here was silence, nothing more, nothing less.

Ever since he came back, it only had been silence. A heavy, quiescent song that cloaked his castle like a dark fog. The winds had ceased, their howls dying with all other sounds. The vultures became aphasic, their screeches absent. And he enjoyed it. Enjoyed that muteness, as though the world had died. As though it had fallen to the hell he was trying to bring. But he relished it more for that it separated him from the world, leaving him with the darkness of his mind.

It was the perfectness that accompanied destruction. The pernicious chant that shadows sang in the most desperate times. The times he would bring back.

His indolent eyes stared at the flickering flames as his mind drifted to when it would be Ardoria burning in those fires. To when he would hold this world in his victorious grip.

Soon, he thought, twirling the glass between his fingers. He took one sip, then the other, his eyes still gazing blankly. Soon, all Ardoria will turn to ashes.

Blake took another gulp before turning his head to the window, his eyes greeted by the sight of a starless night. Black as coal was the firmament, washed by the darkest of shadows, a mirror to his soul.

He brought the rim closer to his lips, taking in the scent of the crimson blood. It was the best found in Eziara but it wasn't enough to please him anymore. Nothing had been able to please him ever since he got a taste of the princess' blood. A blood filled with so much strength as though the strongest powers of heaven had been poured into it.

The thought only turned his smile into a malicious smirk.

She will fall, too.

He would make her cry for mercy, would watch her beg and plea before he would take over her throne. Over everything she held dear.

He would be king, no matter what it might cost.

His eyes drifted from the sky to the portrait hung over the fancy fireplace, his hand reaching unconsciously for the heavy crown resting on his skull.

He traced it all with his stares. From the horns to the massive wings to the three-edged tail, Blake observed. As he did so, a fire raged in his core. A fire that made his soul crave to be lifted by those powerful wings. To nestle again in the body it used to own eight millennium years ago.

The demon prince drank again, sipping all the beverage in one go, the fluid burning his throat, fueling that same fire.

Blake continued staring, forgetting the track of time until the silence died. The resonation of heels against tiled floor pierced through the mute cocoon he had cloaked himself with, echoing in his head.

Carelessly, he turned to look at her. At his queen and mother. Lysithea sauntered her way, her strides elegant and demanding with shadows dancing at her feet. A raven cape dangled from her shoulders, the velvety fabric trailing behind. Her eyes, the color of bold, fresh blood, met her son's. And they were mirrors to hers, smoldering and glowering with the same intensity.

She sat on the throne-shaped chair, pouring herself a glass. The dim lights provided by the fire hit the ruby dangling from her head chain, accentuating her sharp features.

"You came back early,'' she said, twirling one black curl around her index as a the edges of a snarl turned her lips. A sign Blake knew all too well that indicated she wasn't pleased. ''She has the book, now. You failed.''

''It doesn't change a thing,'' replied the prince, the haughty look given by his mother invoking his wrath. ''Celestia will fall, all Ardoria will. She is nothing but a naïve soul playing a game she can never win.''

''She will bring Aragon back.''

''By the time his powers recover fully, war will already be destroying city after city. That, if the poison doesn't kill him first. He will no longer be the mighty king he used to be.''

Lysithea's lips twisted upwards, her smile far darker than her son's. ''It is only a matter of time, then. They will not know what will hit them. Once the moon bleeds, they will discover what the true extent of our power is.''

Blake raised his glass, his eyes darting to the portrait for a flicker of a second. An action that passed unseen to his mother. Pulling on a fraudulent smile, he said, ''A toast to our future victory.''

Her snifter clung against his, the sound of glass against glass echoing. The prince smiled as he watched her drink, lifting his cup to his mouth once again, his smile turning into a deadly smirk.

The shadows shrouding his mind intensified as he drank, his soul feeding on the darkness in the air as the faintest of voices whispered in his head. A voice born from wrath and hate and a burning wish to destroy.

They won't know what will hit them. Neither will you.