FROST Chapter 105: Demon’s Gamble

Seravine stood still as Caspian’s figure disappeared into the darkness beyond the cavern mouth.

The sound of his boots echoed off the cold stone until silence reclaid the space between them. She exhaled quietly, folding her arms. Caspian’s cloak rested heavily on her shoulders, warm and faintly scented with battle-worn leather, frost-touched pine, and elven arrows. Oddly comforting.

As agreed, she was to remain behind. Caspian insisted on going alone to find Yami, not just because the path was treacherous, but because—as he put it—"a cursed gambler demon and a forr king with a temper were two disasters waiting to happen in enemy territory." Still, he’d made her a promise before he left.

"When I bring the boy back," he had said, gaze steady, "I’ll help you with your curse. That’s a vow."

And Seravine... for reasons even she couldn’t explain... trusted him.

Just as she turned to sit on one of the smoother boulders to rest, the air behind her abruptly shifted. It started as a whisper in her bones, then thickened into a swirl of scarlet-hued demonic mana. The cavern’s wisps flickered wildly. She spun around, senses alert.

Out of the swirling mana ca him.

Mathias.

He erged from the smoke like a perforr late to his own narcissistic opera—shirtless, of course—with every muscle in his sculpted torso glistening as if kissed by the gods of excess. His long, tousled hair spilled over his shoulders in shimring waves, clearly the result of at least three cursed styling potions and an unhealthy relationship with a mirror.

Seravine’s expression flattened. "You’ve got to be kidding ."

"H-How did you get in here?" she demanded, instinctively clutching Caspian’s cloak tighter around herself.

Mathias’s lips curled into a smirk as he flicked his hair back with the dramatic finesse of soone who had practiced it in every reflective surface known to demonkind.

"You must have forgotten," he said with far too much satisfaction, "that I can spy on anyone I’ve slept with, my love."

Seravine’s eyes narrowed into daggers. She rolled them so hard, it was a miracle they didn’t summon another portal. "I only did it because you told you were a prince."

Mathias gave an unapologetic shrug, the kind that reeked of casual egomania. "I am a prince... just self-proclaid. It’s more about the aura, really."

Seravine scoffed. "Aura? Please. You’re just a walking cautionary tale for poor decision-making." She gripped the cloak tighter, aware that his gaze had dipped once—twice—toward her collarbone.

"Goodness," she muttered through gritted teeth. "I’m just thankful you’re infertile."

Mathias winced, clutching his chest with exaggerated flair. "Ouch. Right in the heirless legacy."

"I am not infertile, by the way," he added, lifting his chin proudly. "I simply choose who is worthy of bearing the spawn of my greatness."

"I’m going to vomit," Seravine snapped.

"You wouldn’t be the first. A few have fainted. So cried. One wrote a song."

She let out a groan and turned halfway, shielding herself as she adjusted the cloak over her bare shoulders. "If you ca here just to admire my suffering and ogle the only thing keeping decent, then you can twirl your dramatic ass right back to wherever you ca from."

But Mathias’s expression turned grim.

"I ca," he hissed, "for the key."

Seravine tilted her head. "What, that key?" She gestured in the direction Caspian had taken. "Well, he has it now. Maybe don’t hand ancient artifacts to handso forr kings disguised as your ex next ti."

Mathias’s eye twitched.

"Do you have any idea what will happen to if my ancestors find out I handed over the Key of Umbral Gates to a royal with cheekbones sharp enough to file down reality?"

"Caspian went that way," Seravine said breezily, gesturing again. "You want it? Go chase after him. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of his glutes while you’re at it. Might be worth the effort."

Mathias ignored her tone, his mood visibly darkening. He lingered in the cavern like a brooding ghost of ex-boyfriends past.

"You really think," he said, voice lower now, "that he—the forr Lunar King—can defeat a creature like Yami?"

Seravine stilled.

"That thing isn’t just powerful," Mathias continued, stepping closer. "It’s immortal. You should’ve told him. You know what Yami is."

Seravine’s lips pressed into a line. "I didn’t lie," she said quietly. "He didn’t ask."

"He’s walking into death. And you let him go."

"He’s not just a forr king," she said with a faint glimr of pride in her voice. "He’s Caspian. That’s got to count for sothing. You knew he had toppled kingdoms before."

Mathias studied her a mont longer, then let out a long sigh—half frustration, half theatrical exhaustion. "I don’t know if you’re the bravest demon I’ve ever t... or the dumbest."

"I’m both," Seravine said. "And you still chased ."

"Touché."

Mathias gave her one last look—equal parts bitter and begrudgingly fond—then slowly stepped back, fading once more into the mana that had summoned him.

"You’ll regret helping him in," his voice echoed faintly, making the fireflies flicker like nervous whispers in the shadows. "And when you do, rember: I told you so."

Seravine rolled her eyes for the third ti that night, a soft scoff escaping her lips.

"If I had a coin for every ti one of my exes said that," she muttered under her breath, "I’d have enough to buy a reality where they all stayed gone."

The cavern dimd again as the fireflies settled. She expected silence to reclaim the air.

But it didn’t.

Mathias stepped forward—slowly—his boots barely making a sound on the stone. He moved with the kind of grace only arrogance could cultivate, and for a second, Seravine thought he might vanish again.

Instead, he lowered himself beside her, settling behind her with unusual care, his presence warm and stifling like smoke curling too close to a fla. He didn’t touch her—yet sohow, his proximity already made her skin prickle.

"Now while we’re at it," he said, his voice velvet-soft but laced with mischief, "and since I can’t sense the forr king’s presence anymore..."

He paused.

"...How about we make a bet?" He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "I know you like them."

Seravine turned, only slightly. Her gaze was sharp, wary, but not entirely disinterested. Her instincts scread to be on guard, and yet—like always with Mathias—part of her was already leaning toward the gamble.

"And we’re betting on?" she asked coolly.

Mathias smirked. He turned over his shoulder just enough to et her eye to eye, and when he did, that old glint—the one she hated for how well it still stirred sothing in her gut—sparkled to life.

"By the looks of it," he said, voice low and thoughtful, "you seem to trust him with your curse. Dangerous choice. Because if he dies... perhaps so will you."

Seravine’s expression darkened. Her lips pressed together into a tight line. "Just get to the point."

Mathias grinned, tilting his head as if savoring the mont. "Let’s bet on the forr king’s chances of surviving Yami."

A pause.

"You never once beat in a wager, did you? And you know why?"

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. He always answered his own questions anyway.

"That’s because I am the son of the Fortune Goddess herself," he declared with theatrical pride. "Luck, fate, providence, even the occasional stray miracle—they all flutter to my side like butterflies to wine."

Seravine’s lips parted, but she said nothing. Not yet. Her mind moved quickly behind her eyes.

Mathias leaned back, supporting himself with one arm as he watched her like a cat waiting for the mouse to twitch.

"Now," he said gently, "if you’d like... I can tip the scales in his favor. Just enough to give him a shot. A slip of a charm, a thread of divine odds woven in his steps—subtle, undetectable."

Her breath caught.

"But," he continued, voice softening to a near-whisper, "I’ll need a little sothing from you in return."

Seravine’s gaze sharpened. "What kind of sothing?"

Mathias’s smile deepened—not playful, not smug... no, this one was worse. It was the kind of grin that ca from an ancient hunger; the kind of grin that whispered "I’ve made regrettable deals in bathtubs made of cursed gold, and I’d do it again."

"Sothing," he said, voice low and ominous, "to save your weak king."

At that exact mont—miles away down the labyrinth of dark corridors that twisted like a bad decision—Caspian sneezed.

It wasn’t just a sneeze.

It was a profound sneeze. The kind of sneeze that felt like it ca not just from the nose but from the very soul. A royal sneeze. A sneeze that declared, "My nasal passages are under siege, but I shall endure!"

The flickering wisps of blue light, which had been calmly floating in dignified silence above the mossy stones, quivered mid-air. One of them actually spun in a full circle, as if montarily glitching out of existence. And in the sudden hush that followed, it almost sounded like they whispered: "Bless you."

Caspian, recovering from the sheer violence of the act, rubbed his nose with a look of majestic suspicion.

"Why do I feel like I’m being judged?" he muttered to himself, glancing warily over his shoulder.