As the weeks passed, whispers began to spread through the streets of England.
They moved like shadows—quiet, persistent, impossible to catch.
Rumors of the "demon-born prince" slipped through taverns, echoed behind closed doors in noble estates, and crept even into the servant quarters of Ashford Palace.
To protect the dignity of the royal family, King Alistair issued a decree.
No one was to speak of it. No reports. No publications. No broadcasts. Any who dared would face severe punishment.
The media obeyed.
But rumors… were not so easily controlled.
They lived in fear. And fear had a voice.
"The cursed prince…"
"The shadow of the old war…"
And so, a council was called.
Within the grand stone halls of Ashford Palace, the most powerful figures of the kingdom gathered beneath towering arches and dim candlelight.
At the head of the long oak table sat King Alistair, his presence commanding, yet heavy with unseen burden.
Among those present were Sir Cedric Langley, President of GSSA England, Akihiko Mori, President of GSSA Japan, the high lords of England, the noble House of Redgrave, and the ancient House of Ashford itself.
Tension filled the room.
Lord Hawthorne slammed his fist against the table.
"This cannot be ignored, Your Majesty. That child is a threat. His very existence puts us all at risk."
Lady Fairfax spoke next, her voice cold and measured.
"Darkness has taken root. Ignoring it would be a grave mistake."
Queen Evelyn rose slowly from her seat, her expression pale yet burning with intensity.
"I speak not only as your Queen, but as one who serves divine will. That child carries something unnatural. If we do not act now, we may all pay the price."
Her father, Duke Redgrave, nodded in agreement.
"Blood alone should not blind us to danger."
A quiet voice cut through the rising tension.
Akihiko Mori leaned forward slightly, his expression calm.
"He is an infant. A child who has done nothing. To condemn him now… is that justice, or fear?"
The room stirred. Some shifted uncomfortably.
King Alistair's hands tightened against the arms of his chair.
When he spoke, his voice carried across the chamber like thunder.
"He is my son."
Silence fell instantly.
"I will not allow fear to dictate the fate of my blood."
His gaze swept across the room, unwavering.
"Ronan Ashford will live. He will be raised within this palace as a son of this house. His condition remains a secret. No one beyond this room speaks of it again."
No one argued.
Some bowed in reluctant acceptance. Others masked their displeasure. But none dared defy him.
The decision had been made.
The years that followed were… divided.
From the outside, the Ashford family remained a symbol of perfection.
Inside, something else grew.
Queen Evelyn changed.
Where once there had been warmth, there was now distance. Her affection rested solely on Draven, the child she saw as pure.
Ronan received none of it.
When he reached for her, she turned away. When he spoke, she dismissed him. The space between them widened with each passing day.
One evening, as she knelt beside Draven, whispering prayers, Ronan approached quietly.
"Mother… can I join you?"
She stiffened.
Her grip tightened around Draven as she pulled him closer.
"Stay away from him," she said, her voice low and sharp. "You are not a blessing. You are something we were forced to accept."
The words lingered in the air long after she had spoken them.
Ronan stood still, unable to respond.
Across from him, Draven watched, confusion written across his face. He didn't understand—but he felt that something was wrong.
And so, from a young age, something began to take shape between them.
Not hatred.
Not yet.
But distance.
As time passed, that distance grew.
Within the palace, servants treated Ronan kindly. They smiled, spoke gently, offered quiet comfort where they could.
But the nobles were different.
Their gazes lingered too long. Their voices dropped when he passed. Conversations died in his presence.
Even as a child, Ronan felt it.
The unease.
The rejection.
The quiet fear.
The palace that should have been his home slowly became something else.
At night, Draven would sometimes visit him.
On one such night, Ronan sat by the window, staring at the sky, when the door creaked open.
Draven stepped in, his expression uncertain.
"Ronan… why are you like this?"
Ronan turned, confused.
"Like what?"
Draven hesitated, then spoke with a mix of anger and confusion.
"Mother says you're a curse. That you shouldn't be here."
Ronan's chest tightened.
"I'm your brother…"
Draven's expression twisted.
"I wish you weren't."
The words fell harder than anything Ronan had ever felt.
Draven turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
Ronan remained by the window, unmoving, the silence pressing in around him.
For the first time…
He wished he didn't exist.
By the age of ten, their paths had fully separated.
Draven attended the Royal Crest Academy, surrounded by nobles and prestige.
Ronan was sent to a regular school within the city.
It was a decision driven by the Queen.
And so, Ronan lived quietly among strangers, carrying something he could neither understand nor escape.
For months, his nights were filled with visions.
Shadows moved in the dark.
Voices whispered his name.
Creatures with crimson eyes watched him from places that should not exist.
He told no one.
There was no one to tell.
One day, seated in class, his mind drifted again.
The teacher's voice faded into the background as the familiar darkness crept in.
He didn't hear his name until it was called sharply.
"Ronan. Are you listening?"
He snapped back, startled.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What did I just explain?"
He couldn't answer.
Laughter spread across the room.
He lowered his gaze, saying nothing more.
It didn't end there.
The whispers followed him.
The looks.
The quiet judgment.
Even pity, which hurt just as much.
After school, it finally happened.
Three older boys blocked his path near the stairwell.
"Hey… demon boy."
Ronan tried to walk past them.
"Leave me alone."
One of them shoved him.
Another raised his fist.
And then—
Something responded.
From deep within him, shadows emerged.
Not visible.
But real.
One moved first, stopping the punch mid-air.
A crack echoed as the boy's arm twisted unnaturally.
The others were thrown back before they could react.
The hallway erupted into panic.
Students screamed. Some ran. Others froze.
Ronan stood still, stunned.
The shadows disappeared just as quickly as they came.
But it was too late.
Everyone had seen enough.
"You're a monster…"
The words followed him as he was taken away.
Sir Alden Vance, one of the royal guardians, escorted him back to the palace in silence.
That night, King Alistair came to see him.
He sat beside Ronan, his presence calm and steady.
"I heard what happened."
Ronan said nothing.
"Did anything… unusual occur?"
A pause.
"I don't know."
The King placed a hand on his back.
"You're not alone, Ronan."
There was silence again.
Then Ronan spoke.
"Why does mother hate me?"
The question lingered.
Alistair exhaled slowly.
"It's not you she hates. It's what she fears."
He explained gently—her past, the loss she carried, the hatred that had grown from it.
Ronan listened.
Then whispered, "So… I'm the problem."
"No," the King said firmly. "You are not."
"But I hurt them…"
"You were protecting yourself."
Ronan looked down.
"I'm a monster."
Alistair pulled him into an embrace.
"You are my son. Never forget that."
That night, Ronan lay awake.
Staring into nothing.
Feeling everything.
And deep within him…
The shadows stirred once more.