Saturday, April 14th — 12:00 p.m.
Location: The Crystal Palace, Council Seat of the 26
Tagline: It's not treason if everyone is judging each other equally
The Crystal Palace looked less like a palace and more like a god got bored with physics and built a migraine. Suspended in midair through twenty-six anchors of pure elemental resonance and barely restrained ego, it shimmered with the kind of diplomatic tension usually found in marriages arranged for empire preservation. Today, it was hosting something worse than an international scandal: the Silver Kings and the Demon Hunter Crown Princes had been invited into the same room. Willingly. And no one had died yet.
Yet.
All eighteen elders from the Eight Realms were in attendance a feat akin to herding narcissistic cats with control issues. Add the eight Demon Hunter Elders, who walked around with the spiritual equivalent of a middle finger on their faces, and this gathering looked more like a divine punishment than a meeting.
The Silver Kings were seated in the north wing, lounging with the elegance of people who knew their chairs cost more than a national budget. Lucien Elder of the Regulators had his fingers templed and was muttering prayers for caffeine and possibly violence. This was not on his schedule. None of them had been told the Demon Hunter Elders would be bringing heirs — and not just any heirs, but royals. Actual Crown Princes.
"Since when do Demon Hunters have royals?" asked Jaereth, Silver King of the Elari, with the expression of someone who just found a centipede in his imported wine.
Elder Asran, one of the Demon Hunter Eight, deadpanned, "Just because we don't parade them like peacocks doesn't mean they don't exist."
A beat.
Another Elder leaned back and added helpfully, "They are the current Crown Princes of the Four Clans. Equivalent to you."
Dead silence. Somewhere, a decorative crystal tried to kill itself.
Mateo, Silver King of the Mourned Flame, blinked once. "So you're telling me the Demon Hunters have Princes. Like us. But angry. And unmedicated."
"Correct," said Elder Yashan, adjusting his jade-ringed cuffs.
Lucien spoke at last. "And you're telling me this now?"
"Surprise builds character," muttered Tyr Roen Vex one of the Princes from the far side of the room, barefoot, sleeveless, beard braided down his chest with a dagger threaded through like it was normal behavior.
There were four of them.
Gideon Varrick, First Prince of the Black Flame Order, stood nearly seven feet tall. Dreadlocks threaded with silver, skin like obsidian inscribed with kinetic runes, and the aura of a man who has fought his own grief and won. He bowed with minimal amusement. "Evening." His voice shattered a minor ward three floors up.
Mateo clutched his ear. "Did your voice just smite my left eardrum?"
Gideon didn't reply. He didn't need to. His existence was already an answer to a question no one had dared ask.
Daelen Raive, Second Prince, looked like an exorcism in human form — laughing while the blood dried. He twirled a dagger with the ease of someone who used it to stir his tea. "I like your gun," he said to Mateo. "What's her name?"
Mateo, squinting: "Carnage."
Daelen's smile widened. "Mine's Consequence."
They exchanged what could only be described as polite psychopath nods.
Solin Veilstrike, Third, said nothing. Because that's what he did. Silence was his weapon. He dressed like a scholar recovering from war crimes and moved like he hadn't forgiven the concept of language.
And Tyr Roen Vex, the Fourth, who grinned like war crimes were a dating profile and diplomacy was an athletic sport he intended to ruin. He had no shoes. No sleeves. Just biceps, sarcasm, and a face made for mugshots.
The Silver Kings groaned in near unison.
"They're our level," muttered Callen, King of the Northern Cliffs, trying not to look directly at Solin, who seemed to be unblinking on purpose.
"They're worse," said Ryker, King of Nocturne. "They smile."
"But why introduce them now?" asked one of the Council Elders, who should've known better.
"Because," said Asran, "they've just completed their Rite of Passage. They've been sealed in a nest for two years. A nest that even your kings would file as 'Nope' in the archives."
A few of the Silver Kings straightened. Mateo's hand flexed near Carnage.
Lucien raised one eyebrow. "You put four teenage heirs in an unclassified demon nest for two years and expected sanity?"
"We got warriors," said Elder Yashan. "Sanity was never the goal."
"They've completed over 5,000 missions each," said Elder Liora from the Hunters' side. "Most not documented. No streams. No statistics. Because we don't need applause to bury demons."
That silenced the room.
Mateo leaned toward Daelen again. "5,000?"
Daelen twirled his blade. "I like hobbies."
It got worse.
The announcement followed: Demon Hunters would now officially begin taking assignments from the Crystal Palace. They'd follow directives to a degree. The Princes were here as a test. If they liked the arrangement, more would follow. If not…
Well, the silence that followed was very loud.
Lucien, pinching the bridge of his nose: "Why wasn't I informed?"
Elder Yashan again. "We thought you'd like the surprise."
Lucien stood. "I'm going to get coffee. And then I'm going to strangle a flower arrangement. Possibly both."
In the background, one of the Elder chairs — a decorative monstrosity made of stone and light — cracked under the pressure of Solin's mood.
And still, the Elders from the Eight Realms tried to act smug. All-male, of course, because the Defense Council apparently thought testicles equaled tactical superiority. They were throwing jabs at the 'soft' councils the ones with women not realizing it was those councils whose quiet decisions kept the entire royal lineage propped up on actual legal webbing, subtle intimidation, and so much blackmail it had to be organized alphabetically.
"Is this going to be permanent?" asked Elder Mavros, twitching in his seat like his racism was fighting for air.
"If they like it," said Elder Asran with a smile that could sharpen steel, "yes."
And just like that, diplomacy gained a new carnage-adjacent flavor.
One of the Realms' Elders leaned in again. "Why didn't you reveal the Queens?"
Elder Liora didn't even blink. "Because we like not getting assassinated. And degenerates tend to crawl out of sewers when they hear the word 'Queen.'"
Mateo, whispering to Ryker: "I don't want to work with these guys."
Ryker: "I know you don't. But if we don't, we'll look like cowards."
Daelen, casually: "You are cowards. But charming ones."
Gideon looked around once, eyes cold. "You sent us into a cursed pit for two years. Let us out now. And then you wonder why we smile with teeth."
Lucien returned with his coffee, muttered something about needing vacation time, and sat back down just in time for Mateo to lean over and whisper again.
"So. We're either allies. Or prey."
Daelen smiled brightly. "No, no. Colleagues."
War was coming. But first, bureaucracy. And this time, the office chairs were weaponized.