you," Aleric continued, pointing a hand toward him, "will still be given your station."
He raised two fingers.
"You may choose: serve under Gabriel's army as a commander—or take control of a distant fief in the northern province. A village. Quiet. Forgotten. But in need of a lord."
He paused.
"Think about it."
Daemon bowed again.
"I will, Father."
The applause faded.
But the smiles stayed.
The nobles leaned forward again, more relaxed now that the real prince—the safe one—had been chosen.
King Aleric raised a hand.
"We move forward," he said firmly. "As of next week, the empire will hold the Grand Coronation Festival. The ceremony will be public. Open to all provinces. The capital will host every major house."
A few council members exchanged pleased looks.
"A generous investment will be directed to the western farms," said Minister Leontes, folding his hands. "We've prepared funds from the royal vault. The people will eat, the banners will fly, and the Empire will see its Crown Prince rise."
Gabriel stood.
Graceful. Confident. His white robes caught the sun streaming through the stained-glass ceiling.
"I'm honored," he said. "And grateful. I'll uphold the legacy of this empire with everything I have."
He bowed to his father.
Then turned to the room.
"And during the festival... I'll choose my fiancée. As tradition demands."
The room reacted with polite laughter and excitement.
Daughters of nobles straightened their backs. Mothers exchanged eager whispers.
Even Bianca pressed a hand to her chest and gave a warm, performative smile.
The court glowed.
And Daemon stood in it all like a ghost.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just watched.
Like he was peering through glass, looking at a world he'd once lived in—a world that no longer acknowledged he was there.
No one asked him to speak.
No one looked his way.
Even the guards stood with their backs more toward him than Gabriel.
He realized it then—not with pain, but clarity:
He didn't belong here.
Not just in the court.
In the world.
Everything was bright. Polished. Beautiful.
And he... wasn't.
They'd put him in clean robes, combed his hair, wiped the blood from his skin.
But inside?
Daemon felt like a stone placed among flowers.
A shadow framed by golden light.
The sun had its place. The moon was just tolerated.
Gabriel sat back down beside the king, smiling politely.
Daemon watched him, expression unreadable.
In my first life, he thought, I stood behind that chair. I clapped the loudest. I defended you. I wanted you to smile at me, just once.
But now?
Now he didn't want a smile.
He wanted silence.
He wanted Gabriel to look into the abyss—and see his face staring back.
When the council meeting ended, Daemon bowed respectfully and turned to leave.
No one stopped him.
No one said his name.
And as the great doors of the court closed behind him...
He didn't feel bitter.
Just confirmed.
He was never meant to be their prince.
He was meant to be their punishment.