Chapter Twenty Two pt 3

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Back at the present, as a breeze caressed their warm skins, as Eial continued to heal as he listened, Vrona told her tale of the palace. When she finished, the demon had walked away, needing space to think.

Blood boiled at the thought of the king, who seemed to have pride for his own kind, yet would do something as cruel as de-wing a demon— and not just any demon, but his own queen. Drokn would have thought it justified if he had thought of the demoness like before, a cruel betrayer of demons, someone who would abandon her child without a second thought, with no remorse. But he was continuing to realize there was more to a story than he was told.

Nothing of his experiences at the palace could be trusted.

He also continued to realize the strength of the demoness, much of which he would never say to her face. She was a demon that he would typically find utterly disgraceful and powerless of an existence. She had no magic within her, she had no wings. Yet somehow, she could hold her own battle with those who could use magic, with those who could fly. He couldn't imagine her reality, or how she held her head high. Whereas the mere existence of an elf more powerful than himself had spiraled him to almost have a downfall.

Her words were true. Most demons were far too absorbed and prideful of their magic, so much so that if any of them had ever lost their abilities, they'd feel hopeless and miserable. Meanwhile the demoness, despite so many odds against her, continued to battle forward.

A confusing feeling held Drokn's heart. The demon king he had once held pride at the strength and position for, his heart now wretched at sharing the same blood. Yet the hate he had felt for the demoness had molded into a glob, something odd and malleable inside of him, shifting, changing.

He still held disdain for her neglect, his mind repeating questions of why she hadn't put in the same effort to come to him as she did for the elf. Even if he could understand the difference in circumstances, a part of him squeezed bitter. Yet, another part of him wanted to let go, to be released from the chains the hatred of the past had brought.

He couldn't change what had happened. And the present proved far too different. He'll move on, move forward. He'll learn from her. He'll become stronger. And he'll hold his head high despite his circumstances, just like his mother.


A couple hours had passed when Drokn returned to where he had left the elf and Vrona, though only the demoness was present. She was lying on the ground, a small mound of grass to keep her head cushioned. Her left forearm lay across her torso, while her injured right arm lay to the side. Her chest rose and dipped, breathing slow, while her eyes rested closed.

Walking towards her, he sat down beside her resting arm, looking at her injuries now bandaged. The grass beside her was flatter and slowly stretching tall again, as if the being —or rather the elf— who sat here had only left recently. He tried to glance under her, picturing the memories of wings being severed. Looking at her calm face, he felt different, less restrained, although his brows still creased.

"Vrona," he called, intending to ask where the elf had gone. However, the tone of his voice was oddly high, and he coughed fakely to ease the awkwardness within himself. Her lack of response and silence gave evidence to her sleep. Then, a sudden impulse washed over him. His heartbeat pounded and a word tried to form on his tongue, creaking his mouth open and close, testing the air.

And finally—

"Mother."

Immediately after the word left Drokn's mouth, his face flushed red and his skin prickled in goosebumps. He almost gagged at how unfitting and discomforting it felt and swore to himself he would never try to call her that again, even if it were to just to see how the word would feel on his lips.

Shaking his head, he called for Vrona once more, this time by name again. With not a sound coming from her, he wanted to go around the area to try and find the elf, but was it safe to leave her alone?

Before he could even begin to decide, a strong feeling of terror washed over him. From instinct, he understood this sense of dread sprouted from the threads of his bond. Making one step towards where his bond pulled him, suddenly—

A strong rush of air followed a dooming sound and falling trees.

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