Chapter 63: Chapter 62. Finally!
House in the Mountain
Hidden in the heart of Dreadfang Mountain, where mists coil like living spirits and the wind whispers with old, right in the middle of the monsters’ lair, there’s a secluded home of Princess Morwenna de Erengard and her husband, the once-feared Demon King of Askareth, Roxanne’s parents.
The house is unlike any royal estate or fortress. Carved directly into the ancient bones of the mountain, it rises in tiers of natural stone and enchanted timber, half wild, half divine. The outer walls gleam faintly with silver veins that pulse with magic, the lifeblood of the mountain itself. Every curve, every arch of the dwelling seems grown rather than built, as though the rock welcomed their presence instead of resisting it.
Balconies cling to the cliffside, framed with twisted iron vines that bloom with glowing blue flowers at night, remnants of demonic flora from Askareth’s shadowed realm. Beneath the house, a mirror-like pool gathers water from a hidden spring. Its surface reflects the golden light from the arched windows above, giving the illusion that the house is floating upon its own reflection.
The interior carries the duality of its masters, grace and darkness intertwined. Morwenna’s touch is seen in the silken drapes and the delicate runes of Erengard carved along the doorways, shimmering faintly like moonlight. Her husband’s essence is deeper, found in the obsidian hearth that never cools, the black crystal veins pulsing faintly along the ceiling, and the faint hum of infernal power that thrums in the stone walls.
Here, they live in quiet exile: the princess of the Erengard Empire, bearer of the werewolf royal bloodline, and the previous king of the demon race. Living in happiness by the soul-deep mating bond, their hearts beat as one.
Some say their union is cursed, the punishment of arrogant souls who dared to bridge two eternal enemies. Others whisper it’s a divine blessing, a fragile proof that even heaven and hell can be reconciled through love. But to Morwenna and Ashkareth, the truth hardly matters. What they share is beyond such words.
Around their sanctuary, life stirs quietly. The servants and guards who tend to the household are coming from both sides and the mixed blood, the loyal remnants of two bloodlines that refused to abandon their rulers.
Werewolves from Wyndham, shadows made flesh, serve within the halls with silent reverence, and demons from the Askareth clans, strong and fiercely loyal, guard the borders of the mountain. Together, they form a small, harmonious society untouched by prejudice, bound by a rare sense of peace that neither kingdom could ever offer.
No palace court or demonic fortress could ever contain what they built here. In Dreadfang, there are no thrones. No councils. No subjects. Only two souls who have paid the price for peace.
And yet, it’s not a lonely peace. The mountain often sees travelers, emissaries from the north, wandering demon scholars, and werewolf knights who once fought under Morwenna’s banner. They come seeking advice, blessings, or forgiveness.
There are rumors, too. That the spirits of the mountain themselves bow to her, and that when Ashkareth’s temper flares, storms gather across the southern horizon. The air here is thick with power, ancient, sacred, and fiercely alive.
For all the world’s disbelief, Dreadfang is not a prison. It’s a home born of defiance, a sanctuary where the sun and the abyss share the same sky. A place where love conquered fear, and two once-immortal enemies found what neither empire nor eternity could give them: peace.
The wind whispered through the open balcony, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Beyond the cliffs, the mountains slept under a silvered moon. Inside, the hearth crackled lazily, casting a warm glow across silk sheets and the dark horns of the demon who once ruled a continent.
Ashkareth lay sprawled beside his wife, his obsidian skin glinting faintly in the firelight. His wings were folded, relaxed, their edges brushing against the bed as if even the mighty Demon King had forgotten war. One crimson eye half-opened when he noticed the faint smile playing on Morwenna’s lips.
"What’s that?" He rumbled, his voice deep and lazy, vibrating through the still air.
Morwenna reclined beside him, her long hair cascading like moonlight over his arm. "Our daughter," she said, eyes flicking to the parchment resting on the bedside table.
Ashkareth’s brow rose. "Oh, we heard about her wedding, didn’t we?" He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand, grinning. "Are we going to be grandparents?"
Morwenna’s smirk widened, sharp, knowing, and tinged with pride. "No," she said. "She wants war. Against Erengard. And independence for the Borgia lands."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the chamber shook with laughter. "Hah!" Ashkareth’s voice roared like thunder, echoing against the carved stone walls. "She finally came to her senses!" His tail lashed with amusement, and even the magic lamps flickered as if the mountain itself joined in his mirth.
Morwenna chuckled softly, her eyes glowing with a mix of affection and danger. "It seems the blood didn’t thin after all," she said. "She has your fire and my patience."
"She has your cunning," he teased, reaching over to brush a thumb against her jaw. "And my taste for rebellion."
Outside, lightning flashed far beyond the peaks, as though the heavens themselves responded to the mention of war. Morwenna leaned into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "She will change the empire," she murmured. "Whether for ruin or rebirth, we’ll soon see."
Ashkareth grinned, fangs glinting. "Either way, she’s our daughter. Let them tremble."
Ashkareth’s tail flicked lazily, his golden eyes narrowing with interest. "What makes her change her mind?" he asked again, his voice a deep rumble that carried both curiosity and amusement.
Morwenna’s smile deepened, slow and knowing, her gaze distant as if she were seeing something far beyond the mountain walls. "Her wife," she said softly. "She has a very special wife."
Ashkareth raised a brow. "Special?"
Morwenna’s eyes glinted, bright, molten violet, the kind of glow that once made the spirits wary to meet her gaze. "Not just special," she murmured, her tone thick with something between admiration and awe. "That omega carries a soul touched by both divinity and ruin. She’s the kind of woman who bends fate without even trying."
Ashkareth’s grin widened, sharp and feral. "Ah. So our daughter found someone worthy of her blood."
Morwenna’s lips curved in agreement. "No," she corrected softly, her eyes gleaming brighter. "She found someone who can match it."
Ashkareth’s arm slid around her waist, his claws tracing idle circles against her silk robe. "Then where does she want to meet us?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through her.
"Wyndham. In a week." Morwenna replied, her tone calm, though a flicker of excitement glimmered behind her violet eyes.
Ashkareth chuckled, pressing his forehead to hers. "A week?" he murmured, his fangs flashing in a grin. "I could fly us there faster than any horse-drawn carriage those people still use."
Morwenna’s lips curved into a smirk, her fingers running along the edge of his horn. "Impatient as always," she teased. "But it has been a long time since we went flying together, hasn’t it?"
Ashkareth’s wings unfurled slightly, their span catching the golden firelight and casting sweeping shadows along the chamber walls. "Ten years, give or take," he said with mock solemnity.
Morwenna leaned in until her breath brushed against his lips. "Then perhaps it’s time we reminded the world what it looks like," she whispered. "A princess and her demon king... courting in the skies again." Ashkareth growled softly, a sound halfway between laughter and desire, before claiming her mouth in a kiss that set the runes on the walls faintly glowing.