FROST
Chapter 116: Eldem’s Finest: Elves, Demons, and One Very Extra King

Chapter 116: Eldem’s Finest: Elves, Demons, and One Very Extra King

"See? This is exactly what happens when we use the front entrance," Caspian muttered with an air of smugness, his arms folded like he’d planned the chaos himself. His grin widened as he leaned a little too casually toward Estes. "No drama, no grand entrance, just good old-fashioned near-death diplomacy."

Estes, ever the responsible adult in their duo, sighed like someone who had long ago resigned himself to the eternal babysitting of celestial royalty. He slowly raised one hand in a practiced, almost bored gesture toward the ring of elves now surrounding them, their drawn bows and glinting swords poised to turn Caspian into a pincushion.

"I told you we should’ve waited for the official escort," Estes muttered under his breath.

"You also said King Asmaros wouldn’t roast me alive the next time he saw me," Caspian quipped, glancing around with an unfazed look as if this sort of reception was perfectly normal for him. "So, clearly, someone’s sense of judgment is a little off lately."

Estes ignored the jab, flashing the elves a diplomatic smile so forced it practically creaked. "It’s alright, everyone. He’s with me."

One of the elven guards didn’t budge, still pointing his impressively long, razor-sharp sword at Caspian’s neck like he was aiming to skewer a particularly arrogant kebab. "With all due respect, Lord Estes, why are you with a celestial being?"

"Oh, come on!" Caspian barked a laugh. "None of you really recognize me?"

"Not helping," Estes muttered. "Look, you all remember King Caspian, right? The one King Asmaros proclaimed to be his rival?"

A beat of silence passed. Then all the elves suddenly went "OHHH!" in perfect, dramatic unison, their expressions lighting up with the horrified glee of people connecting a name to a deeply chaotic memory.

"Oh, oh—remember that one guy King Asmaros said challenged him to a duel... with a spoon?" one elf gasped.

"Yeah!" another chimed in, eyes wide. "The dramatic one!"

"The one who tried to outshine King Asmaros during the Midwinter Ball with a glowing cape!" said a third, his voice tinged with awe and a little judgment.

Caspian stared at them, stunned into a silence rare for someone who considered himself the universe’s gift to conversation.

"Wow," he finally muttered, jaw slack. "Wow. Asmaros, you lying, slandering, theatrically-inclined bastard."

Estes choked back a laugh behind his knuckles.

"None of those were true," Caspian declared, gesturing wildly at the elves as though they were a court he’d just been dragged into. "I never challenged him with a spoon—he was the one holding a spoon when he threatened me. And the cape? It glowed because it was blessed by a priest of light."

"And the Midwinter Ball?" an elf asked, squinting skeptically.

Caspian threw his hands up. "I tripped and accidentally spun in the spotlight. Once. Once! Next thing I know, there’s a rumor I tried to start a solo interpretive dance war."

"He also said you cried when he sang," another elf offered.

Estes snorted.

"I didn’t cry," Caspian snapped. "I was allergic to the incense they were burning, alright? It has to be that way since the ceremony took place in between the realms of demons and celestial beings."

The elves exchanged amused glances, a few of them clearly enjoying this far more than they should’ve.

Caspian turned to Estes, offended beyond reason. "He giggles while telling them these lies, doesn’t he? I can hear it now. ’Oh yes, Caspian challenged me to a duel with a dessert utensil and then pirouetted off the balcony like a disgraced ballerina.’ He makes things up just to ruin my brand."

Estes gave him a knowing look. "Honestly? I’m starting to suspect it is part of his stress relief."

"Oh I bet it is," Caspian muttered, crossing his arms. "Petty tyrant. No wonder his kingdom’s shaped like a knife."

"You mean geographically?"

"I mean metaphorically and aesthetically."

The elves now stood at ease, some chuckling under their breath while still pretending to remain professional. Caspian gave them a final glare before tossing his hair dramatically over his shoulder, which earned a few soft gasps of admiration despite themselves.

Most of them, despite men, are clearly drooling and swooning over his well-toned muscles and damn those abs as always.

Estes patted his arm. "Shall we go meet the man himself?"

"I can’t wait to hear what new fable he’s concocted about me this time," Caspian grumbled, stalking forward with all the dignity of someone who absolutely would duel with a spoon—just to prove a point.

Caspian and Estes now walked side by side along the stone-laid path that wound like a lazy river toward the looming entrance gate of Asmaros’ fortress. The atmosphere was... atmospheric. Thick mists coiled like nosy cats around their boots, the air carried a suspicious scent of overcooked charcoal and existential dread, and the birds—if those shrieking things were birds—sounded like someone was murdering a violin in the distance.

The guard elves had dutifully returned to their designated posts, faces composed and regal, as if their collective memory had been wiped clean of the spoon duel discussion just minutes ago. It was part of the eerie elegance that surrounded Asmaros’ kingdom—an aesthetic commitment so deep it bordered on theatrical obsession.

And then, as they crested the final hill, it came into view.

Asmaros’ castle.

A gothic monstrosity that somehow managed to be both majestic and absolutely over-the-top. If architectural aggression were a concept, this place would’ve won awards. Jagged spires jutted into the sky like obsidian fangs. The outer walls, made of dark stone and veined with glowing crimson runes, seemed to pulse faintly, as though the building itself were alive and judging you.

And yes—true to Caspian’s earlier insult—it was shaped like a knife. Literally. The entire fortress narrowed toward the back like a blade, its tip embedded into a sheer cliff that overlooked an abyss locals ominously referred to only as "the Chasm of Misunderstandings." No one knew why. No one asked.

"It’s like he wants people to say he’s compensating for something," Caspian muttered under his breath, squinting up at the unnecessarily tall tower jutting out of the ’handle.’

Estes didn’t respond. Mostly because he was trying not to laugh and had bitten the inside of his cheek to maintain composure.

Despite the terrifying architecture, the guards were an entirely different matter. Ethereal elves with silver-white hair and hauntingly beautiful faces stood in shimmering armor, glimmering faintly even under the darkened skies. Their eyes gleamed like stars trapped in glacier ice. They looked more suited to an elven opera or a moonlit ball than standing guard outside a doom fortress.

Then came the demons—only a handful compared to the elven majority, but no less stunning. Each one looked like they’d stepped off the pages of a forbidden fashion magazine. Gleaming horns curled elegantly from sculpted brows, their skin shaded in obsidian, amethyst, or iridescent crimson. Wings were folded like velvet cloaks behind them, and their expressions ranged from bored aristocrat to mild existential ennui.

"Why do all the guards here look like they walked off a divine runway?" Caspian asked, frowning. "This is a death castle. You don’t hire people who look like poetry to guard a death castle."

Estes gave a knowing shrug. "Asmaros has...aesthetic preferences."

"Aesthetic?" Caspian scoffed. "He’s running a haunted perfume ad campaign."

They passed through a great archway adorned with carved symbols that might have once been a warning but now resembled the signature of a particularly moody calligrapher. The gates slowly creaked open, dramatic to a fault, as though the castle demanded entrance be accompanied by suspenseful music.

Which, to Caspian’s horror, it was.

From somewhere inside, organ music began to play. Organ music. Slow. Melancholic. Just one step short of "I prepared this for your demise."

Caspian stopped walking. "Tell me he doesn’t have a house organist on payroll."

"Oh, he does," Estes confirmed. "Her name’s Margarethe. She’s an ex-siren. Plays with emotion."

As if on cue, the music shifted into something slightly more dramatic—still in minor key, but now with flare.

Caspian blinked. "Is she...improvising to match our entrance pace?"

Estes grinned. "She likes to feel the room."

"I feel like I’m walking into a tragic love story," Caspian whispered as he resumed walking.

"You might be," Estes replied.

One of the demon guards opened the final set of doors leading into the main hall and gave Caspian a once-over, her eyes gleaming with interest. She looks almost like Seravine—if Seravine wears something, that is.

"Welcome to Eldem Kingdom, Lunar King," the demon guard purred, her voice smooth as velvet with just a splash of mischief, like she’d been rehearsing this exact greeting in front of a mirror—probably with lighting effects and a wind machine.

Caspian blinked. "Eldem?"

The guard raised one sculpted brow, clearly disappointed by the question. "Elves and Demons," she enunciated slowly, like she was explaining how doors work to a toddler. "You know... El-Dem? Honestly, that was so obvious," she added with a dramatic hiss between her fangs, like she was the one offended by the lack of deductive reasoning.

Then, as if his confusion had personally ruined her evening, she narrowed her glowing eyes and warned, "And please try not to fall in love with our lord. It’s exhausting for all of us."

Caspian paused. Stared. Cocked an eyebrow so high it practically left his face.

"I hate to break this to you," he said, voice flat as a boardwalk, "but I’ve seen your lord multiple times. That’s also the same number of times I’ve barfed. Coincidence? I think not."

He rolled his eyes, the sheer force of the motion practically audible, and swept past her with the dramatic confidence of someone who had practiced his exits in front of a mirror too—just with more sparkles and fewer warning labels.

The demon guard blinked after him, scoffing under her breath. "You know, denial is a classic symptom," she muttered.

Estes, who had remained politely silent thus far, gave her a diplomatic smile. "Thank you, Delza. We’ll find our own way in."

Meanwhile, Caspian stood in between the halls of Eldem Kingdom were, to his disappointment, offensively majestic.

Obsidian columns stretched up like the limbs of petrified giants, webbed with faint silver veins that shimmered with some ancient enchantment.

The stained glass overhead cast eerie, prismatic shadows that made everything look like a tragic opera about betrayal and questionable fashion choices.

Caspian turned to Estes as they ascended a staircase that looked more like a sacrificial altar.

"Why is this place so intimidatingly pretty? Is Asmaros compensating for something?"

Estes gave him a weary look. "Please don’t say that to his face. He’ll spiral. Again."

"I make no promises."

They finally reached the throne room—a towering double door made of blackstone and etched in what Caspian suspected was pure drama. A mural above it depicted Asmaros slaying something vaguely symbolic, probably his ego.

Estes pushed the door open, revealing a massive, empty chamber. The throne, carved from twisted bone and veined crystal, sat under a canopy of chains and blue fire. And yet... no Asmaros.

Caspian walked in with hands on hips, glancing around. "Is this a trap? Will he descend from the ceiling on a cable this time?"

Estes blinked. "No, he usually enters from—"

Before he could finish, a loud clang echoed from above.

Caspian’s eyes widened. "No."

A beat later, a swirling burst of shadows erupted near the side entrance, cloaking the room in mist and mild annoyance. A gust of unnatural wind flared every torch to life.

And from it all, emerged King Asmaros—half-demon, half-dramatic monologue, all flair.

His cloak billowed despite the absence of any breeze. His steps echoed more than should be legal. His hair—raven black and shining with what could only be described as divine spite—fluttered behind him as though possessed by theatrical spirits.

"You dare arrive unannounced!" Asmaros bellowed, gesturing wildly like a man betrayed at his own wedding.

"I rang the doorbell this time," Caspian said flatly, gesturing to Estes. "Even brought a chaperone."

Estes stepped forward like a long-suffering babysitter. "Good day, King Asmaros. We come in peace. Mostly."

Asmaros ignored him. He stormed toward Caspian, stopping with a dramatic swish of his cloak—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared.

Caspian mirrored his stance, just slightly more smug. "You missed your cue, by the way. We’ve been here five minutes."

"I had to change my cape!" Asmaros snapped.

"It shows," Caspian sniffed, lifting his chin. "It’s practically screaming insecurity in seventeen languages. And yes, I heard what you told your minions. You’ve been lying again, King Asmaros."

Asmaros blinked, all wide-eyed innocence, then shrugged. "Meh. I’m the King. I can say whatever I want. I could declare the moon is a pickled egg and they’d sculpt a statue in its honor."

He took a step forward—then froze. His eyes narrowed. His nose twitched.

"Wait." He recoiled slightly, squinting at Caspian like he’d just stepped on something damp. "Why do you smell like imp goo—and why are you... half-naked?"

"Right," Caspian said, gesturing vaguely at his exposed chest. "I may or may not have been forced to impersonate a demon’s Victorian ex to steal a key and fought some demon," he swatted the air. "Anyway, long story. No time for rewinds. My clothes didn’t survive the transformation."

"You’re topless in my throne room. Such a vulgar king you are!" Asmaros deadpanned.

Caspian gave a flippant wave. "I call this look ’warrior in crisis.’ It’s edgy. It’s vulnerable. It’s imp-slime couture."

Asmaros still twitching his nose cocked a brow. "So, what are you here for? You wouldn’t just come here unannounced, half-naked, smells like shit for something not urgent."

Caspian’s muscles suddenly tensed. "I’m glad you asked," he mumbled, clearing his throat. "It’s about a half-demon child who posseses demon magic and a celestial but do not emit any mana thread—"

Asmaros brows suddenly knit that Caspian paused.

"And which demon are we talking about here?" His voice dropped.

Caspian’s lips for a split second. "Yami and I heard he’s a demon of..."

"Sorrow..." Asmaros continued and hissed. "Damn, whoever that demon child is, you better get rid of it before it’s too late."