As the words fell, the short blade dropped like a shaft of light, straight toward Rafi, slicing air, slicing space, severing past and future like silk.
It cleaved something else as well—the stone by Rafi’s foot, cracked like a dry seed.
While Rafi blinked, dumbstruck, the Demon King gave his final decree, his voice a bronze bell over a frozen lake.
Traitor, who dared strike an ally; grievous offender—Rafi.
Today I slew her with my own hand, leaving only her twin sister alone, like ash scattered by wind.
Her sister petitioned to inherit the name “Rafi”; I, the Demon King, with supreme authority, grant that name like a seal pressed into warm wax.
From this day, the sister bears the name Rafi.
Rafi froze, a river of ice in her chest; dead one breath, alive the next—what kind of trick of fate was this?
The Demon King watched her stunned silence, reached out, and lifted her; like a leaf caught in a current, Rafi rose.
His judgment didn’t end; the gavel was still falling like distant thunder.
The sentence was five hundred years of imprisonment plus death; since Rafi has died, the bearer of her name will shoulder it, like a chain passed to the next wrist.
He conjured a small ledger from empty air and ticked a box, lazy as a cat in sunlight.
By decision, Rafi will be confined in a small keep on the third floor of the building closest to my castle.
It sits on Demon King Street in the city center, a gilded cage with a view.
By the Daemon principle of mercy, she’s granted 168 hours each week to freely come and go from the confinement room; all week long, the hourglass is hers.
Thus, judgment concluded, like a curtain falling.
Then the Demon King unraveled into smoke and left, an ink stroke fading in air, but not before dropping a key into Rafi’s palm like a cold star.
Life’s whiplash must be like this; her heart thudded like opening loot boxes, each click hoping for a legendary that never exists.
The gold flare promised a legend, and it turned out a gold‑tier common, a firefly when she’d prayed for lightning.
Bottom line, she never wanted this rollercoaster again; her heart was a bruised drum, especially now, before it had even healed.
After her thoughts ran wild like weeds, Rafi still picked up the key and dragged her heavy body away.
Behind her, in a well of shadow, a pair of red eyes burned like coals.
Sorry... Rafi... this was the only way to save you...
The voice trembled like rain on paper, almost a sob.
Click.
Rafi turned the key and opened the door to her new home.
A room lay beyond, white as a blank page, empty but for a lone sofa in the center, echoing like a shell.
Weariness hit first, heavy as wet cloth.
Looks like I’ll have to trouble this body, tired like a three‑headed hound of the Underworld, to go buy some furniture...
Grumble first, grit later; she hated inconvenient living, so her body obeyed, shut the door, and trudged toward the furniture shop like a cart on one wheel.
She pushed on under the Underworld’s blistering sun, the heat a hammer even Daemons felt.
Truth be told, Rafi had no idea why the Underworld had a sun at all, a candle burning in a tomb.
Cursing wouldn’t make it vanish, so she quickened her pace like a lizard darting for shade.
Clank! Clank!
After only a few steps, the clashing of armor rang in her ears like iron rain.
In a residential block there shouldn’t be heavy troops, so something big was cutting the surface like a fin.
Curiosity pricked like a thorn; she looked toward the sound, and one glance tied a knot in her gut.
A knot of Daemon citizens crowded there like crows.
The tall soldiers rose above them like pines, shoving onlookers aside as they dragged a prison cage.
Prisoner transports weren’t rare; back at the Demon King’s side, Rafi had handled plenty, sorting stones in a river.
But this time something was off, a sour note on the wind.
The cage meant for Daemon criminals held a golden‑haired human girl—no.
Rafi lifted her small nose and tasted the air; after filtering Daemon stench like smoke through cloth, a clear scent remained.
It was Beastfolk, wild grass after rain.
But weren’t Beastfolk those ugly, long‑haired brutes? How did this human‑looking girl fit that mold?
If not for her keen nose, sharp as a fox’s, she’d have missed it.
Disgust rose like bile.
Tribute for the Demon King, from those ministers?
Heh, it fits those old men—clawing for power, scheming over useless gold, dirty as gutter water.
She snorted, a spark from cold iron, and looked at the caged girl.
The girl’s eyes held no light; scars latticed her body like dried rivers, her life already winter.
Rage curled for whoever carved marks into someone so young, a knife with no hilt.
The girl felt Rafi’s gaze and raised her battered head, vacant eyes drifting back like dead stars.
A chill settled, heavy as ash.
Rafi angled her body to leave; she wanted none of it.
The despair in those pupils smothered any urge to save—if you’ve dropped your own torch, how do you ask for another’s light?
Hn?
Before she turned, the girl’s lips trembled like moth wings, trying to shape a sound.
Rafi read lips like a second script; bubbles of syllables rose—Save... me?
She let out a dry, inward laugh; so much for her big words—she’d just tripped over them.
Good grief...
