“Finally, some peace now that she’s gone," Djoser muttered under his breath, his voice heavy with exhaustion and a hint of frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, trying to stave off the growing headache that throbbed behind his eyes. Leaning heavily against the grand mahogany double-doors—the imposing main entrance to his father’s castle—he allowed himself a moment to gather his scattered thoughts.

  The castle was more of a palace, really, a sprawling monument to his father’s flair for the dramatic. Every inch of the interior bore the mark of extravagance and dark elegance. The floor beneath his feet was crafted from deepstone, a rare and dangerous material Djoser had come to understand as poisoned cloudstone from Heaven itself. Its surface was an eerie black, soft and fluffy to the eye, yet paradoxically solid underfoot. When he walked across it, the floor seemed to hold him firmly, but if he deliberately reached out to touch it, his hand would pass through as if it were nothing more than smoke, vanishing into an intangible mist.

  The walls surrounding him were a formidable blend of basalt and black granite, towering high and curving upward to form a vast dome-like ceiling that loomed overhead like a dark sky. The sheer scale of the palace was overwhelming, with countless rooms branching off in every direction. Unlike the twisting, shifting walls that his father—Satan—had used to both confound and aid those wandering the streets of Jahnes, the palace’s architecture was steadfast, a deliberate choice to create a sense of permanence and unyielding power. At least, that’s what Djoser liked to think. Perhaps his father had merely been too lazy to apply the same magic to the palace.

  The vast ceiling above was an intricate tapestry of protective runes, meticulously carved in ancient Latin. Djoser’s eyes caught familiar words scattered among the sharp, precise etchings (including agricola, the Latin term for farmer, probably done by Sipho at four in the morning while drunk), each one a symbol of not only protection, but power. Each rune was etched with painstaking care, their jagged edges casting faint shadows in the dim light, as if the very stone breathed with latent power. The air beneath the dome seemed charged, humming softly with the magic woven into the palace’s bones. You can never have too many wards, Djoser thought wryly, his mismatched gaze lingering on the carvings as if searching for a secret message.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Below the protective runes, banners draped the walls and banisters in grand, sweeping strips. Their fabric was rich and heavy, dyed a deep, blood-red that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Emblazoned boldly upon each banner was the royal symbol—a gleaming gold triangle bisected diagonally by a sharp line, with a perfect circle overlapping the upper half. The emblem shimmered faintly, as if alive, a constant reminder of the power and legacy that hung over the palace like a silent sentinel.

  As Djoser walked up the sweeping staircase and taking a right to go to the East Wing of the palace, where his room was, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could have a different option to take to the Ball. Lysona… she couldn’t be the only noblewoman out there, could she? Djoser had met hundreds of nobles and dukes and Hell knows what else in other kingdoms, but he couldn’t bring himself to venture out and find a noblewoman (or man, because Hell loved the be the complete and utter opposite of Hell) to take. Not only would be look absolutely pathetic, but he’d also look desperate. And desperate men made hasty, thoughtless decisions.

  “My Lord?” a hesitant voice called softly from behind him, barely more than a whisper against the heavy silence of the grand hall. Djoser turned slowly, his tired eyes settling on the familiar figure of Ehalt, one of his most trusted attendants, whose nervous posture betrayed the urgency of the message he carried.

  “Yes?” Djoser replied, his voice low and edged with weariness, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

  Ehalt swallowed hard, glancing around as if the very walls might be listening. “I have a message from your father, my Lord. He commands you to come to the Rose Hall immediately.”

  A long, weary sigh escaped Djoser’s lips. Just as he had hoped for a moment’s respite, his father’s summons shattered the fragile peace. The preparations for the Ball, an event Djoser found little joy in, were once again thrust upon him. To him, the Ball was nothing more than a grand display of his father’s wealth and power, a thinly veiled attempt to intimidate the visiting nobles with opulence and spectacle.

  “Must I really go?” Djoser asked, his voice dropping to a low growl that sent a shiver down Ehalt’s spine.

  Ehalt’s eyes widened, his voice trembling as he stammered, “I… I must assume so, my Lord, for he is the king…”

  “Fine then. Tell my father I shall be down in a moment.“