They say I opened my eyes and smiled at the Queen of Hell.
Not cried. Not screamed. Just smiled like I already knew where I was.
The maids fainted. The midwife retired. And my mother, Queen Laziryn, tilted her head and said, “How curious.”
I was only a few hours old when they decided I was a prodigy.A demon child with limitless potential.A perfect product of House Draven’s cursed bloodline.
But here’s the truth:I wasn’t a genius. I wasn’t blessed.
I was just someone who’d already lived once.
At just two years old, Princess Riku read aloud from a tome older than the kingdom itself.
The room fell into silence. The demonic script was sacred meant to be deciphered only by the highest scholars of House Draven. The child didn’t stumble. Didn’t pause. She read with perfect cadence, her small fingers trailing over inked sigils as if they were bedtime stories.
King Vaeroth leaned forward on his obsidian throne, his emerald eyes alight. “Fascinating,” he murmured, voice low and rich with amusement. “She even pronounces the blood-words correctly. Delicious.”
Queen Laziryn’s crimson gaze flicked toward the tutor, who stood pale and trembling. “You may go,” she said. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
The man fled, barely managing a bow.
Riku sat in silence, her small hands folded in her lap. On the outside, she was calm, obedient perfect. On the inside, her mind raced.
Too much. I did too much.
She had only wanted to read. She liked books. They made sense more than these people, more than this castle of cold eyes and warm blood. But her “gift” was too noticeable. She could feel their stares now weighty, hungry.
Amon stood beside their mother, his arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on her too long.
“Perhaps,” Laziryn said slowly, “we’ve given birth to something greater than expected.”
“She is our child,” Amon replied. His voice was soft, but carried a chill. “Is it really so surprising?”
Riku looked down, carefully lowering her gaze to appear humble. Internally, she was screaming.
This isn’t normal. None of this is normal. You people are monsters.
But she said none of that.
Instead, she smiled. A gentle, practiced curve of her lips. It made her father chuckle.
“I like her,” Vaeroth said. “She’s already better than half the generals in this wretched realm.”
They laughed. All of them. Except Amon, who only watched.
Riku remained quiet, her hands clasped like a doll’s. Still. Perfect. Obedient.
Inside, she counted every step to the door, every shadowed corner she could hide in, every word she could twist if she had to lie.
You’re not a prodigy, she told herself. You’re a survivor.When Riku was five years old, she watched her brother train with a blade in the courtyard.
The sun had dipped just enough to cast long shadows across the blood-red stone. She sat quietly near the edge of the obsidian steps, a little doll in black silk, her green eyes sharp beneath her bangs. Amon was moving like a shadow himself, gliding through the drills with precision as their father, King Vaeroth, observed with a cold smile and arms folded behind his back.
Riku didn’t blink. She was mesmerized.
She didn’t understand the form names not in this life—but she remembered enough from her old one. Amon’s movements were clean, efficient… but there were openings. Small ones. Too small for anyone else to notice. But she saw them. And once she did, she couldn’t unsee them.
Amon turned to wipe his brow and caught her staring.
Their eyes met.
She looked away quickly, but not fast enough.
“You want to try,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Father’s laugh rumbled from across the court. “Let the girl hold a blade. She is of Draven blood.”
A moment later, a sword smaller, lighter was pressed into her hand. It felt oddly familiar. The weight, the grip. Her tiny hands adjusted with a confidence that made the guard shift uneasily.
Amon raised his brows. “Be careful,” he said gently, “I won’t hold back just because you’re”
She lunged.
The first clash of metal rang out across the yard like a cry.
They sparred. Or rather, she moved, and he reacted barely. Amon’s face shifted from playful to stunned in the span of seconds as Riku pressed in, dodged, countered. She didn’t think, she remembered. Old instincts, old reflexes, old lessons from a world where she had no power but watched, always watched.
Then she got him. A light cut across his shoulder. Shallow. Clean.
Silence.
Amon lowered his blade, stunned. Blood bloomed along his training shirt.
King Vaeroth clapped once. Then again, harder.
“Well, well,” he said, voice laced with pride and something darker. “She bleeds royalty.”
Riku stood there, chest rising and falling, sword still in hand. She should’ve smiled. Should’ve looked proud. But she didn’t.
She stared at the blade. At the crimson on it.
I wasn’t trying to win, she thought. I just moved. It was just muscle memory… right?
Amon stepped closer, crouched down so they were eye-level. His voice was calm. “That was excellent, Riku.”
She met his eyes. For a moment, something passed between them understanding… or warning.
He ruffled her hair gently, as if nothing had happened, but she knew better. She knew he’d remember this moment.
Behind him, she heard the faint rustle of silk. above them, Queen Laziryn had appeared on the balcony, watching her daughter with renewed interest.
That was the day everything shifted, Riku was no longer just a prodigy.
She was a weapon in the making.
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