FROST
Chapter 109: The Duel of Kings

Chapter 109: The Duel of Kings

Caspian couldn’t move. His body remained rigid, the blade in his hand suspended mid-air—forgotten. His breath stalled, chest tight, every heartbeat echoing like a tolling bell in the silence. His eyes, once fierce and unrelenting, now dropped to the child who stood barely a dozen paces away.

And the child stared back.

With eyes that held no warmth. No soul. Just void.

Lifeless, fathomless black—like still water that had drowned everything beneath it.

A muscle twitched near Caspian’s temple, right below the streak of silver in his hair. He swallowed hard, but the knot in his throat only grew tighter. He didn’t need confirmation—he could feel it in the air, see it in the faint trail of mana weaving around the boy like mist: this was the child Yami had taken.

But worse than that... was the face. The boy’s face—delicate, sharp, hauntingly familiar.

Those eye shape. That nose. The soft curve of those lips.

Not his of course. Every feature was hers.

The Queen.

The woman who had suffered, screamed, and wept for days in that blood-soaked chamber the night she was violated by the very same demon in front of him now. The woman had been robbed of more than just her crown. Who had stared at him with broken eyes when she whispered, "I am not worthy of being your Queen—"

This was the child born from her pain, her stolen time, her stolen womb. And here he was—standing like a ghost in flesh, staring through Caspian as if there was nothing left of him worth seeing.

A storm twisted in Caspian’s gut, hot and rising. The carefree air, the sarcasm, the teasing bravado—all of it burned away in one breath. His spine straightened, jaw locked so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

Caspian’s eyes snapped back to Yami when he spoke. He was already smiling—no, grinning—from his throne. A wicked curve on his lips, fangs glinting like bone beneath the shadow of his face.

"What’s the matter, Your Highness?" Yami crooned, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "Aren’t you pleased to see the Queen’s child?"

He spread his arms slowly, theatrically, as if presenting a gift wrapped in horror.

"I thought you came here to retrieve him," he went on, tilting his head like a curious beast. "Now he’s right there... right in front of you."

Caspian didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the truth was—he didn’t know whether to save the boy or kill him where he stood.

His sword trembled slightly in his grip, not from fear, but from the sheer war being waged inside him. This was no ordinary rescue—no black-and-white mission where good triumphed over evil with a swing of steel. This was something twisted, something personal. The boy bore the Queen’s face like a scar left on time itself, and Caspian—her husband, once the Lunar King—had been sent to bring him back to retrieve his own Kingdom.

But what was he bringing back? Perhaps, he would only bring danger to the kingdom if he did. This child could even be some cruel imitation sculpted by Yami’s hand.

Caspian’s gaze flicked back to the demon who hovered near the throne. Yami hadn’t moved much—hadn’t needed to. His presence alone dripped with quiet mockery. There were no guards. No traps. No war horns to announce his arrival. Just Yami, sitting there like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

And maybe he had.

Caspian didn’t know who—or what—Yami truly was. His origins, his motives, even his form were wrapped in shadow. But the way he spoke to Caspian... the way he welcomed him like an old friend or a favorite plaything, it was clear.

Yami knew him. Knew enough. Knew that Caspian would come. Knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t bring an army. Knew he wouldn’t turn back.

Knew Caspian well enough to sit there alone in the dark, child in tow, and smile as if none of it mattered. As if Caspian could do nothing now that hadn’t already been accounted for.

And from the looks of it—Yami didn’t consider him a threat.

Not in the slightest.

"Well?" Yami purred, voice smooth as poisoned velvet. "You can have him if you want. I can even deliver him back to your precious Kingdom, gift-wrapped and all. After all..." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cruel mirth. "Your Kingdom does have the weakest barrier against demons, ah?"

Caspian forced a smirk, though his fingers tightened slightly around his sword’s hilt, but then he lowered it. "Don’t push your luck, demon," he said, tone laced with mockery. "Now tell me—what did you do to this child? How the hell did he grow up that fast?"

Yami only shrugged, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a ripple through the shadowy smoke clinging to him. Caspian noticed it then—how each time the demon moved, the shadows receded just a little more. Bit by bit, Yami’s form was becoming sharper, more defined. The limbs less smoke, more sinew. The face less blurred, more... human.

Or something like it.

And Caspian felt it—something old and oppressive curling at the edges of the room, tightening like a noose.

Yami was stabilizing. Anchoring himself.

And the longer they stood here, the less time Caspian had to act.

But what would he do, anyway? Just snatch the boy and vanish in a flash of light, back to the safety of his kingdom’s walls?

That would be too easy. Far too easy.

Caspian wasn’t a fool. Whatever power Yami held, it wasn’t just theatrical shadows and cryptic words—it was calculated. This was the same demon who had planted his seed on the Queen. The very same demon who had infiltrated the barrier casted by the Twelve Sorcerers and annihilated them during the Queen’s childbirth.

He couldn’t drop his guard around him. Not for a second. He didn’t know the full extent of this demon’s power, or what tricks still waited in the wings. For all he knew, the boy was a trap.

As Caspian stood his ground, waiting—willing—for Yami to make the first move, the seconds stretched like wire drawn too tight. Every heartbeat was a warning drum, and every blink seemed to cost him something.

Because in every heartbeat, Yami changed.

Bit by bit, breath by breath, the shadows that made up his vague outline solidified. The misty blur of a figure began to condense—bones forming beneath smoke, sinew weaving like thread, skin stretching into place with sickening grace. The demon’s hand, once a whisper of magic, now had fingers—long, sharp-jointed, but human. He flexed them slowly, admiring the motion like he was getting reacquainted with a long-lost body.

Then came his face.

It didn’t erupt or appear in a flash. No, it formed, like a painting being finished in front of Caspian’s eyes—every detail deliberate.

Yami’s scarlet eyes bled into existence first, molten and ancient, glowing faintly from within like coals that had never cooled. Then his features followed—sharp and elegant, a face carved with cruel perfection: high cheekbones, a straight nose, a defined jaw that could have been sculpted by the gods themselves. His lips, full and stained faintly dark, curled into a smirk that dripped mockery and menace.

His black hair tumbled in messy waves to his shoulders—windswept and untamed, as though he’d risen from the pit of some forgotten battlefield.

The kind of beauty that unsettled rather than comforted. He looked no older than Caspian—perhaps mid-twenties at most—but there was an age in him that couldn’t be hidden beneath skin and sinew.

And all the while... the boy on the corner was changing, too.

He stood there, eerily silent, growing inch by inch, as if time obeyed a different law in Yami’s presence. His limbs lengthened, his features sharpened. He was no longer a boy of ten. He looked twelve now. Then thirteen. His clothes strained at the seams.

Caspian’s hand twitched on his sword, his throat dry.

This isn’t natural, he thought grimly. It’s a ritual. A transformation. A curse. Something irreversible—if I don’t stop it soon.

And yet Yami—fully formed now—only sighed, admiring his own hand like a man seeing sunlight for the first time in years.

"Ahh," he breathed, flexing his fingers. "It’s always nice to feel real again."

Then, with that devilish grin still curling his lips, Yami tilted his head toward Caspian, the shadows still clinging to him. His newly-formed face was unsettlingly perfect. It was a face that would have suited a prince—if not for the unmistakable malice lurking in his expression.

"Well, Your Highness..." Yami’s voice dripped amusement, "how do I look?"

Caspian stood still for a moment, eyes narrowing as he scanned the fully realized demon now standing before him. Then, with a breath drawn deep through clenched teeth, he said, "Awful."

Yami gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a hand over his chest in mock injury. "You’re just jealous," he said. "You may as well stop wondering why Eleara let me in her—"

Steel rang through the air.

Caspian’s sword was up in an instant, its gleaming edge catching the faint blue shimmer of his mana. His entire stance shifted from stillness to lethal intent. His voice, when it came, was venomous.

"Don’t you dare say my wife’s name, you demon."

The grin that split Yami’s face then was nearly feral. "Oh, Your Highness," he chuckled darkly, voice dropping into a taunt so low it rumbled in the bones, "if only you were a lot stronger—"

Caspian barely registered the blur of movement. One moment Yami was several paces away, lounging on his heel like this was all just a joke, and the next—he was right there.

Nose to nose. Eye to eye.

The air around them seemed to bend, snapping with pressure. Caspian’s breath caught in his chest as cold dread flooded him. He hadn’t seen Yami move. Hadn’t felt the surge of mana. And now the demon’s crimson gaze bore into his, alive with wicked delight.

"—I would’ve consideted listening to you," Yami finished in a whisper, almost intimately.

Then everything exploded.

Caspian’s body flew through the air like a ragdoll. A single blow—clean, invisible, and impossibly fast—had launched him across the cavern. He crashed into the stone wall with a thunderous crack. The impact spiderwebbed the surface behind him, chunks of rock breaking off and falling around his crumpled form.

He slid to the ground, coughing blood that painted the dust below. His back screamed, and only the instinctive twist of his blade had spared him from a caved-in chest.

Pain blossomed along his ribs and spine, but he forced his body upright with a trembling grunt. One hand braced against the wall, the other still clutching his sword.

Across the cavern, Yami stood as if nothing had happened—calm, smiling, dangerous. The boy beside him—only looked at him blankly. Caspian’s lips quivered when the boy suddenly fell onto his knees and sucked his thumb.

Perhaps... Caspian slowly turned back to Yami, gasping.

"Is he stealing the child’s lifespan?"