The Demon Among The Knights-Chapter 44 - 40 – “Feast of Victory”
Chapter 40 – "Feast of Victory"
The grand hall of the Knights’ Kingdom was alive with celebration. Golden chandeliers hung from the high-vaulted ceilings, casting warm glows over polished marble floors and long feasting tables stacked with roasted meats, fruits, bread, and overflowing goblets of wine. Banners bearing each knight’s house crest fluttered gently in the breeze sneaking in from the stained glass windows.
The male knights stood proud in sharp, decorated formal armor—silver-plated with sapphire accents, their capes pressed and embroidered with symbols of valor and victory. Each of them wore sashes representing their rank, glinting medals pinned neatly on their chests.
The female knights were dressed equally impressively—some in glimmering white-gold armor pieces over tailored gowns, others in ceremonial robes lined with blue silk, their hair braided in styles denoting their family or region. Light armor shimmered over their shoulders and forearms, more decorative than combative.
At the front of the hall stood Christian, wearing a sleek obsidian-black suit with crimson lining. His plated boots reflected the light, and a diamond-encrusted sword hung at his hip purely for style. His dread-plated black hair was tied back into a loose tail, his yellow eyes scanning the room like a fashion-forward hawk.
He raised his goblet.
"What better way to celebrate the Knight’s Feast... than after a war well-fought!" he said, his voice cutting through the air with charm and flair.
He grinned wide. "Sure, I wasn’t there—but hey, I still get to do the fun part. And I’ve been winning this award every year, but I figured... this time, we name it after someone who actually did something during the war."
He pulled out a scroll and unrolled it with a dramatic sweep.
"This year’s Order of the Iron Flame goes to... the one who stood alone in front of death, shackled yet unbroken, the one who saved our lives when hope was lost—Luci!"
The crowd murmured, and all heads turned to the back table.
There sat Luci, hunched over a large tray of roasted chicken, tearing it apart with both hands. His coat, the red-and-black one Christian had given him, was now dusted with crumbs.
Daniel, now with a silver trim on his armor, slid in beside him. "Hey, Master Luci," he grinned.
Luci looked up, cheeks stuffed. "Oh, Daniel."
Daniel chuckled. "Yeah, call me that again. ’Master’ has a nice ring to it."
Luci rolled his eyes. "My name’s Luci. Don’t push it."
Brian joined them, setting down his plate with a proud smile. "Well, obviously you deserve the title. You saved our butts, and you made a deal with the kingdom. Respect must be given."
He took a sip of wine. "Also, I’ve been promoted—Gold Rank 4. And guess who else moved up?"
Brianna appeared behind him, her golden armor newly polished, her long cloak sweeping behind her. "May I join you two?" she asked, smiling.
"Sure," Luci said, nodding and scooting over.
In his mind, Luci glanced at the happy chatter around him, the warmth of the food, the clinking of glasses.
"I don’t know what they’re murmuring about... but man, I’m just glad I’m stuffing myself with roasted chicken."
—
Meanwhile, in the King’s chambers...
The king stood before a dark altar, lit only by a single flickering candle. Before him was a goblet of thick red liquid—demon’s blood, swirling unnaturally as if alive.
He raised the goblet, voice low and filled with hunger.
"Today... I drink the demon’s blood."
His lips curled into a smile that knew only ambition.
The torchlight in the banquet hall cast a golden glow over polished marble floors and high-arched ceilings. Chatter bounced like song between the stone walls, merging with the deep notes of a bard’s lute and the occasional clang of a dropped fork. The great feasting tables overflowed with platters of roasted meats, golden-brown loaves of bread, wheels of cheese, glistening fruits, and tankards of mead, beer, and spiced wine. Banners of the Knights’ Kingdom swayed gently from the rafters, as if proud to witness the celebration.
Up on the central platform, raised just slightly above the sea of armored warriors and silk-draped nobles, Christian’s silver double-breasted suit shimmered like moonlight. He held up a medal so polished it caught every light in the room, reflecting it like a tiny sun.
"And the Order of the Iron Flame officially goes to... Brian!" he declared, voice rich and booming.
The cheers began instantly.
Brian blinked in surprise—eyes wide, his mouth parting with the beginning of a protest that never came. But then, he stood. Tall. Composed. The ruckus only grew louder as he walked down the golden carpet between the tables, claps on his back and raised mugs following his every step.
As he stepped onto the platform, Christian clasped the medal around his neck and gave him a proud nod. The crowd quieted slowly, a hush falling like snow.
Brian turned, the medal catching the light, his hand gently brushing it before he raised it slightly for all to see. He cleared his throat, pausing as if letting the silence settle into respect.
---
Brian’s Speech:
"Thank you, everyone. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting this... especially not with so many brave warriors who gave their all on the field. I look around, and I see people who bled, who fought, who stood in the mud and the fire—and they never backed down.
"But this medal—it’s not just for me. I accept it for all of us. For those who raised their swords. For the healers who worked through the night. For the runners who carried orders under falling arrows. For the ones who didn’t make it home.
"We didn’t fight for glory. Not for rewards. We fought because we had to. Because behind us were people who needed protecting. Families. Friends. Dreams.
"If this medal means anything at all, let it mean this—when we stand together, when we protect each other, when we choose loyalty over fear—no enemy, not even one blessed by gods, can break us."
He raised his mug then, eyes burning not with pride, but unity.
"So tonight, raise your drinks—not to me, but to survival, to unity, and to the warriors beside you!"
---
For a split second, there was silence.
Then the room erupted.
Cheers roared from every direction. Mugs slammed together in a rhythm, wooden tables shaking beneath the stomping of boots. "OI! OI! OI!" they chanted in unison as beer sloshed onto the floors, laughter mixed with the scent of grilled venison and spiced lamb.
"WELL SAID!" Christian shouted, already a few drinks in and red-cheeked. He spun in place dramatically and raised his own tankard high. "NOW—LET’S DRINK AND CELEBRATE!"
"Oi!!" the hall thundered again.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The formal stiffness of a medal ceremony dissolved into something wilder, warmer. Music picked up tempo. A band of four minstrels in the corner struck up a lively tune with drums and fiddles, and the dance floor near the center table began to fill with spinning figures and clanking armor.
Far in the back corner of the hall, away from the spotlight and glory, sat Luci.
Alone.
Not out of isolation—but by choice.
He was hunched slightly over a silver plate piled absurdly high with food. He’d gone through three whole roasted chickens already. Bones stacked beside him like a fortress of grease and glory. The steam from the meat rose into his face as he bit into another drumstick with visible pleasure, juice dribbling down his fingers. His eyes were half-lidded, glowing faintly red beneath the hood of his coat, utterly lost in the moment.
The chaos around him didn’t matter.
Luci was at peace—with crispy skin, greasy hands, and the rich taste of roasted meat.
Then came Christian—stumbling, weaving through knights and tables like a man on a sacred mission.
"Luuuuciiii!" he sang, holding out a frothy mug that spilled with each step. His cheeks were rosy, his balance wobbly. "How about a little drink for the hero?"
Luci didn’t look up right away. He was licking his fingers clean, savoring the last bits of flavor. But Brian—ever the protector—appeared beside Christian in a flash, a steady hand on the fashion knight’s shoulder.
"He’s underage," Brian said firmly. "No drinks for him."
Christian blinked, frowning dramatically. "But he’s not technically human, right?"
Luci finally looked up. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.
"You’re forgetting," he said, voice calm, deep, dangerous, "I’m a demon. Human rules don’t apply to me."
Then he took the mug, sniffed it once—eyes narrowed in curiosity—and without hesitation, tilted his head back and downed the entire thing in one, smooth gulp. The foam lined his lip for a heartbeat before he wiped it away with the back of his hand and slammed the mug down.
No reaction. No change in expression.
Calm. Cool.
Deadly still.
Christian just stared at him, slack-jawed. "You... you drank everything? And you’re still unfazed?! What are you, a black hole!?"
Then he straightened up suddenly, raising a finger like he’d just solved a divine puzzle. "Alright! DRINKING CONTEST!"
The tables exploded in excitement.
"DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!"
Brian sighed audibly, already regretting everything. "Here we go..."
Luci stood up slowly, the iron ball at his ankle dragging a soft thud behind him. "You got it," he said, stretching his neck until it cracked. "Let’s see if a fashion knight can outdrink a demon."
Wooden kegs were rolled in. A long table was cleared with sweeping arms, knocking off plates and bowls to the sound of cheering. Mugs were filled rapidly, lined up like soldiers before battle.
Christian slammed the first drink down before anyone even said "Go."
Luci followed—not even blinking.
The contest had begun.
And as the crowd swarmed closer, roaring with laughter and anticipation, the image was set:
A silver-clad knight with flushed cheeks and fierce pride, versus a demon boy with glowing eyes and grease-stained fingers. Both determined. Both relentless.
And the beer?
It flowed like a river on fire.
To be continued...
