The banquet hall of the Crimson Palace shimmered with elegance.
Golden candelabras floated in midair, their flame-tips flickering with quiet grace. The long dining table—carved from a single slab of duskwood—was adorned with crystal goblets and silverware shaped like flowing rivers. Servants stood like statues along the walls, their eyes lowered, their hands folded.
At the head of the table sat Empress Seraphine, eyes sharper than the jeweled crown resting upon her fiery hair.
Victoria sat beside her, posture perfect, though her mind wandered.
Hector took his seat across from them, his white hair catching the candlelight like snow reflecting fire. He hadn't spoken much since the court's dispersal, but now, as the food was being laid before them, he glanced up.
"Your Majesty," he said calmly, "is my room ready?"
The Empress blinked. "You intend to stay?"
"Yes," he replied, placing a cloth across his lap. "Three days. That should be enough to handle what's coming."
"And the Elven Kingdom?"
"I'll send my parents a letter. They'll agree to the terms. They trust me."
Seraphine narrowed her eyes. "You speak as though you've already seen it happen."
"In a way," he said.
Dinner was served.
For a time, silence reigned—only the faint clinking of crystal and cutlery. Hector seemed to savor each bite thoughtfully, chewing like someone who remembered a hundred meals exactly like it—and a thousand where there had been none at all.
Halfway through the first course, Seraphine leaned forward.
"What are you?" she asked.
Victoria's fork paused.
Hector wiped his mouth gently with the cloth and set it down.
"I heard angels speak before I was born," he said.
The words hung heavy in the air.
"I remember them. Samael and Lucifer. I remember hearing about sin and rebellion. I remember… something breaking. I remember you."
The Empress's brow furrowed. "You remember me?"
"I remember you kneeling beneath starlight, praying for something you never truly asked for. A gift that required a price you never agreed to pay."
Seraphine said nothing.
"You bore a child for an angel," Hector continued. "A Nephilim. That cost doesn't come without sacrifice."
"I remember no such bargain."
"You wouldn't. That's the price. The angels took what they needed and left you with the flame and none of the match."
Seraphine's jaw tightened. Victoria said nothing, but she held her goblet like it might shatter.
"You think I'm wrong?" Hector asked.
"I think you speak like a prophet and a madman," Seraphine replied.
"Maybe both." He took a sip of water. "But I've never been wrong yet."
The Empress folded her hands. "And what of your parentage, then?"
"I was made," he said. "By choice. By necessity. Two angels broke a law to create me. Because they saw what was coming."
"And what is coming?" Seraphine asked.
Hector's expression darkened.
"Lucifer saw what Samael did. And she rebelled. She went to the Demon King. She bore a son of her own."
The goblets stilled.
"No."
"Yes." Hector's voice was steady. "The boy's name is Abbadon. A Nephalem. Touched by both Heaven and Hell. And unlike her, he was born for wrath."
Seraphine sat in stunned silence.
"I had a dream," Hector continued, quieter now. "Of one of the slaves he killed. He was only a child. Barely able to hold a blade. Abbadon split his skull like fruit. And he smiled doing it."
Victoria flinched.
"I've dreamed of countless lives. Warriors. Kings. Priests. But this dream was different. The pain didn't fade after waking. It clung to me. Like prophecy."
He looked directly at Seraphine.
"You know the demons are preparing for war. You feel it. That itch in your bones. That restless wind."
She said nothing.
"Lucifer wants to bring Hell to Earth," he said.
"And you believe the world will fall?" she asked.
"I know it will," he said. "Unless someone stops him."
He turned to Victoria.
"Unless we stop him."
Victoria met his gaze, and something inside her flared. Not fear. But certainty.
"You think we're enough?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But we're all that's left who can be."
Seraphine stared at them both.
"Then what do you plan to do?"
Hector smiled softly.
"We're going on an adventure."
Silence held for a long moment after his words.
The Empress did not speak.
But Hector felt it—her mind, once a sharpened dagger always aimed at the world, now spinning with fear, denial, and… mourning. Not for what had happened, but for what she couldn't remember. A grief so buried even her pride could not unearth it.
He could sense it all, just as Thren had taught him—the silence in others, the shape of unspoken burdens. Her breathing had subtly changed. Her right hand trembled, just once, on the edge of her chair before she caught herself.
She looked at Victoria.
And Hector saw it then.
The doubt.
The ache.
The guilt that didn't know its source.
Victoria's heart thudded. She didn't fully understand what Hector had said about her origin, but something in her core—a hum, an echo—confirmed it.
She had always felt different.
And now she knew why.
"I was… made," she thought, not with shame, but with a strange clarity. "Not born by chance. But by design."
And yet, her love for her mother did not waver. It hurt, yes. But in a way that didn't weaken—it sharpened. She realized now her mother had raised her without even knowing the cost. That her lessons, her rules, her fears… were a kind of armor around a wound she didn't even see.
"I am not just her heir," Victoria thought. "I am her price."
Seraphine's voice, when it finally came, was low.
"I don't like being played with, child."
"I'm not playing," Hector said. "I'm just telling you what's been forgotten."
She looked down at her hands. The rings glittered, meaningless. One hand lifted to her chest, unconsciously resting near her heart.
Victoria reached for her goblet again—but her hands were steady now. And she knew her path was no longer one she walked alone.
She looked at Hector.
And he looked right back.
The weight of the world already shared in silence.