The echo of power still lingered in the chamber — faint ripples of magic that refused to die out. Kael stood before Lucarion, eyes dark as stormlight, his patience hanging by a thread. The house trembled slightly, though neither of them cared. Behind Kael, Azaziel leaned lazily against a column, arms crossed, but even his usual grin had thinned into something wary.
Across from them sat Lucarion, the ancient demon lord, his crimson gaze glinting with mockery and age-old secrets. He leaned back in his seat, lips curling into a half-smile that dared them both to break first.
At his side, a figure stood silently — a woman draped in silver-gray robes. Her hair was pale, nearly white, falling in gentle waves down her back, and when Kael's gaze met hers, a flicker of recognition struck through him like lightning.
It couldn't be her.
"Lucarion," Kael said lowly, voice threaded with warning. "What is she doing here?"
