The dinner hall of Rogan was designed to intimidate.
It always had been.
High vaulted ceilings arched overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, runes carved deep into stone columns that had never known mercy. Chandeliers of spell-glass hovered without chains, glowing softly with captured starlight. Every sound carried. Every silence judged.
This was where heirs were tested.
Where weakness was noticed.
Where lies died poorly.
I entered with Angel at my side.
She was beautiful—dangerously so.
Her gown was simple by noble standards, pale and flowing, sleeves loose enough to hide the faint tremor in her hands. Her hair was pinned back just enough to show her neck, vulnerable in a way that made my jaw tighten.
I could feel the demon.
Not active.
Not speaking.
Listening.
My hand rested lightly at the small of her back, a possessive gesture the room would read correctly. Husband. Protector. Control. The wards I'd sewn into my ring pulsed faintly, syncing with the ones hidden in the stitching of her dress.
Insurance.
The long table was already occupied.
My father sat at the head, posture rigid, crown absent but authority undeniable. Beside him, my mother watched us with eyes like polished glass—sharp, observant, unreadable. Uncles. Aunts. Cousins. And further down, three members of the High Council.
They rose as we approached.
Angel curtsied perfectly.
Too perfectly.
I caught the microsecond delay—the way she had to think about the movement. The demon learned quickly. It mimicked grace the way a predator mimicked stillness.
"Welcome, Heir Santiago," my father said. His gaze slid to Angel. "And Lady Angel. I trust your health has improved."
The question was polite.
The intent was not.
"She is well," I replied smoothly. "The change of environment required adjustment."
My mother smiled. "Of course. Marriage into Rogan is… demanding."
Angel smiled back.
I felt it then—a faint pressure behind my eyes. A whisper that was not sound.
They see nothing, the demon murmured, satisfied. You trained them well.
I did not react.
We took our seats. Angel across from me, exactly as tradition dictated. Close enough to observe. Far enough to test.
Servants began to move, laying out dishes infused with subtle enchantments—truth-binding salts, emotion-reactive herbs. Not enough to compel honesty. Enough to amplify cracks.
Council tactics.
Angel lifted her fork.
Her hand was steady.
Good.
Conversation began harmlessly enough. Trade routes. Border disputes. A drought in the southern provinces. I answered where required, deflected where necessary. Angel spoke little, just as a new bride should.
Too little.
One of the councilors leaned forward. Councilor Maelis—old, clever, vicious.
"Lady Angel," he said kindly, "how are you finding life among us?"
Angel's eyes flickered to me.
Just once.
Permission.
Anchor.
"Different," she said. "But not unkind."
A safe answer.
Maelis smiled. "Different can be dangerous in Rogan."
"I've noticed," she replied softly.
A ripple moved through the table. Interest. Mild surprise.
I watched her closely. The demon stayed quiet. Curious now.
My mother tilted her head. "You have not been seen at breakfast these past days."
Angel froze.
Barely.
"I wasn't aware my absence was noted," she said.
"It is," my mother replied calmly. "Everything is."
I set my glass down. "I requested privacy for my wife during her adjustment."
Ah. There it was.
My father's gaze sharpened. "Privacy is not something heirs indulge in."
"I am aware."
"Then why insist upon it?"
The demon stirred.
Angel's fingers tightened around her fork.
Let me speak, it whispered inside her. I'll enjoy this.
Her eyes met mine—wide now, frightened.
One minute.
That was all she ever had.
"Santiago," she said quickly, her voice lower, urgent. "They're pressing because they feel it. The magic. You need to—"
Her breath hitched.
The demon surged.
Angel straightened abruptly, smile blooming too wide, too smooth.
"Oh, please," she said lightly. "You all worry too much. I was only tired. Marriage is… exhausting."
A few chuckles scattered around the table.
My father did not laugh.
My mother's eyes narrowed.
Angel lifted her fork.
Then she slammed it against her plate.
Once.
Twice.
The sound rang sharp and wrong, metal screaming against porcelain.
The room fell silent.
"Angel," I said quietly.
She didn't hear me.
Again.
Again.
The demon laughed through her lips, soft and delighted.
"Stop," my mother commanded.My father stood.
"Contain her."
"No," I said.
The word cracked through the hall like thunder.
Magic surged from me unchecked, ancient sigils burning into the air as I rose. The guards froze, instinct screaming at them to obey.
Angel shook violently, hands clutching her head.
"It hurts," she gasped, to me alone. "Santiago—please—"
I moved around the table in a blur and caught her as her knees buckled, pulling her against my chest.
"She is under my protection," I said coldly. "Any attempt to restrain her will be answered as an act of treason."
Silence.
My father studied me for a long moment.
Then: "Take her to your chambers."
I did not wait for permission.
As I carried her out, the demon whispered, pleased and venomous.
See? Even now, they fear you more than me.
Angel clutched my collar, voice faint but clear. "It said… it's going to use me. Then leave me."
My grip tightened.
"I won't allow it," I said.
Behind us, the doors of the dinner hall closed.
And I knew—without doubt—that whatever balance I had been maintaining was gone.
Rogan would not forget tonight.
And the demon had shown its hand.
I had to think fast ,I had to try other ways or Angel we'll be in more danger not just from the demon but from the people of Rogan,rumour will spread that the princess consort is cursed .
I had to stop this....Now