The roar of the crowd was a physical weight. It pressed against my eardrums, a chaotic symphony of thousands of voices screaming their fear and hatred at the lone figure on the stage.

  ?“Murderers!”

  “Go back to the Abyss!”

  “Monster!”

  ?Beside me, Roc-ta was trembling. She had covered her sensitive ears with her hands, her tail tucked so far between her legs it was practically glued to her stomach. She looked like a puppy caught in a thunderstorm.

  ?"Why are they so angry?" she whined, her voice barely audible over the din. "He hasn't even done anything yet!"

  ?"He exists," I said, my voice cold. I didn't take my eyes off the stage. "And for people like them people who need someone to blame for their own insecurities that’s enough."

  ?I watched Demian. I waited for him to crack. I waited for the arrogant mask to slip, for him to flinch at the sheer volume of vitriol being hurled at him. I wanted to see him scared. I wanted to see him realize that his expensive coat and his royal title meant nothing here.

  ?But he didn't flinch.

  ?He didn't raise a hand to shield himself. He didn't step back.

  ?Instead, he did something that made my stomach churn with a mixture of disgust and begrudging respect for his audacity.

  ?He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, silver pocket watch. He clicked it open, checked the time, clicked it shut, and sighed.

  ?He treated a mob of ten thousand screaming students like a delay at a train station.

  ?Then, he moved.

  ?He didn't walk to the center of the stage to speak. He walked to the very edge. To the point where the magical barrier flickered, just inches from the front row where the screaming was loudest.

  ?He looked down at a large, burly Orc student who was shaking a fist and screaming something about "blood debts."

  ?Demian leaned forward. He didn't use a magical amplifier yet. He just spoke. But the way he spoke the precise articulation of his lips, the sudden, intense focus of those purple eyes created a vacuum.

  ?The Orc stopped screaming. He blinked, confused by the sudden proximity of the "enemy."

  ?The silence spread like a contagion. The people next to the Orc stopped shouting to hear what was happening. Then the people behind them. Within ten seconds, the roar had died down to a confused murmur. Within twenty, the arena was silent.

  ?Demian stood tall. He tapped the magical crystal floating near his lapel.

  ?Tap. Tap.

  ?The sound echoed like gunshots in the quiet arena.

  ?"Are you finished?"

  ?His voice wasn't loud. It was soft, smooth, and terrified me with its composure. It washed over the arena like dark syrup.

  ?"I asked," Demian continued, his voice dropping an octave, becoming intimate, as if he were whispering a secret to every single one of us, "if you are quite finished with your tantrum. Because I have a schedule to keep, and your... enthusiasm... is becoming tedious."

  ?A ripple of shock went through the crowd. He wasn't apologizing. He was scolding us.

  ?"He's digging his own grave," I whispered, a savage satisfaction rising in my chest. "Keep talking, pretty boy. Make them hate you more."

  ?"He sounds... lonely," Roc-ta whispered, peeking through her fingers.

  ?"He sounds like a narcissist, Roc-ta. There's a difference."

  ?Demian began to pace. It wasn't aimless walking; it was a prowl. Every step was measured, every turn of his head calculated to catch the light on his pale features.

  ?"I stood here," Demian said, his voice gaining volume, projecting authority, "and I listened. I heard 'Monster'. I heard 'Murderer'. I heard 'Abomination'."

  ?He stopped. He looked directly into the camera drone hovering nearby, broadcasting his face to the giant screens floating above the arena. His face, magnified fifty times, was a portrait of tragic beauty.

  ?"Is this the famed hospitality of Aeridor?" he asked. The question hung in the air, dripping with disappointment. "We were told this was a place of enlightenment. A sanctuary of knowledge."

  ?He let out a short, dry laugh. It sounded heartbreakingly bitter.

  ?"I see no enlightenment here. I see only the same blind, primitive fear that drove my ancestors into the shadows a thousand years ago."

  ?The crowd shifted uncomfortably. A few people lowered their signs. He was turning the mirror on them. It was a classic manipulation tactic: Shame the aggressor.

  ?"You call me a murderer," Demian said, turning to point at the section where the girl had screamed about her grandfather. His movement was fluid, theatrical. "You say my people have blood on their hands."

  ?He ripped his glove off.

  ?It was a violent motion. He threw the expensive leather glove onto the floor of the stage. He held up his bare hand. It was pale, the fingers long and slender, unblemished.

  ?"Look at this hand," he commanded. "Do you see blood? Do you see the ash of your burning villages?"

  ?He lowered his hand slowly, his voice cracking. Just a little. Just enough to sound "real."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  ?"I am seventeen years old," he whispered. "I was born after the war ended. I have never held a sword in anger. I have never stepped foot outside my city walls until this week."

  ?He looked at the girl who had screamed.

  ?"I did not kill your grandfather, my lady. I was in a cradle when he died."

  ?The girl in the crowd covered her mouth. She looked down, ashamed.

  ?"Oh, give me a break," I groaned, throwing my head back. "This is pathetic. It’s scripted! Can't you see he's playing the 'Innocent Child' card? He's practically checking boxes on a list!"

  ?"But... Val," Roc-ta tugged my sleeve, her yellow eyes shimmering with tears. "He's right. He's just a cub. Like us."

  ?"He is not a cub, Roc-ta! He is a viper with a good PR team!" I hissed, gesturing wildly at the stage. "Look at his posture! Look at the way he pauses for effect! That isn't genuine emotion. That is blocking. That is stagecraft!"

  ?I felt like I was the only sane person in an asylum. I felt the heat of injustice burning my skin. How could they fall for this? How could they not see the strings?

  ?Demian wasn't done. He had dismantled their anger; now he needed to build their sympathy.

  ?He walked to the center of the stage and knelt.

  ?He actually knelt.

  ?The Prince of the House of Nox, the heir to the Throne of Ash, lowered himself onto one knee. He bowed his head, letting his dark hair fall over his eyes, hiding his face for a moment.

  ?When he looked up, his eyes were glistening.

  ?"My land is dying," he said softly.

  ?The silence in the arena was now absolute. You could hear a pin drop.

  ?"You speak of the 'Dark Plains' as a place of nightmares," Demian continued, his voice trembling with 'suppressed emotion'. "But to us... it is home. And our home is crumbling."

  ?He stood up slowly, opening his arms wide, exposing his chest, making himself vulnerable.

  ?" The Dragon Dust chokes our skies. The crops turn to gray ash in the fields. Our rivers run with sludge."

  ?He took a step forward, pleading with the crowd.

  ?"I did not come here to conquer you. I did not come here to spy on you."

  ?He placed a hand over his heart.

  ?"I came here to beg."

  ?A gasp went through the crowd. A collective intake of breath. The word 'beg' coming from a Prince was like a thunderclap.

  ?"We need help," Demian said, his voice raw. "We need knowledge. We need to know how to purify the soil. How to filter the water. We are not your enemies."

  ?He looked around the stadium, making eye contact with individual students.

  ?"We are refugees," he whispered. "We are drowning. And we came to Aeridor hoping for a hand to pull us out. Instead... you try to push us back under."

  ?Roc-ta let out a small sob. A tear rolled down her furry cheek.

  ?"Oh, the poor thing," she sniffled. "Val, his pack is starving. He just wants to save his home."

  ?"Roc-ta, stop it!" I grabbed her shoulders and shook her gently. "He's lying! Or at least, he's weaponizing the truth! Look at his eyes!"

  ?"I am looking!" Roc-ta wailed softly. "He smells like... like old rain. Like sadness."

  ?"He smells like deception!" I argued, frantic. "He's manipulating you! He’s using your empathy against you!"

  ?But it was too late. I looked around. The anger in the arena had evaporated. In its place was guilt. Thick, heavy guilt.

  ?I saw a Dwarf lower his axe. I saw the Elves looking at each other uncomfortably. I saw the girl who had screamed 'Murderer' wiping her eyes.

  ?Demian had them. He had them in the palm of his hand.

  ?He had walked out onto a stage surrounded by thousands of enemies, and in five minutes, he had turned them into a captivated audience.

  ?It made me sick.

  ?It physically made me nauseous. The bile rose in my throat.

  ?Because I knew the truth. I had met him. I had seen the real Demian in the arrival hall. The one who called me an "inferior being." The one who sneered at dirt on his coat.

  ?That guy the guy who treated me like garbage didn't care about starving peasants. He didn't care about purification spells. He cared about his own ego.

  ?This speech? This "I am just a humble refugee" act? It was a means to an end. He was buying safety with counterfeit coins of emotion.

  ?Demian stood tall again. He wiped his eyes a gesture that looked so brave, so stoic.

  ?"If you want us to leave," he said, his voice firming up, regaining its royal timbre, "say the word. I will take my people, and we will return to the dust. We will die with dignity, knowing we tried."

  ?He paused. The master of the pause.

  ?"But if there is a shred of truth to the legends of Aeridor... if this place truly is a beacon of hope..."

  ?He held out his hand. Palm up. An invitation.

  ?"Then let us stay. Let us learn. Let us live."

  ?He lowered his hand and bowed. A deep, formal bow.

  ?"The choice... is yours."

  ?He stayed bowed. He didn't move. He waited.

  ?For three seconds, there was silence.

  ?Then, somewhere in the back, a single person started clapping.

  ?Clap. Clap. Clap.

  ?Then another. Then a group.

  ?Then, it exploded.

  ?A wave of applause rolled over the arena. It started hesitant, fueled by guilt, but it grew. It became a roar. Not of hate this time, but of support.

  ?"Let them stay!" someone shouted.

  ?"Welcome to Aeridor!"

  ?"We're with you, Prince!"

  ?Roc-ta was clapping too. She was clapping so hard her paws were making a smacking sound.

  ?"Yes! Woo! Save the ash-people!" she cheered, jumping up and down.

  ?I stood there, frozen in a sea of applause. My hands hung limp at my sides. My jaw was clenched so tight my teeth ached.

  ?I felt isolated. Completely and utterly alone in a crowd of thousands.

  ?"You idiots," I whispered, my voice lost in the cheering. "You absolute, gullible sheep."

  ?I stared at the stage.

  ?Demian slowly straightened up from his bow.

  ?The camera zoomed in on his face for the final shot of the ceremony.

  ?He looked humble. He looked grateful. He looked like a saint who had just been granted a miracle.

  ?But then, he did it.

  ?Just for a microsecond. Just long enough for someone who was really, really looking to see.

  ?His eyes scanned the crowd.

  ?They locked onto the section where I was standing. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe he felt my burning hatred.

  ?He saw me. He saw the one person who wasn't clapping.

  ?And the corner of his mouth twitched.

  ?It wasn't a smile of gratitude.

  ?It was a smirk.

  ?A cold, calculating, predatory smirk.

  ?It was a smirk that said: I win.

  ?It was a smirk that said: Look how easy they are to control.

  ?It was a smirk that said: And there is nothing you can do about it.

  ?I felt a surge of rage so powerful it frightened me. It was like a physical blow to the chest. The magic in my blood the magic I wasn't supposed to have sparked.

  ?My vision tinged green at the edges. My eyes had a green glare, just for a second.

  ?"You fake," I snarled, my voice vibrating in my own chest. "You absolute, plastic, manipulative fake."

  ?"Val, aren't you happy?" Roc-ta asked, tugging my arm, oblivious to my meltdown. "They aren't going to kick him out! It's a happy ending!"

  ?I turned to her. My eyes were wide, probably looking a little crazy.

  ?"Happy?" I laughed. It sounded hysterical. "Roc-ta, this isn't a happy ending. This is the opening act of a horror show. And we just gave the monster the key to the house because he told us a sad story."

  ?Roc-ta blinked, her ears drooping confusedly. "But... he cried."

  ?"Crocodiles cry, Roc-ta!" I shouted, finally losing my composure. "Crocodiles cry right before they snap your neck!"

  ?I turned back to the stage, just in time to see Demian turn his back on the crowd. He swept his coat around him, walking back into the mist with the same arrogance he had arrived with.

  ?He had played us. He had played the entire school.

  ?And the worst part was... he was good at it.

  ?"He's not just a snob," I realized, a cold dread settling over my anger. "He's smart. He understands people better than they understand themselves."

  ?I watched his retreating figure disappear into the shadows of the exit gate.

  ?"Enemy number one confirmed," I whispered.

  ?I balled my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

  ?"Enjoy your applause, Prince," I thought. "But you didn't fool everyone. I see you. I see exactly what you are."

  ?"Come on, Val!" Roc-ta said cheerfully, the emotional moment already forgotten by her short attention span. "The ceremony is over! Now we get our squad assignments! I hope we get someone cool. Maybe a Vampire! Or a Treant!"

  ?I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands.

  ?"Yeah," I said, my voice hollow. "Someone cool."

  ?I followed Roc-ta out of the stands, but the cheers of the crowd sounded different to me now. They didn't sound like welcome.

  ?They sounded like the bleating of sheep being led to the slaughter.

  And he was the apex preditor.