Namo Antt walked the streets of the capital for the first time in a decade, and the city still whispered his name.
Some faces he passed didn't recognize him, just another cloaked figure in the crowded streets. But the ones who did? Their expressions shifted between shock and unease. Mothers clutched their children tighter. Merchants glanced away as if acknowledging him would invite trouble. Some muttered prayers under their breath, invoking protection from the Half-Human, Half-Devilkin prince who had slain his own mother.
It was as if a ghost had come home.
His father, King Achen Jio, had banished him ten years ago, sentencing him to exile with a task that was never meant to be completed: Seek out ISLE.
A myth. A nightmare. A name whispered in old war stories about the birth of forbidden magic. Even the most desperate wanderers would sooner carve their own graves than step foot in the place his father had sent him to die.
And yet, Namo had survived.
He pulled his cloak tighter and pressed onward. Above him, the city climbed toward the sky, its stacked layers rising like a jagged staircase to the heavens. At its peak stood the Royal Castles, where the ruling families of Thurosia resided, each fortress carved into the mountains like a monument to their power.
Tonight, one of those castles was alight with music, laughter, and celebration.
Two guards flanked the entrance to Castle Layfin, the second tallest of the royal keeps. They straightened as he approached, their eyes narrowed.
"Halt." The one on the left stepped forward, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "State your name and business."
Namo lifted his gaze past them, taking in the sounds of revelry spilling from the great hall beyond the gates. The scent of rich wines and roasted meats filled the air.
A party?
His lips curled in amusement. How fitting. Iana had prepared his welcome home celebration—but, of course, it had already begun without him.
He glanced at the guards. "Who's the party for?"
The second guard—sharper-eyed, more cautious—frowned. "For Princess Iana Din."
Namo scoffed. "What's she celebrating?"
"A new hairstyle," the first guard answered, straight-faced.
Namo laughed. Loudly.
The guards stiffened. "Are you mocking the princess?"
"Not at all," he said, still grinning. "I'd love to congratulate her myself."
The moment they reached for their weapons, he moved.
With a burst of speed, Namo leapt past them, twisting through the air as they lunged. He landed lightly beyond the gates, boots skidding against the polished stone. The guards cursed, but he was already inside, slipping past startled servants and down the grand hall toward the heart of the gathering.
Inside, the party was in full swing.
Demon nobles lounged in golden-trimmed finery, beastfolk merchants sipped wine from crystal goblets, and a handful of humans—rare, but present—lingered at the edges of conversations, careful not to draw too much attention. The great hall was draped in deep crimson banners, the sigil of the royal house emblazoned above the long banquet table.
Music played, laughter echoed, and then—
A voice cut through the revelry.
"IANA DIN!"
The hall fell silent.
All eyes turned to him.
Standing in the threshold, his cloak tossed back, Namo Antt stared across the sea of wealth and power, straight at the woman seated at the head of the room.
Iana Din.
His dear sister.
Her glass paused halfway to her lips. She blinked, once, before a slow smile curved her mouth.
"Well," she said, setting her drink down. "Happy birthday, dear brother."
Namo walked forward, his boots clicking against the marble floor. The silence in the grand hall stretched thin, guests shifting uneasily in their seats, caught between curiosity and tension.
All the laughter, the celebration—it had died the moment he spoke her name.
Iana Din.
His sister sat poised at the head of the banquet table, her deep crimson gown flowing over her crossed legs, her gloved fingers resting against the arm of her gilded chair. Her pale horns gleamed under the warm chandelier light, and the slight tilt of her head betrayed her amusement.
Namo reached into his cloak and pulled free a torn scrap of fabric—black, singed at the edges.
He tossed it through the air.
It spun lazily before landing in Iana's outstretched fingers—three fingers, snatched effortlessly without even shifting in her seat.
A murmur spread through the crowd. Those who recognized the fabric stiffened. Those who didn't? They understood enough from the way Iana's golden eyes flicked down at the cloth, then back to Namo, her expression unreadable.
The moment stretched.
Then, she exhaled through her nose—a soft, almost bemused sound. "So," she murmured, turning the fabric between her fingers, "Neress failed."
Of course she did.
Iana had planned on Neress' fall sooner or later—she was a pawn, a useful one, but ultimately disposable. And now, she had served her true purpose: a test.
A test to see what Namo could do.
Her lips curled. "I must admit, I'm impressed." She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin against the back of her hand. "You've learned quite a trick. What was it, I wonder? You're human, and yet you wield flames like a proper demon. A young prince like you, you must have spent the last decade desperately grasping at anything to survive."
Her golden eyes gleamed. "Perhaps you used your dying fame to barter with, bought yourself a Relic?—one of those desperate little treasures humanity clings to for power. Or," she smirked, "did you finally get smart? Buy yourself a slave-practitioner… to whisper magic into your ear, to teach you how to wield power you were never meant to have?"
The crowd chuckled—low, murmuring agreement.
Namo let out a bark of laughter. A real one. Loud, sharp. The sound cut through the air like a blade.
And just like that, her smirk twitched.
Because she could not understand.
She had no idea what it took to become what he was now. The suffering, the impossible odds. The ISLE.
He saw it in her eyes—the slight narrowing, the flicker of frustration behind her perfect, poised mask.
That alone made the pain worth it.
"Oh, sister," he grinned, rolling his shoulders, feeling the heat crackle beneath his skin. "If you're so interested in where my power comes from—"
The flames in his veins pulsed.
"—I'd be more than happy to show you."
Just as the heat of Namo's power flared, the sound of clapping echoed through the hall.
A slow, deliberate rhythm.
The very air in the room shifted.
The laughter, the whispers—they died instantly. Even Namo, with his boiling anger and raw defiance, felt a sudden weight press against his spine.
A creeping, subtle cold slithered into the stone walls, sinking into the marble floors. The chandeliers above flickered, the flames dimming as if choked by the sudden frost.
Then came the voice.
"Well done, boy."
Ramod.
Their uncle stepped forward, tall and imposing, his presence cutting through the hall like a blade of frost. His silvered hair, swept back, glowed under the dim light, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. He stood with effortless grace, but his power was already in motion. A silent pulse of cold radiated from him, unseen but undeniable—guards outside the hall would feel it creeping beneath their armor, a whisper of winter curling against their skin.
Ramod lifted a single hand.
"I believe," he said, voice smooth and measured, "that we have a guest of greater importance to welcome."
The announcement sent a ripple through the nobility. Even Iana, usually so composed, stiffened ever so slightly.
Then, the name.
"The King approaches." King Achen Jio. The entire room shifted and the murmurs vanished.
Namo felt it—the way the nobility instinctively lowered their heads, some falling into deep bows, others dropping to a single knee. The demon lords and beastfolk merchants who had been so bold mere moments ago now looked carefully neutral.
Iana's hand twitched against the stem of her wine glass. She had not expected this.
Of course she hadn't.
This entire farce—a 'party' in celebration of her hairstyle—was designed for one reason: to mock him. To drag him back into Thurosia and have its ruling class—those who hated humans the most—watch him crawl.
Now, their father was here.
And that meant things had changed.
A breeze rolled through the open doors, unnatural in its stillness. And then—he stepped inside.
King Achen Jio.
The weight of his presence was suffocating.
He entered with measured steps, his dark robes flowing behind him, embroidered with gold and deep violet—colors only he could wear. His face, carved in sharp lines, remained unreadable, the way it always had been. The weight of a thousand battles, of a rule so absolute it had never been questioned, loomed in his every movement.
He did not look at Namo. Not once.
Instead, he approached Iana, stepping past the altar-like structure where a throne might one day be placed.
Ramod vanished.
No, not vanished—moved.
In an instant, he was beside Namo.
A single, chilled hand pressed to Namo's shoulder.
The force drove him down.
Namo clenched his teeth, every muscle locking in defiance. But the pressure was immense. His foot dragged across the stone floor as he fought to stay standing, but the cold seeped into his limbs. It was different from Iana's presence—it wasn't sharp, wasn't mocking.
It was absolute.
His knee hit the floor. The stone cracked beneath it.
The weight vanished.
Ramod straightened as if nothing had happened. The air lost its chill, and the moment passed.
The room breathed again.
Muted conversations returned. The clinking of goblets. The sound of shifting silk and fur-lined coats as guests resumed their carefully crafted postures of leisure.
It was as if nothing had happened.
As if King Achen Jio had not just entered and reminded them all why he ruled.
Namo exhaled slowly, his breath misting faintly against the cold. His muscles burned, his pride even more so. But he pushed himself upright, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off dust.
Ramod's gaze was already elsewhere.
Disinterested. Dismissive.
Just another dog at the king's heel.
Namo scoffed, rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles. "Tell me, uncle," he muttered just loud enough for Ramod to hear.
His smirk widened.
"Why are you still at my father's side, like a good little dog?"
Ramod did not react.
He remained at King Achen Jio's side, as if Namo's words were nothing more than an idle breeze passing through the hall. No glance. No smirk. No acknowledgment whatsoever.
The moment had passed.
Instead, all eyes were on Iana.
She bowed once more, carefully measured, her usual smug confidence smoothed into perfect obedience. "It's an honor to see you here, Father."
Achen Jio studied her.
The room was quiet.
The King of Thurosia rarely left Thunder Rose, his personal stronghold—a castle above the others, carved into the highest peaks of the mountain, shrouded by storm and distance. It was his domain. From there, he ruled without needing to walk these halls, without needing to lower himself to the pettiness of nobility.
So why now?
Why step down into this celebration—a celebration that was, at its core, a mockery of his exiled son?
Then he spoke.
"…Your hair."
A statement.
Iana's breath caught for a fraction of a second. It was too small for most to notice, but Namo saw it. He felt it.
For the first time, she was thrown off balance.
But she recovered quickly, letting out a laugh, rolling her shoulders back with an exaggerated ease. "Only the best, of course," she said smoothly. "I wouldn't trust anyone other than Katto."
At the sound of his name, movement stirred in the crowd.
Katto stepped forward—not too fast. A seasoned court artist knew better than to rush in front of a King. He was a refined, fox-eared beastfolk, dressed in flowing black and gold, with an air of practiced humility.
But Ramod glanced at him once.
Just a glance.
And Katto's foot halted mid-step.
He adjusted, no longer approaching as he had intended, and instead gave a respectful bow from where he stood. "I am honored to be spoken of in such high company," he said smoothly. "It brings me great joy to know my work has left such an impression on Your Majesty."
Silence.
King Achen Jio's gaze moved, ever so slowly, across Iana. His expression did not shift.
Not in approval.
Not in distaste.
But if his face had changed—**if there was even the slightest crack in that unreadable surface—**Namo knew exactly what it would have been.
Disgust.
Namo grinned.
Then—he laughed.
It broke through the tension of the moment, drawing gazes once again. Katto's ear twitched, finally spotting the source of mockery.
And Namo, standing so casually with his arms crossed, grinned like he had just heard the world's funniest joke.
"A kingdom aesthetician?" He exhaled between chuckles, shaking his head. "What a sight this place has become. I leave for ten years, and this is what's left of Thurosia?"
Katto's tail flicked. His sharp, well-manicured claws curled slightly at the insult. But his professionalism held.
"Prince Namo," he greeted instead, tone pleasant but stiff. "You wound me. A kingdom must always maintain its image. Beauty is an extension of power."
Namo hummed, tilting his head as if considering it.
Then, with deliberate ease, he let his gaze sweep across the hall. The nobles—soft, perfumed, draped in silks and gems. The merchants—oily with false smiles, their riches gathered from suffering.
The beastfolk—few and far between, leashed by the coin of those who deemed themselves their betters. The demons—proud, vain, indulgent in their luxury. And above them all, standing where a throne might have once been placed, the very King himself.
"Beauty," Namo repeated, smiling faintly.
He let his voice carry just enough.
"Power."
He took a slow step forward, the floor beneath his heel faintly cracking from his earlier fall.
"If that's all this kingdom has left," he murmured, gaze flicking toward his father, toward Iana, "then perhaps it's already become unsightly."
An insult. A direct strike—not just at Iana, but at Achen Jio himself.
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. But they were careful. Very careful. Because the King had not yet spoken. And he would be the one to decide how this night ended.
Iana was furious. But she couldn't show it. Not here, not now.
If her father hadn't been present, she would have incinerated Namo where he stood, reducing him to nothing but ash and smoke.
Instead, she kept her expression perfect. Cool. Detached. Her fingers, however, curled slightly—as if itching to conjure flame.
The atmosphere in the hall remained thick with tension. No one spoke at first.
Then—Katto moved.
He strode toward Namo, steps light, casual. His fox-like tail swayed behind him in lazy amusement as his golden eyes flicked over the prince.
Shabby robes. Dust from travel. The lingering scent of exhaustion, sweat, and blood.
Katto made a thoughtful hum, glancing toward the other Beastfolk gathered nearby.
"I do apologize," he said lightly, waving a clawed hand in front of his face, as if wafting away an unpleasant scent. "You'll have to excuse us. We Beastfolk have… such sensitive noses."
A few chuckles. Not outright laughter—no one would dare openly mock a prince before the King.
But Namo saw the amusement in their eyes. He smiled.
"I'm just here to say hello," he said, lifting a hand in an exaggerated wave, as if that had been his only intention all along. "To my dear sister. And of course, to my father."
Iana's jaw clenched. Achen Jio, however, remained unmoved.
"After all," Namo continued, voice suddenly sharp beneath its jesting, "I think I've had quite enough of today."
His gaze flicked toward Iana again. "I had to wipe out an entire drug operation just to get here."
The words rang through the room.
The temperature in the hall dropped—not from Ramod's ice magic, but from the sheer weight of what had just been said.
Iana didn't flinch. She didn't move. But inside, she was already calculating.
That bastard. He had said it loudly. Purposefully. Not just to provoke her—but to ensure that their father heard it too.
The King did not react. He gave no order. No acknowledgment. But the silence itself was enough.
Namo smirked.
"Well," he sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Now that I've done my civil duty, I think I'll finally return to my castle. This was a lovely welcome home, truly."
Katto, who had been watching him closely, tilted his head.
"I suppose that makes sense," the Beastfolk Fox continued. "After all, I'd imagine it must be naught too soon before cleaning the mirk of being among the hapless humans of Legion End."
His voice was casual. As if it were a harmless observation. But there was mockery buried beneath it. Somewhere in the crowd, another laugh.
Namo's expression did not shift. Then—Katto felt it. The weight. The sudden shift in the air. Not magic. Not heat. But something else. A pressure—like standing before a predator that had just decided you were worth killing.
Katto's ear twitched. His instincts screamed at him to move. But he forced himself to remain still. Namo, slowly, turned his gaze to him. And for the last time that night, Katto smiled.
Namo had already decided to kill him. Well—that wasn't exactly true. Katto's life had never been important to him. Whether he lived or died didn't matter. It never had.
But now, as the aesthetician smirked across the room, taunting him with every word—Namo figured that if he were the one to do it, then that would be just fine.
Ramod cleared his throat, shifting the weight of the room. It was a subtle warning—one that told them all to settle down before things got out of hand.
But Katto didn't take the hint.
Instead, he pressed forward, sensing the irritation radiating from Namo like heat off the coals. He thought he had the upper hand. That was his mistake.
Katto chuckled, shaking his head. "Touched a nerve, have I?"
The flames on Namo's knuckles flickered.
"I'd be annoyed, too," Katto went on, voice dripping with mock sympathy, "if I had to waste time in that slum of humanity." He said it like the word itself was dirty. Like the humans he referred to weren't worth the breath it took to mention them.
Not once did he acknowledge the Beastfolk or the demons who also lived in Legion End. No—his disgust was pointed. Intentional. Then came the final twist of the knife.
Katto sighed dramatically. "Still, I'll give credit where it's due. You did the right thing burning it down." His golden eyes gleamed.
"After all—" he paused, just enough to make sure everyone was listening. "—after what you did to your own mother, it's only fair you'd burn away the place she worked before, too."
The room stilled. A sharp gasp, a ripple of murmurs. Not everyone knew. Not everyone had been privy to that part of Namo's past. But they did now.
For years, Katto had built his career on secrets. On knowing things about powerful people. And for years, that had made him untouchable.
But tonight?
Tonight, he had forgotten himself. Or worse—he had forgotten the King. For the first time since entering the hall, Achen Jio moved. Just a glance. His head turned toward Katto, slow and deliberate. That was all. No change in expression. No words.
But that single movement was enough. Because, in that very same instant—
—or perhaps even before—
—Achen Jio had already seen how this would end. He watched, almost in slow motion, as Namo moved. A single step forward. A burst of heat and a flash of flame.
Katto barely had time to react—his smirk still frozen in place—before Namo's fist, burning white-hot, collided with his face. The room cracked apart with screams. Katto's body hadn't even hit the floor before the shouting began.
"Murderer!"
"Arrest him!"
"Kill the wretch!"
Namo breathed it in. This was what home felt like. A chorus of rage. A kingdom tearing at the seams. His kingdom. His homecoming
Iana barely reacted. If anything-she was relieved. Katto had ruined her party, anyway. Her hair wasn't even that great.
And, for the briefest of moments, she felt a pang at the mention of Namo's mother. But she didn't dwell on it. Instead, her gaze flickered to Achen Jio.
The King had yet to pass judgment. The crowd raged, demanding justice, their voices pressing against her skull-
But Achen Jio was silent. And then, finally, he spoke. His voice cut through the noise like a blade, sharp and effortless.
"Welcome home, son."
The room fell still. And then, as if drawn by an unseen force-they bowed. Every single one of them. Even the ones who had screamed for Namo's head, now pressing their foreheads to the floor in perfect silence.
Namo alone remained standing.
His gaze locked onto his father's back as the King turned and strode away. At his side, Ramod followed.
As the doors slam closed, no one dares to break the silence. Which allows a moment of meditation to Namo.
Achen Jio hadn't punished him. Not even scolded him. Not for killing Katto. Not for setting the court into chaos. Not for dragging her name back into the light. Namo's mother.
The rumors had festered for years—whispers that Namo had been the one to kill her. But that wasn't true. And now, he had said it. Declared it. He would find the real culprit.
The crowd had raged, but his father? Achen Jio had simply watched. And for just a second—just a fraction of a moment—Namo had caught something in his father's gaze.
Not anger. Not disappointment. Something else. Something that made Namo wonder if Achen Jio had wanted Katto dead, too.
A slow grin crept onto Namo's face. It seemed there was more to his homecoming than he had thought.