...Leston's voice boomed through the vents, his rage palpable. "You hear me, Oliver? If I catch you, I'll break every bone in your body!" His threats echoed, growing distant as Oliver dragged himself deeper into the metallic tunnel.
Pain racked his body with every movement. His ribs screamed with each breath, and his limbs trembled from exertion. He clenched his jaw, biting down a groan. The taste of blood was thick in his mouth. Weak. He hated it—hated how feeble he was, how helpless. The agony wasn't just physical; it clawed at his pride, his resolve. He couldn't live like this again. He wouldn't.
He had lived many years beneath thumb of bullies, bowed to it, gotten used to it, and then broke under it.
Was he too, not a person like them? Was he not born with potential like them? Why was everyone so interested in climbing to the top, but with his shoulders as their ladder?
Well, not again, not in this life.
In his heart, he could not forget what Leston had done. This pain, he would pay back many folds.
His fingers dug into the steel as he pulled himself forward, each inch reinforcing his desperation. He had to find the Alchemist's Seal. Only then could he change his fate.
At this point, he had almost forgotten a direction, just moving wherever his instincts led him, both far away from his step brother, and to a possible destination.
Then, a voice stopped him. A voice he knew too well.
His father.
It had surprisingly come from a vent he was very familiar with. After all, this was the one leading into his late mother's room.
He had been there only about an hour ago. Obviously, if he had remained, he would have been met with his father.
Oliver froze, his ragged breaths stilled as he got himself comfortable enough to observe the situation.
He couldn't see much through the slats of the vent, but he recognized the polished, ceremonial shoes standing on the floor below. Richie von Rich. This was his father, and Crowned Prince of the kingdom.
Even though many only knew him as such, those that knew the ins of the kingdom knew that the king was too old and practically on his death bed. The kingdom was actually ruled by Richie Von Rich.
But more interestingly, he wasn't alone.
A second voice resonated through the room—a voice made of many voices, layered upon each other like a chorus of the damned. It was unnatural. Sickening. The moment it reached Oliver's ears, nausea gripped his stomach. His vision swam, his head pounded, and a terrifying pressure crushed down on his body as if his very blood was rejecting the presence of the unseen speaker.
He barely contained the urge to vomit.
Then, just as suddenly, the sensation vanished.
Relief washed over him like a wave of cold water. His breath returned. The room no longer spun. His limbs no longer shook under an unseen force. The suffocating pressure lifted. His father had intervened.
"Accra, you will do well to restrain yourself in my presence." Richie's voice was calm, commanding.
Accra. The name sent a shiver through Oliver's battered body. He knew that name.
A demon.
His mind scrambled through hazy recollections. Accra was any demon—he was a being of contracts and blood pacts, a creature whispered about in the most forbidden texts. Even deep in the Somaran Empire, the elites had spoke of the capabilities, cunny, and ruthlessness of this demon. A nightmare made flesh.
With what Oliver knew of his past life of demons, they were anything but friendly. Unless of course, it was for their own benefit. Why was his father meeting with a demon?
"Are you truly going to hand over the Alchemist's Seal to the Somaran Empire?" Accra's voice slithered through the air.
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then Richie von Rich chuckled, a low, bitter sound. He exhaled a weary sigh, a tone Oliver had rarely heard from him. "At this point, it wouldn't matter. This kingdom is too far gone. I let the Empire believe what I wanted them to believe—to buy myself a little more time, and the fee for the seal."
Oliver's heart pounded. 'Too far gone? Fee for the seal? What did that mean?'
"Every nook and cranny already has the smell of their handy work. And honestly I can't be bothered with it." Richie Von Rich added.
Accra pressed on. "And what of your family? Your wives, your many children? Your Precious Kingdom of Tyrell."
Richie didn't hesitate. "They don't matter."
The words hit Oliver like a dagger to the chest.
"They were merely tools. A means to hide my true desire. So that when the time came, I would have quality sacrifices for my true goal. You do know what I mean don't you!?"
The dark tendrils around the demon seemed to flicker a bit, as if the creature had nodded in understanding. Clearly, he knew Richie von Rich enough to know his desires.
However, Oliver's breath caught. His body went cold. Sacrifices.
The implications settled in his gut like a block of ice. He never cared. Not for his wives. Not for Velma. Not for him. And apparently definitely not for the kingdom as a whole.
So many people sacrificed just for the mere desire of one man.
His fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood.
Then his father moved.
Oliver forced himself to focus as Richie stepped toward the far wall. With a wave of his hand, a ripple of golden runes pulsed across the stone surface, illuminating a hidden passage. The air shimmered, revealing an ornate compartment embedded within the wall.
Inside, resting on a pedestal of black marble, was the Alchemist's Seal.
Oliver's breath hitched.
The artifact radiated power, its intricate engravings shifting as if alive. The runes that lined its edges glowed faintly, pulsating with an ancient energy. This was it. The very thing that could change his fate.
He had to get it. No matter what.
But before he could even think of moving, Accra's shadow shifted.
Oliver's blood ran cold as the demon turned toward the vent.
Had he been discovered?