WEDDING DAY:
The silence was suffocating.
Inside the gilded bridal chamber, light filtered through the silken curtains in pale shades of pink and ivory, casting a ghostly hue over the boy seated on the cushioned edge of the bed. Lysander Floris Caelum, the last blossom of the angelic realm, sat wrapped in shimmering layers of white, pearls stitched into his long sleeves, silver embroidery crawling across the fabric like vines—like chains.
A veil covered his face, delicate and cruel. He stared ahead blankly, lips parted, his breath shallow. Eyes red. Puffy. Numb.
He looked like a porcelain doll forgotten on a throne of lace, dressed in garments too heavy for someone so fragile.
No one was coming for him.
Not his brothers—Elion and Cassian, warriors of celestial fame—because even they had failed. They'd looked into his eyes that morning, and all they'd seen was resignation.
I'm sorry, Lysander.
They didn't say it out loud. But they didn't need to.
The queen had held him before dawn, brushing his hair with trembling fingers, Now she stood outside the chamber, alone, her magic simmering with helpless fury. She would do what she could. But the king—her husband—had given the final order.
"Take him out. The groom is waiting."
That beast was waiting.
Xavier, Crown Prince of the Lycan clans. A brute in gold and velvet, all muscle and bloodlust, licking his lips with hunger when he last looked at Lysander. This wasn't love. It wasn't even politics anymore.
It was possession.
A prince offered like meat at a feast. A bridal crown for a cage.
And then—
A scream tore across the sky.
The sirens followed, blaring from the palace towers. Light fractured across the stained-glass windows as guards shouted and scrambled. Wings filled the sky, and explosions lit the heavens.
"Intruder in the upper realm!"
"Dark energy—Demon energy—He's here!"
And just like that, the bloodbath began.
---
Far above the wedding grounds, a single figure hovered mid-air, surrounded by a spiral of black flame. Hair like molten obsidian snapped in the wind. His long coat whipped behind him like wings made of smoke and vengeance.
Raelith Salvatore.
Demon King. Butcher of Seraphina's Fall. Returned from exile.
His crimson eyes narrowed on the marble gates of the Angelic Citadel, where golden shields flickered and magic gathered. But his wrath was an avalanche. Too fast. Too furious.
He didn't slow.
Didn't blink.
Didn't care.
Even as his wrist seared suddenly—his binding mark throbbing beneath the leather glove—Raelith ignored it.
This was not the time for destiny. This was war.
With a roar, he descended.
Wings erupted from his back, skeletal and wrapped in flame. His sword, Sundrake, gleamed as he plunged into the front line.
A single swing.
One hundred angels fell, their bodies crumbling to ash.
A second slash.
Barriers broke. Shields shattered.
A third, and the palace gates screamed, cracking open like a mouth welcoming death.
Three minutes.
That's all it took for him to reach the throne floors.
Move. Kill. Move. Kill. Move. Kill.
No hesitation.
Angels threw themselves at him. Magic surged. Light blazed.
None of it mattered.
Raelith was a demon born with nothing to lose—and everything to destroy.
---
Cassian, arm bleeding, collapsed beside Elion.
"We can't stop him—!" Elion growled, clutching his broken spear. "Lysander—! Where is he?!"
But it was too late.
Raelith was already inside.
---
He stormed down the ivory halls, his boots crushing rose petals scattered for the wedding ceremony. Gold vases fell, statues crumbled. He was chaos wrapped in flesh.
And then... he heard her.
The Queen's voice.
Inside a room.
Whispers. Pleading. A lullaby.
Raelith's eyes narrowed. His heart thumped once, strangely.
He raised his sword.
And shattered the door with a blast of darkness.
---
Inside, the world froze.
The Queen spun around, panic in her violet eyes. In her arms, half-covered by a bridal veil, sat a boy—slender, shaking, eyes wide behind the lace.
Raelith felt his breath catch.
The scent of lavender and crushed starlight hit him.
A pulse rang beneath his skin.
Seraphina...?
But he didn't have time to think.
The Queen snarled, summoning a golden staff. "Get away from him—!"
Raelith raised his hand and blasted her backward. She crashed into the wall, blood on her lips, magic flaring.
But he was faster.
She lunged again—he sealed her wings with a snap of shadow. Her cries tore at the air.
"Run, Lysander!" she screamed.
But the boy only trembled, escaping toward the terrace, veil fluttering like a frightened swan.
Raelith followed, silent and slow.
---
Outside on the terrace, the wind howled.
Lysander stood near the edge, clutching the balustrade, trembling from head to toe. The veil masked his face, but the fear leaking off his body was unmistakable.
Raelith stepped behind him—so close their shadows tangled.
Then, without warning, he grabbed Lysander's wrist and yanked him backward.
The boy yelped, stumbling into his arms, only for Raelith to toss him roughly back into the room with a teasing smirk on his lips.
"Well, well... this is the bride?" His voice was a drawl, wicked and amused. "Your groom has... wild taste in clothing."
Lysander gasped, falling onto the bed of rose petals.
Raelith followed like a predator, boots slow and heavy, sword dragging behind him.
"So soft. So scared. Are you always this obedient, angel?" He tilted his head. "I thought I was coming to kill a prince. Not unwrap a trembling gift."
Lysander covered himself, chest rising and falling rapidly, veil trembling with each breath.
"You... You're the Demon King..."
He read about demon king in books but first time seeing him.
Raelith chuckled darkly. "What gave me away? The sword? Or the charm?"
He raised Sundrake, angling it to Lysander's throat. "Don't worry. I'll make it quick. For Seraphina."
But then—
A gust of wind.
The veil lifted—just slightly.
Just enough.
And he saw them.
A pair of eyes.
Not violet like Seraphina's.
But brilliant star blue—softer, sadder, pure.
Raelith froze.
The world went silent.
His hand shook.
Burning.
His mark ignited. Glowed. Screamed.
A sharp pain tore up his arm and pushed him forward—toward the boy—toward Lysander.
"No..." Raelith whispered, voice ragged.
The boy backed away until the wall kissed his spine. His breath hitched, lips trembling.
"D-Don't... please... I don't understand..."
Raelith's sword dropped.
He reached out slowly.
Their hands touched.
Light exploded.
Both marks pulsed, glowed—then burned.
Lysander cried out, clutching his wrist in shock, pain and confusion swirling in his expression.
Raelith's hand trembled as he clasped his fingers gently, reverently, like touching a ghost.
His eyes searched the boy's trembling frame, his voice hoarse, broken.
"...Seraphina?" he murmured.
And then, lower—softer—like a confession torn from the soul:
"My queen."