The invitation arrived without ceremony.
No royal seal. No official courier. No guards bursting into halls with alarmed expressions. It came as a folded piece of black paper placed neatly beside Aurelian's evening tea, as if it had always belonged there.
Elion noticed it immediately.
"That wasn't there a moment ago," he said, staring.
"No," Aurelian agreed calmly. "It wasn't."
Elion reached for it, then stopped himself. "Is it dangerous?"
Aurelian picked it up instead. The paper was warm—not hot, not threatening, just warm enough to feel intentional. The script was elegant, flowing, written in a language that bent slightly between meanings. He read it easily.
"A request," he said. "For conversation."
Elion frowned. "From who?"
Aurelian glanced toward the western sky, now darkening into deep crimson and violet. "Someone who dislikes unnecessary noise."
That answer did not help.
"I don't like this," Elion muttered. "This is how people disappear."
Aurelian smiled faintly. "If someone wanted me gone, you wouldn't be aware long enough to worry."
Elion went pale. "That's not comforting."
"It's accurate," Aurelian replied.
He folded the paper once and slipped it into his coat. "I'll go alone."
Elion stood abruptly. "Absolutely not."
Aurelian raised an eyebrow.
"I'm serious," Elion insisted. "If this is the demon court—"
"—then bringing soldiers would turn a conversation into a statement," Aurelian finished. "And statements invite replies."
Elion clenched his jaw. "You're not even officially part of this kingdom."
"That," Aurelian said gently, "is precisely why I'm useful."
Silence stretched between them.
"…Will you come back?" Elion asked, quieter.
Aurelian paused, then nodded. "Yes."
That was enough.
The meeting place was nowhere important.
A ruined watchtower stood at the edge of the western plains, abandoned after borders shifted and maps were redrawn. Its stones were cracked, its interior open to the sky. Mana pooled there naturally, undisturbed by wards or politics.
Aurelian arrived alone, walking rather than teleporting. There was value in letting others feel the passage of time.
She was already there.
Sitting on a fallen stone, legs crossed, posture relaxed to the point of impropriety. Her hair was long and dark, catching faint crimson highlights from the sky. Two slender horns curved back from her temples—not aggressive, not hidden. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and very old.
She smiled when she saw him.
"So you did come," she said.
Aurelian inclined his head. "You invited me politely."
She laughed softly. "That's a rare compliment."
Aurelian studied her without hurry.
Demon royalty, he concluded. Not the ruler. Not the heir. But close enough to matter.
"You're not what I expected," she added, tilting her head. "I imagined someone louder."
"I retired from being loud," Aurelian replied. "It was inefficient."
That amused her. "You're the one who disrupted three council factions without raising your voice."
"I merely clarified their incentives."
She stood smoothly and approached, stopping a respectful distance away. "They call me Serathiel."
"Aurelian."
"I know."
Of course she did.
Serathiel circled him slowly, openly curious. "You don't smell like a hero. Or a priest. Or a general."
"Good," Aurelian said. "I dislike categories."
"You should," she replied. "They're usually a prelude to violence."
She stopped in front of him. "Why are you here?"
Aurelian considered several answers. Chose the simplest.
"I died," he said. "And woke up in a place that hasn't decided what it wants to become."
Serathiel blinked. Then laughed—genuinely this time.
"Oh," she said. "That explains so much."
Aurelian allowed himself a small smile.
They sat across from each other on broken stone, the distance between them neither hostile nor intimate.
"My people are watching the human kingdom closely," Serathiel said. "Some want war. Some want trade. Some want to wait until the loud ones exhaust themselves."
"And you?" Aurelian asked.
She shrugged. "I dislike boring outcomes."
Aurelian nodded. "Then you should avoid war."
She raised an eyebrow. "Strong words from a human."
"From a ruler," Aurelian corrected. "War simplifies narratives. It makes terrible leaders look competent."
Serathiel leaned back on her hands. "And peace?"
"Peace exposes flaws," Aurelian said. "Which is why insecure people fear it."
She studied him carefully now. "You're advising the human prince."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Aurelian looked up at the sky. "Because he's trying to carry a crown that hasn't finished forming."
Serathiel was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled—not mockingly, but thoughtfully.
"You know," she said, "if you were demonkind, you'd be dangerous."
Aurelian met her gaze evenly. "So would you, if you were human."
They shared a moment of mutual recognition.
Serathiel stood. "I won't interfere. For now."
"That's all I ask," Aurelian said.
She paused, then added, "If the boy fails?"
Aurelian answered without hesitation. "Then I failed first."
Serathiel laughed softly again. "How very human of you."
She stepped back, the air around her subtly shifting.
"We'll speak again," she said. "I have questions. About dying. And about refusing eternity."
Aurelian inclined his head. "I'll make time."
When she vanished, the watchtower felt emptier—but calmer.
Aurelian returned to the palace just before dawn.
Elion was waiting, eyes red, posture rigid.
"You're alive," Elion said flatly.
"Yes."
"…That's it?"
Aurelian considered. "She's intelligent. Curious. Not interested in immediate conflict."
Elion exhaled shakily. "That's… good?"
"It's survivable," Aurelian said.
Elion stared at him, then laughed—short, breathless, relieved. "You really don't rush, do you?"
"No," Aurelian replied. "Rushing is how people die unnecessarily."
As the sun rose over Lythar, Aurelian felt something settle into place.
Not destiny.
Responsibility.
And this time, he had chosen it.