Late Loyalty is Costly
The Demon King's Castle office was still hell. More precisely, it was a more systematic hell than yesterday. Papers were piled like mountains on the desk. A list of rebellion participants. A list of fugitives. A palace damage inventory. Estimated troop movements from the eastern military camp. And still, the one thing all those papers had in common was that even I couldn't make sense of them.
“……” I picked up the pen, then quietly set it down. I was finished. I had thought becoming Demon King meant sitting on the Black King's Throne and declaring, “Kahaha, this is my era.” Reality was different. The crown wasn't forged from gold. It was shackles made of endless work notifications. Ones you couldn't unsubscribe from.
“Your Majesty.” The elderly minister Hermun stood before me. He carried the damp, musty air typical of political fossils—an old man aged like something left at the bottom of a drained well for a thousand years.
“Shall I continue the report?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I don't think so.”
Hermun fell silent for a moment. “Yet you must hear it.”
“Then why ask?”
“To confirm whether Your Majesty still possesses the leisure to answer questions.”
His perfect courtesy only made it more infuriating. I rubbed my forehead. On the very first day of my reign I had ordered executions, sealed the palace, declared rebels, arranged funerals, and responded to the human envoys. Quite the productive schedule. This wasn't a new-employee orientation; it was an instant execution-ground experience package.
“Continue.”
“The palace seal remains in effect. Two junior attendants from the outer palace were caught attempting to flee. One is suspected to be a messenger from Belion's side.”
“Suspected?”
“They refuse to speak.”
“Make them speak.”
The words left my mouth short and cold. The problem came afterward. My stomach twisted. I had just ordered torture. I hated killing, and I hated torture even more. Still, I didn't take the words back. If I did, it would be over. Rumors would spread that the new Demon King worried about traitors' tongues.
“I obey.” Hermun recorded it without a flicker of emotion. A mad world. A mad old man. And the mad bastard sitting above them both. That was me.
“Next.”
“Some of Kalen Drak's remnants reportedly attempted contact with western noble houses.”
“Western?”
“Yes. The Roadmia ducal house in particular is moving swiftly.”
I reached for the pen, then stopped. Roadmia. At the sound of that name my fingertips stiffened for the briefest instant. I hoped Hermun hadn't noticed. Of course he had. That old man could read political meaning in the flicker of a candle shadow.
“Roadmia?” I asked, forcing boredom into my voice.
“Yes, Your Majesty. They have already sent a letter of loyalty.”
“Already?”
“It appears they stationed a messenger before the dawn seal was even lifted.”
How diligent. The world was truly efficient when it came to delivering exactly the names I most wanted to avoid.
“Fast.”
“Indeed,” Hermun said. “Speed generally means one of two things: loyalty or fear.”
I looked at him. “And nobles? Which is it usually?”
“The third option.”
“Which is?”
“Calculation.”
As expected. I gave a small laugh. “Read it.”
Archduke Roadmia recognizes the legitimacy of the new Demon King, Your Majesty Lucion Vergrad, and condemns the illegal military actions of the rebel Belion…
The words were long. The meaning was simple: We have always been on Your Majesty's side. Truly. Please believe us. It may have looked as though we had one foot in Belion's camp until yesterday, but that was merely a political misunderstanding. Noble bullshit, wrapped in silk.
“Roadmia leaned toward Belion.”
“Yes.”
“They also had contact with Kalen.”
“They did.”
“Then this isn't loyalty. It's insurance.”
Hermun offered no reply. His silence was confirmation enough.
Roadmia didn't trust me. They probably didn't believe I would last long. Yet they had sent the oath anyway. Why? Because while I still breathed, they had to bow their heads. Politics was the art of wrapping shit in gold leaf and presenting it as a gift.
“Who is the envoy?” I asked.
Hermun hesitated. Just for a moment. In that brief pause I already knew the answer.
“It is Lady Evelyn Roadmia.”
My hand stopped. This time the pause lasted longer. Evelyn. The name dropped onto the office floor. I said nothing. I was afraid my voice would shake if I spoke. Memories surfaced. The rain-slick corridor. Evelyn's cold eyes. 'It is not because I dislike Your Highness.''It is because Your Highness cannot survive.' She hadn't left out of hatred. She had judged and discarded me. Something inside my chest sank. Still, the corners of my mouth had tried to smile. The lie that I understood. And her retreating back. She had let go precisely, beautifully, at an angle that preserved every ounce of her family's dignity.
I tapped the desk with my fingers. Once. Twice. Three times. Matching my heartbeat to the rhythm.
“Evelyn is coming in person.”
“That is correct.”
“Why?”
“From the family's perspective, she is their most valuable card. On paper, the engagement with Your Majesty has not been formally dissolved.”
I laughed. “Engagement.” A strange word. It promised marriage, yet in noble society it was merely a rose-scented hostage contract.
“Roadmia intends to use that engagement?”
“There is a high likelihood.”
“Hoping I still harbor feelings for Evelyn?”
Hermun did not answer at once. That silence was answer enough.
I leaned back in the chair. A laugh escaped me—not because anything was truly funny, but because if I didn't laugh my face might collapse.
“When they discard you, it's family,” I said. “When they want something back, it's engagement.”
Hermun bowed his head. “Convenient.”
My voice came out lower than expected. “Nobles are remarkably good at recycling emotions.”
Roadmia hadn't come because they liked me. Evelyn probably felt the same. She wasn't coming out of regret. Not yet. She was coming because her family was in danger. Because her father had ordered it. This wasn't a love story. It was a hostage transaction, wrapped in the packaging of a former fiancée.
“How will you respond?” Hermun asked.
A good question. One wrong choice here and another head would roll. The trouble with this world was that every decision carried my neck as the stake. If this were a game there would at least be save-load. Reality was auto-save. Brutal difficulty.
I thought. Refuse Roadmia's oath and they would be driven toward Belion—or at minimum become my enemies. I had no room to add more enemies right now. Accept the oath and Roadmia would claim the title of “first house to pledge loyalty to the new Demon King.” Too easily. Too cheaply. Then let Evelyn enter immediately and the family would succeed. They would believe sending the former fiancée had moved the Demon King's heart. The other nobles would learn the lesson: the new Demon King was still weak to old affections.
No.
“I will accept the oath,” I said.
Hermun's eyes moved quietly.
“But I will not permit her entry to the palace.”
The office fell silent. A drop of ink fell from the pen tip and spread across the document.
Hermun asked, “May I inquire as to the reason?”
I looked at him. The real reason was simple: I didn't want to see her. Seeing her might make me waver. But a Demon King could not issue orders from wounded feelings. A Demon King had to be a king who calculated before closing doors, not a man who closed them because he was hurt.
I laughed. “Late loyalty should be made to wait. Its value rises with time.”
Hermun's expression stiffened slightly.
“If Roadmia truly intends to be loyal, waiting a day or two should pose no difficulty.”
“Your Majesty.”
“They had time to discard me once.” I paused. The moment the words left my mouth, something inside me scratched raw. It still hurt. Fuck. It still hurt. But I said it anyway. “This time they can afford to wait as well.”
Hermun said nothing. He was calculating whether I had revealed emotion or power. I hated the feeling of being measured, so I spoke first.
“Accept the oath document. Inform Archduke Roadmia that, due to the ongoing chaos within the palace, we will adjust the audience schedule accordingly.”
“Yes.”
“And deliver a separate message to Evelyn Roadmia.”
Hermun lifted his head. “What shall I convey?”
I tapped the desk once. Twice. Then stopped.
“Tell her not to come wearing the black gem.”
Hermun's eyes shook for the first time—clearly, if only for an instant. He likely knew nothing of the necklace, yet he understood. This was not a political statement. It was a personal blade.
“Shall I deliver it exactly as spoken?”
“Yes.” My voice was cold. “I am receiving a loyalty oath, not memories.”
The office froze. Those words were meant for Roadmia. They were also meant for me. I would not accept memories. Accepting them would make me waver. Wavering would mean death. And I had no intention of dying—not as an abandoned prince again.
Hermun slowly bowed his head. “I obey.”
His voice was lower than before. I couldn't read his thoughts, but I felt one thing clearly: he was reevaluating me. Until moments ago I had been the young prince who had stumbled onto the throne. Now? At least someone who knew how to turn his own wounds into a blade. That much, perhaps, he acknowledged. How moving. A job where self-harm earned you a promotion.
The afternoon at Roadmia Mansion stretched long. Evelyn waited in her formal palace attire: a black dress with silver-threaded sleeves and the black gem necklace Lucion had chosen for her long ago. In the mirror she looked flawless, cold, aristocratic—the eldest daughter of a ducal house come to pledge loyalty to the new Demon King. She did not look like a woman waiting to be summoned by the man she had once discarded. At least, that was what she wanted to believe.
“My lady,” the maid called from beyond the door. “A reply has arrived from the palace.”
Evelyn's fingertips stilled. “Let them in.”
The messenger entered—a low-ranking official bearing the Black King's Castle crest. He bowed respectfully.
“The loyalty oath from the Roadmia ducal house has been accepted.”
Evelyn exhaled, barely audible. He had accepted it. Lucion had accepted the oath. Then it wasn't over yet. If she could enter the palace, bow her head, defend her family, apologize if necessary—No. Apology? Evelyn pushed the word away. This was politics. Not personal sentiment.
“However,” the messenger continued.
Evelyn's breath caught again.
“His Majesty has declined to permit Lady Evelyn Roadmia's entry, citing that the palace remains in a state of unresolved chaos.”
The room fell silent. Evelyn did not blink. He had refused. Lucion had refused her entry.
“Is there any other message?”
The messenger hesitated. In that hesitation Evelyn knew there was more.
“Speak.”
The messenger bowed. “His Majesty instructed me to convey the following.”
Evelyn's fingers rose unconsciously to the necklace. The black gem was cold.
“He said not to come wearing the black gem necklace.”
At that moment her hand froze. It felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. The messenger continued.
“His Majesty said he is receiving the Roadmia family's loyalty oath, not memories.”
Memories. He would not accept them. Evelyn could not speak. The sentence was quieter than any blade, which made it cut deeper. She was still touching the necklace—the one Lucion had given her, the one she had never been able to discard even after discarding him, the one she had hidden deep in a drawer as useless sentiment and taken out again today, telling herself it was not an apology.
Yet Lucion had known. He had known exactly what she would wear, what she would offer, what she would try to use to pry open the past. He had known everything. And he had closed the door.
“My lady,” the maid called softly.
Evelyn did not answer. The black gem cooled against her fingertips. Lucion would not see her. He had accepted the oath. He had spared the family. But he had left her standing outside the door—nobly, royally, and cruelly.
Evelyn understood only then. Lucion had not failed to forgive her. He had simply not yet placed her in a position where forgiveness or punishment even mattered.