C13 CHAPTER13

But why was he feeling this way? Sia was a hybrid of Zombie and Devil, leaning more toward her zombie heritage with barely a trace of Devil energy. As one of the most trusted maids in the palace, she had been chosen to serve Devon personally.

Devon found himself puzzling over his sudden urge to confide in her. What was stirring within him today?

He let out a deep sigh, observing Sia as she placed the food on the table. Her hands trembled, a usual occurrence that he had long since realized was due to her self-consciousness around him. It made sense, after all—she was a maid, and he, a prince. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to trust her with his innermost thoughts. Hector was the only one who knew of his reluctance to marry the Beetle Princess. Sia, who had once drugged him on his father's orders, clearly demonstrated her allegiance to the king over him. He had to remain vigilant around the meals she served.

"You may now eat, Master," she said, her smile strained.

"Sit down," Devon commanded, noting the immediate confusion and fear that flickered in her eyes.

"Master, is something wrong?" Sia inquired, settling onto the plush rug on the floor. Servants were conditioned to comply first and question later, always taking their place on the floor when instructed to sit.

"Eat," he directed, watching her blink thrice in an attempt to process his command.

"Fr...from your plate?" she stammered.

"Yes," Devon confirmed. "I want you to taste the food you've brought me."

"As you wish, Master," Sia replied, unveiling the meal. The aroma was tantalizing—pasta, hot dogs, chicken, and beef.

Devon's mouth watered at the scent. He had to credit his father for one thing: the king always ensured his son was served human cuisine, which Devon vastly preferred over the distasteful Devil fare.

And how on earth had Sia mastered the art of cooking human food so well?

She pulled a small plate from a drawer, serving herself a portion of the pasta. Under Devon's watchful eye, she took a bite.

"Now, have some of the chicken and beef," Devon instructed, and without hesitation, she complied.

Assured that everything was fine, Devon politely asked her to leave before he began to eat. As he savored his meal, the flavors transported him back to his parents' home in California. They had always doted on him, indulging him with an abundance of delicious food. Among the rich variety California had to offer, pasta had surprisingly become his favorite dish, and his mother would lovingly make it whenever he asked.

He let out a wistful sigh, pondering what his parents might be enduring, given that it had been some time since they last heard from him. Mid-thought, Devon's hand jerked, causing him to drop his utensils. A sudden, vivid image flashed before him—an image of himself plummeting from the sky.

"What the hell?" he murmured under his breath.

With his eyes shut tight, Devon's memories started flooding back. He saw himself in Houston, heading to work, rubbing shoulders with the state's top executives. He recalled the long hours of study and the satisfaction of earning a promotion at work. He remembered one particular morning—waking up, working out, stepping into the shower... someone had driven him to the airport, and he had boarded a flight... a flight bound for California. Mid-flight, there was a crisis... chaos ensued among the passengers, but he remained calm... he had grabbed his bag...

What was in that bag?

"My phone and computer! Where are they?" Devon gasped, his voice escalating to a scream as he frantically searched the room. Finding nothing, he collapsed onto the bed, a mix of exhaustion and fury coursing through him, his heart racing. It was then that the realization hit him—after falling from the sky, his parachute hadn't opened, and he had slammed into the ground...

That was the final memory before the blackout.

That had to be the accident his father mentioned. But what had become of the plane? He was desperate for answers, yet they would have to wait. Right now, he needed to focus on escaping his marriage.

Devon racked his brain, searching for a solution, until a brilliant idea struck him.

The humans.

Years earlier, he had captured a number of them during a war, sparing their lives against his father's wishes. These humans were resilient, resourceful, and exceptionally clever—qualities Devon knew could be immensely beneficial to him.

He needed their assistance, and he was determined to enlist their aid. But the question remained—how?

He recalled that he had confined those humans within the dungeon of his domain, a decision made with the full knowledge of the grim fate his father would have ordained elsewhere.

Glancing at the clock, he noted it was nearing four in the afternoon. He lounged in bed briefly before pulling out the territory's map, intent on familiarizing himself with its details. His interest in the diabolical intricacies had always been lacking, leaving him with a tenuous grasp on the essentials. After studying the map for some time, he stashed it away in his drawer. He then dressed quietly, slipped out of his room, and merged with the shadows of the evening. He forwent summoning his beast, preferring the subtlety of solitude.

Tonight was the night of reckoning.