THE SILENCE Grayson left in his wake was louder than the clatter of silverware. Mailah stared at the doorway, the ghost of his warm breath still dancing against her ear. Her heart was a frantic drum, caught between the urge to run after him and the instinct to hide under the heavy mahogany table.
"Don’t mind him," Lucson said smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, his presence as steady and imposing as an ancient oak. "Grayson has always been a bit much when he’s... agitated."
"Agitated is a nice word for it," Mason chid in, leaning back. The nightmare demon was back to his playful self, though the warning he’d given Mailah in her room still sat like lead in her stomach. "I’d say he’s a tea-kettle about to blow its lid. And you, Mailah, are the fire underneath."
"He’s not a kettle," Carson muttered, already halfway through his third muffin. The youngest Ashford had a perpetually ssy head of hair and a spark of mischief that usually lightened the mood, but even he looked a bit weary today. "He’s a volcano. A big, dark-eyed, grumpy volcano."
Ravenson hadn’t said a word. He sat as still as a statue, his silver eyes fixed on the steam rising from his tea. He was the most mysterious of the lot, a man of shadows and secrets who seed to see things the others missed.
He finally looked up, his gaze catching Mailah’s. "You should do as Carson says. Dress for the outdoors. The Bloodless Polo is not a sport for the faint of heart, or for flimsy silk."
"The Bloodless Polo?" Mailah asked, her voice finally returning. "That sounds... peaceful. Which I’m guessing it isn’t."
Lucson offered a small, knowing smile. "It is about control. In our world, anyone can be a butcher. Only a true lord can be a surgeon with a blade—or a mallet."
As Mailah made her way back to her quarters to change, Mason following not so far behind her, the reality of the Ashford estate truly hit her. The manor didn’t just house the brothers; it was currently a hive for the "Exiles"—the supernatural elite who lived on the fringes of the human world.
She passed the guest wing and felt the heavy, vibrating energy of the night’s aftermath.
The guests weren’t exactly "morning people." Through half-open doors, she caught glimpses of the chaos. In one suite, a group sat fully clothed on the edge of their beds, staring at the walls with unblinking eyes, replaying the highlights of the previous night’s ballroom drama.
In another, a thick haze drifted into the hallway, slling of sweet rot and expensive incense, where guests were trying to find their composure with dark liquids and hushed, frantic whispers.
Nobody seed to have slept. The air was thick with a shallow, uneasy tension.
The Ashfords had hosted this Gala for centuries to keep the favor of the King of Exiles—a tradition Grayson had famously ignored for years. But now that the "Middle Prince" had returned and claid his seat, the status of the Ashford house was higher than it had been in centuries.
Mailah found a new outfit waiting for her: a tailored riding habit of charcoal wool with silver buttons and tall, polished leather boots. It was practical, fierce, and fit her like a second skin.
When she stepped outside onto the grand balcony overlooking the polo fields, the sun was a pale, cold disc in the sky.
Below, the field was an impossibly perfect stretch of erald grass, surrounded by tiers of stone seating where the restless guests were already gathering.
The rules were announced by Lucson, who stood at the center of the field with a voice that carried like a bell.
"The rule of the match is simple," Lucson declared. "The ball must move. The horses must run. But no blood may touch the ground."
Mailah felt a chill. It sounded like a safety precaution, but looking at the players mounting their massive, coal-black steeds, she realized the truth.
These were predators being told to hunt without tearing the skin. It was a test of restraint that would drive most demons insane.
Then, Grayson appeared.
He was mounted on a horse that looked like it had been carved out of the midnight sky. He wore a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful muscles of his forearms. He didn’t look like a "loose cannon" now; he looked like a god of marble and iron.
The sun hung low and pale, casting long, skeletal shadows across the erald turf of the polo field. From her spot on the high stone balcony, Mailah could feel the ground vibrating as the horses were led out.
With a sound like a localized earthquake, the dark-coated horses charged from the gates. They were monstrous things, their eyes glowing a ghostly, flickering blue. Mailah’s heart hamred a frantic rhythm against her ribs, matching the beat of the hooves.
The first collision was sickening. Two riders slamd into each other at a full gallop. In the human world, they would have been crushed. Mailah winced, expecting the spray of red, but the "Demon Twist" happened instead.
One rider was launched from his saddle like a stone from a catapult. Mid-air, his body jerked with a supernatural snap.
Mailah watched, horrified and fascinated, as he contorted his spine at an impossible angle, his feet finding the air as if it were solid ground. He landed in a crouch, his palms skimming the grass for balance, and leapt back onto his horse before the beast had even slowed down. Not a single drop of blood hit the turf.
She turned to see Lucson, standing in the shadows of the royal box. He looked like a king observing a battlefield, his eyes sharp and cold. "It’s about being perfect. A single scratch, a single drop of blood on that grass, and the player is considered a failure. A weakling."
Beside him, Carson was the complete opposite. The youngest Ashford was leaning so far over the railing he looked like he might fall. He let out a piercing whistle as a mallet swung toward a rider’s throat, only for the rider to exhale and pull his neck back by a fraction of an inch. The silver head of the mallet hissed as it cut through the air, missing skin by a hair’s breadth.
"Whoo! Did you see that move, Ray?" Carson yelled, slapping the stone.
Ravenson stood a few feet away, leaning against a pillar. He didn’t answer. His dark eyes were fixed on the field, his expression unreadable. He looked like he was counting every breath the players took, searching for the mont soone would finally break.
Mason was there too, standing closest to Mailah. He wasn’t watching the ga; he was watching her. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring. "The adrenaline down there is high, but yours, Mailah? It tastes like a storm about to break. Sweet and electric."
Grayson was the center of it all.
He didn’t look like he was struggling. While the other demons had veins popping in their foreheads and eyes wide with the strain of holding back their hunger, Grayson moved like smoke.
He was a mask of cool, dark-eyed detachnt. He wove his horse through the chaos with surgical precision, his mallet a blur of light that sent the ball screaming across the field.
But as the ga reached its peak, the tension snapped.
A hulking demon with jagged horns—the leader of the opposing team—finally lost his mind. He had been outperford by Grayson at every turn, and the humiliation had finally pushed him past his restraint. With a feral roar that shook the balcony, he ignored the ball.
He stood in his stirrups and swung his heavy mallet directly at Grayson’s head with enough force to decapitate him.
The crowd gasped—a collective, sharp intake of air.
Mailah felt her heart stop. If Grayson struck back with his own mallet, the collision would be fatal. The demon’s head would burst like a grape, and blood would drench the erald field.
Grayson didn’t strike back. He didn’t even blink.
At the very last second, Grayson leaned off the side of his horse. His back went completely parallel to the grass, his dark hair brushing the blades.
The mallet whistled an inch above his ear, the sheer wind of the blow ruffling his shirt. In a move that defied every law of physics, Grayson hooked the opponent’s mallet with the tip of his own, using the demon’s own massive montum to wrench the weapon from his hands.
Grayson spun the stolen mallet once, caught it, and tossed it back to the stunned demon. He hadn’t touched the man. He hadn’t spilled a drop. He had simply made the demon look like a child.
As the horses circled for the next play, Grayson pulled his mount alongside the shaking, wide-eyed opponent.
Mailah leaned forward, her fingers digging into the stone until they bled. She watched Grayson lean in, his lips moving as he whispered sothing into the demon’s ear.
The change was instant. The demon’s face went from a mask of rage to absolute, bone-deep terror. His skin turned the color of ash. He didn’t say another word. He simply lowered his head, turned his horse, and galloped off the field, his hands trembling so violently he could barely hold the reins.
Grayson didn’t even watch him flee. He turned his head and looked straight up at the balcony.
His eyes were no longer dark gray; they were pulsing with a brilliant, lunar silver that seed to pierce right through Mailah. Even from that distance, she felt the heat of his stare. I
It was a mont that made her knees feel like lting wax. In that look, he wasn’t just a player; he was a king showing her that he could command his own darkness—and hers.
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