Summary: The clans of Britannia are at war. One move after another is made, with no winners in sight. But then a demon and a goddess are pitted against one another as pawns, and in their meeting, the game begins to change.

A/N: Welcome to my new fic. I have been writing this for almost a year, and after many different versions I am proud and excited to finally be publishing this story. I'm not quite done writing it yet, but this will be several chapters long. I am publishing just the prologue today, with further chapters to be published every Friday.

I must thank several people without whom this fic would not have happened. I had the pleasure to work with Cerulean Grace as my beta, and I thank you immensely for all the feedback and the discussions on writing. I'm always so grateful for your insight and ideas, and I'd be a mess without you.

My two very good friends, Galfridus and woundedowl, served as cheerleaders, sounding boards, and tear dryers as I went through one chapter after another. Thank you so much for your unending support and for not gagging me as I agonized over the details.

Now thank you to you, for taking the time to read, and hopefully giving this story a chance. I welcome your feedback in all shapes and sizes; knowing there is someone out there reading and enjoying this story is more reward than you know.

Prologue

It's like a holy war
When the masses march upon me.
The whole scene leaves me sore—
A hole seen by those who soar—
And, broken and bloodied,
I grin up at them and ask for more.

It's like a holy war,
And its when those holy bastards—
A horde, a mass, of masochistic masters—
Hone on me like a holy task, there's
No greater sight for my eyes to see.
When they're still so certain;
Certain that the unholy one is me.

In this war of a devils against devil,
It won't be the youngbloods left to revel.

I don't see why you can't admit it:
That you've become demons, just like I did.
Yes, there's a darkness within me,
But, as the villain you want to see,
I'm afraid that I just can't take credit.
When the greatest sin that I've committed,
Was shedding light on all that you all did.

—Nathan Squiers

Meliodas scowls, tapping his foot impatiently. "How long is this going to take?" he snaps out, glaring over at the short, stocky demon with wild hair and a bushy beard hovering nearby.

"Steady, my prince," he soothes, giving a little bow. "As the poets say, patience is a conquering virtue."

"Shut up, Chandler," mutters the prince, smirking as the older demon promptly snaps his mouth shut. He pulls at the suit that he has been coerced into, unused to formal clothes. Children in the demon realm are free to run about as they pleased; the prince is nearing the cusp of adolescence, waiting for his powers to emerge fully and reveal the symbol of his demon heritage on his brow. None had ever received theirs as young as he, but Meliodas can feel it growing inside of him and rocking under his skin to be let loose, especially now that he is here.

Heaving a sigh, he folds his arms and looks around. It is his first time in the Celestial Realm, and he hates every inch of it. The sweeping columns and white stone of the palace, the gray marble carved into staircases, the statues of heroes and lovers that seemed to crowd every inch are utterly ridiculous. It seems as though they are trying so very hard to rival the demons' superiority with this show of power, but how could they? His mouth curls up in a devilish smile as he imagines covering the marble stairs with bodies, the white and cream of the halls stained red with blood.

But he'd need a sword for that, and his mouth twists for a moment when he remembers he doesn't have one anymore. Meliodas had killed too many people last month, running through the halls of the castle one afternoon and slaying everyone in his path. It had just been a game, but one of the demons he slaughtered was the daughter of someone important, so Meliodas had to be reprimanded. Chandler had him stripped of his sword, apologizing profusely at the screaming and stomping prince throughout the ordeal. It was one of his own, too, the first he had made since learning the craft.

His lips curl up as he thinks of the one he is working on now, in secret. His tutor will be the first to give it blood when it's done. But he has to get home in order to finish it, and in order to do that, he has to finish this.

With a huff puts his hands on his hips. "I want to go," he complains again, his foot stomping. "Why are they making me wait? Do they know who I am?"

"I assure you, Your Highness, they are well aware," coos Chandler. "His Majesty is already inside."

That earns another heaving sigh. Meliodas bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl, clenching his fists at the side as his eyes roll to the top of his head. The only thing keeping him from lashing out is the fact that his father is beyond the great doors in front of them. Meliodas may be the most powerful demon born in an age, but the king is still stronger. It is a rare experience for the king to turn his attention to his only son, and not an entirely pleasant one either.

A goddess walks up, and he sneers at her disgusting beauty. "They are ready to receive His Highness," she announces formally, and at once Chandler is pulling on his collar and smoothing the back of his hair.

"Get off me!" Meliodas pushes him away, but Chandler does not bat an eye at the outburst. Instead he holds out a small box, wrapped in silver leaf, the brightly lit sconces in the hall dancing enticingly against it.

"Here is the present for the princess," he explains. "Don't forget to—"

"Why does she get a present and I don't?" demands the prince, yanking the box from his hands. "She's just a stupid baby."

"The poets say, generosity is a sign of sovereign power," murmurs the tutor.

Meliodas aims a kick at the tutor, who dodges it gracefully. The goddesses at the door are whispering to one another, so he shoots them an angry glare before looking down at the box in his hands. It is just a plain wooden box, but thin leaves of silver foil are pressed to the grain in decoration. It catches the light and sends it sparkling, and for a moment the prince watches as little specks of light dance on the floor and wall, reflecting from the silver. Then one of the goddesses giggles, and he realizes he is being watched; quickly he puts the box behind him.

Before he can lash out again, the doors open, and Meliodas sucks in a deep breath and lifts his chin as he stalks forward. The room falls into a hush as the young prince walks with confident strides through the parting crowd. There are goddesses filling the room to the brim, and he can feel all eyes on him, heads turning in his direction. But the prince of demons does not feel any apprehension or doubt. Instead, their gazes, some curious, some with animosity, feed his hungry ego. Nothing but a pack of stupid birds, he thinks, glaring at the two archangels standing guard. They stare back with cold expressions, and Meliodas feels quite pleased with himself.

His eyes remain straight ahead, head tilting down slightly as he approaches the Supreme Deity. The queen of the goddess clan is nearly as large as his own father, but her presence is shrunken down enough to fit inside the castle. Next to her, his father has done the same, drawing his body inwards to be able to enjoy the day. They are speaking to one another quietly, heads tilted towards one another.

Meliodas can feel his stomach twist at the sight. This entire thing is so stupid. Why were they seeking peace with this vile clan? His father was the most powerful being in the known world; one flick of his wrist or a word fallen from his lips, and entire kingdoms would fall. There is nothing that the goddesses or any other clan could offer that even comes close. It is what he was always told, and what he himself has observed.

Yet here he is, murmuring to the Supreme Deity, allowing his dark nature to be touched by her blinding light. Allowing his own son, his only son, to be promised in marriage to the little brat the queen has spit out. What irks him most is how pleased they all are, even the demons that are scattered among the crowd. No one asked him what his opinion was of all this; even though it is his life and his fate they are all deciding in this cursed hall. Of course, Meliodas would have preferred to annihilate every one of them, still not fully understanding why they did not do just that.

To the side of the dais on which the king and queen sit and speak to one another, a cradle of pure gold is surrounded by goddesses shrouded head to toe in white silk. They titter and swarm the crib, but also finally part when he draws near. Meliodas stops a few steps from the gold monstrosity, his eyes cold and his mouth in a tight scowl as he waits to be acknowledged. Meliodas hates waiting.

"My son," the king finally says. His voice is as dark and heavy as the night, and Meliodas cannot help but feel pleased at the shiver that goes through the audience watching. The goddesses in the room titter, their feathers rippling in fear, the power of the archangels flaring briefly as if in response. He lowers his eyes immediately, the one lesson he has always followed, as the king's gaze turns to fall on him. Then he peers up through his blonde bangs to sneak a look at the goddess beside him.

He can barely make out the deep eyes and haughty features through the blinding white of her power, glowing in an aura around her. But Meliodas keeps his face stoic, something that he has learned to do despite his age. He knows how unsettling it is with his youthful looks, and looks forward to seeing the goddess squirm under his glare as all the others, save his father, do.

To his surprise, the Supreme Deity only stares back. Sweat forms on the back of his neck, the silence around him now stifling instead of exciting. His throat goes dry as he tries to swallow, until finally, finally, he cannot take her eyes on him any longer, and his drop to the floor.

The queen gives a little noise in the back of her throat, a cross between acceptance of his submission and a clear dismissal. Meliodas can feel the tips of his ears burning, and a small crack comes from where he is clutching the box so tightly the edges begin to snap inward. The two monarchs return to their hushed conversation, and now the prince is left awkward and confused. He looks around for a sign of what to do next when one of the shrouded goddesses waves him closer.

With a quick glance behind him, Meliodas walks towards the cradle. One of the four reaches out a hand, and when he realizes why he hands her the gift, now bent where his fingertips had gripped the sides. Another sweeps behind him, a hand on his back; before he realizes what is happening he is pressed gently towards the cradle, the goddess silently asking, would you like to see the princess?

Cautiously Meliodas steps up, leaning forward to peer inside. There are swaths of white blankets, as bright as clouds, and in the center is a baby with creamy skin and dusty cheeks. There are wisps of silver hair that curl around her brow and her ears, her chubby face and arms framed by the intricate lace of the coverlet hanging over the babe. The scent of new life drifts upwards, something he had never experienced before. Her eyes are closed, her little mouth slightly open as she sleeps peacefully. There are no signs of wings yet, and he wonders with disgust what they will look like as they grow.

This is the princess he is being made to marry when they are of age? This fragile little thing? His lip curls with the thought that this baby will be worthy of even breathing the same air. The humiliation in front of the Supreme Deity is quickly fading as the prince regains the feeling of superiority that wraps around him like a comforting blanket. He could snuff out this life with just a finger, he decides; perhaps, one day, he will do just that.

He leans a bit further in, hearing those watching murmur a bit, undoubtedly gushing over the sight of the future rulers of their clans meeting for the first time. It must be a great honor for them, he muses, to be in his presence. One day he will ascend the throne of the demon realm and wipe every one of them out.

Meliodas breathes in the scent of the baby one more time, and when his face is just an inch from hers he pauses. He can feel the pricks of heat under his skin—his demon mark. It has been struggling to break free with the growing awakening of his power, not quite ready to appear, but soon if Chandler is to be believed.

Smiling, he whispers to the girl, "I hate you."

Nothing happens with his declaration, but a split second later, she opens her eyes. Two blue jewels land on him, and at once a sliver of black ink bleeds into view on his skin, burning as it slides along his brow.