Chapter 5: Dagon, Prince of hell

Chief Broch sat in his grand chair within the council hall, his fingers drumming against the armrest in slow, deliberate movements. The dim torchlight cast long shadows against the stone walls, and the air carried the faint scent of burning embers. His thoughts, however, were far from the present.

His mind drifted back to the previous night's dinner. The tension in the air had been thick-so thick he could have carved through it with a blade. Azreal, his own blood, had once again tested his patience, his arrogance simmering just beneath the surface. The way his son spoke, the blatant disregard in his eyes... it was enough to make Broch's jaw clench even now.

Then there was Eve. Unlike Azreal, she knew when to hold her tongue, but she was no less troublesome. He had seen it in her eyes-that same fire, that same defiance that had been her father's before her. She had gone after Azreal last night. Broch knew she would. He had hoped she would talk sense into him, but he had no way of knowing if that was the case. That was why he had summoned her today.

His fingers curled into a tight fist, the muscles in his forearm flexing. But before he could meet with Eve, an urgent summons had arrived. A tribal leader from another clan had demanded his presence over the previous night's incident.

Broch rose from his seat, the weight of duty pressing heavily on his shoulders as he prepared to face the consequences of his son's reckless actions. He didn't have time to entertain personal grievances-not yet.

Broch's boots echoed heavily against the polished stone floor as he strode out of the council hall, his mind already bracing for the coming confrontation. The tribal leaders were not ones to let an offense slide, especially when it involved one of their own. And Azreal... that fool of a boy had tangled himself in something that could not be ignored.

By the time he reached the gathering chamber, the atmosphere was already tense. The elders sat in their designated spots, eyes glinting like embers in the dim firelight. At the head of the room stood General Blackwood, the father of the boy Azreal had clashed with in the club. His presence alone demanded attention.

"Chief Broch," the general greeted, his voice deep and measured. "I believe you know why we have called for this meeting."

Broch inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I do."

The general's lips curled into something that was not quite a smirk. "Your son has insulted my family. Not only did he lay hands on my blood, but he did so publicly, in full view of both our clans." His tone hardened. "This cannot be ignored."

Broch exhaled slowly, his anger carefully leashed. He knew how this game was played. Honor had been challenged. There would be demands-reparations, consequences, or worse.

"Azreal acted recklessly," Broch admitted, his voice even. "But I trust you know my son is not the only one to blame. Your boy is not without fault either."

The tension in the room thickened. One of the elders shifted, clearing his throat, but the general did not waver. "That may be true," he conceded, "but the fact remains that your son struck first. And he did so knowing who he was dealing with."

Broch's patience wore thin. He knew how these things escalated-how easily they could spiral into something irreparable. A wrong move here could ignite something far worse than a simple clan dispute.

"I will handle my son," Broch said at last, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I expect you to handle yours."

General Blackwood studied him for a long moment before finally giving a slow nod. The meeting continued, the discussion shifting into tense negotiations, but Broch's mind had already begun to drift.

Because even as they spoke of politics and consequences, his thoughts returned to the other matter at hand.

Eve.

By the time Broch returned to the council estate, the morning sun was already beginning to rise, casting a dull glow over the darkened landscape. He stepped through the hall, his mind heavy with the weight of the meeting, when his gaze landed on an unexpected sight.

Eve stood outside, her back to him, engaged in quiet conversation with a figure he could not immediately see.

His brow furrowed. He had expected to find her waiting inside, impatient perhaps, but alone. Instead, she was speaking to someone-someone who stood just beyond his line of sight.

Broch's instincts sharpened. He stepped forward, using his demon vision to pierce through the dim light, and that was when he saw it.

A long face. Familiar yet foreign. A ghost from the past.

His breath hitched for just a fraction of a second before he schooled his expression into stone.

Because he knew exactly who that was.

And his return could mean nothing good.

Broch's heartbeat pounded like a war drum as he stepped forward, his boots grinding against the stone path. His presence alone sent a ripple of energy through the air, but neither Eve nor the figure beside her moved. The tension was thick-almost suffocating.

His eyes never left the long face, the familiar yet unwanted presence that had resurfaced after all these years. Something deep inside him twisted, an old wound ripping open. He would not allow this. Not now.

Without hesitation, he reached out, his heavy hand landing firmly on Eve's shoulder, pulling her slightly behind him in a silent, instinctive act of protection. His grip was not harsh, but it was unyielding.

"Stay away from Eve," Broch's voice was cold as steel, laced with something dangerous. His body was rigid, his stance like a shield between her and the unwelcome visitor.

Eve tensed beneath his touch. She had never been one to accept protection-never needed it. But in that moment, she did not shake him off. Instead, she stared straight at the man before them, her jaw clenched, her body coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

The figure before them did not flinch. He merely let the silence stretch between them before finally speaking, his voice smooth, almost amused.

"Still as territorial as ever, Broch," the man said, his silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "I thought you'd be glad to see an old face."

Broch's grip on Eve's shoulder tightened for a moment before he slowly released her, stepping forward with measured control.

"You should not have returned," Broch said, his voice dark with warning. "You made your choice long ago."

The man tilted his head slightly, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "Did I? Or did you make it for me?"

Eve's breath hitched, her nails digging into her palms. There was something heavy in the air, something unsaid that made her stomach coil with unease.

She had never seen her uncle look this way. His expression was not just anger-it was something deeper. Something personal.

The man's silver eyes flicked toward her now, his gaze steady.

"You've grown," he remarked, almost casual. "But I suppose that was inevitable."

Broch's patience snapped like a thread.

"You have no right to speak to her." His voice was razor-sharp, each word dripping with venom. "You lost that right the day you left."

The figure let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Still clinging to the past, I see."

Broch took another step forward, his towering presence casting a shadow over the man.

"You don't belong here Dagon, Prince of hell" Broch said. "Leave now, before I make you."

The smirk on the man's face didn't fade. If anything, it deepened, as if he had been expecting those exact words.

And that was when he finally spoke the words that sent an unnatural chill through Eve's spine.

"I was invited."

Eve's blood ran cold. Broch's expression flickered-just for a second-but it was enough for her to catch it.

Who had invited him?

And why?

The air around them thickened, an invisible force pressing down on the moment like a predator waiting to strike.

But one thing was clear.

This was only the beginning.

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