The silence after the King's withdrawal was not peace.
It was restraint.
Kael felt it first—the tightening of Hell itself, like a breath being held too long. The wards around the chamber still glowed faintly from Elara's spell, but the air had gone sharp, metallic. Judgment was coming.
"He won't wait now," Kael said quietly. "That wasn't anger before. That was calculation."
Elara squeezed his hand, grounding him. The bond between them hummed—steady, warm, unbroken. "Then we don't wait either."
The words had barely left her mouth when the chamber doors shuddered. Not from force, but from command. Runes carved into ancient stone dimmed, overridden by a will older than the tower itself.
Kael stepped forward instinctively, fire licking along his shoulders. "Stay behind me."
"No," Elara said, just as instinctively. She moved with him, shoulder to shoulder. "With you."
The doors opened.
The Devil King did not enter as a body. He entered as authority.
The chamber bowed.
Light bent. Shadows stretched toward the center of the room, kneeling before a presence that did not need form to dominate. When his voice came, it came from everywhere—low, measured, terrifyingly calm.
"My son.
Kael swallowed. His flames steadied, not flaring, not retreating. "Father."
A pause. Not silence—consideration.
"You were told this bond was forbidden."
Kael said nothing. He did not look away.
The King's attention shifted—cold, precise—toward Elara. The pressure intensified. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she held, drawing on the bond, on herself, on the truth of who she was becoming.
"A witch," the King said. "Unawakened, yet already defiant."
Elara lifted her chin. "I didn't choose my blood. But I chose him."
That earned her a reaction.
The shadows rippled, displeased.
"You presume choice exists here," the King replied. "This bond destabilizes the clans. It weakens treaties forged in blood and fire."
Kael stepped forward. "It strengthens me."
That—that—broke the stillness.
The King's presence sharpened, pressing down on Kael like a mountain. Elara felt it through the bond—pain, pressure, the threat of being unmade.
Without thinking, she moved.
She placed her palm against Kael's chest and pulled power—not from hunger, not from fear, but from resolve. Symbols flared along her arms, darker now, more defined. A veil of magic rose around Kael, intercepting the King's force.
The chamber cracked.
Stone screamed.
For the first time, the Devil King paused.
Kael stared at Elara, stunned. "Elara—"
"I've got you," she whispered. And she meant it—not as comfort, but as promise.
The King's voice returned, colder than before.
"You would shield him from me?"
"Yes," Elara said. Her voice shook—but she did not stop. "Because he chose me when he didn't have to. Because he stands against you when it costs him everything."
The pressure eased—not gone, but reconsidered.
Kael felt it then. Not just love. Not just desire.
He felt seen.
No one had ever stood between him and the King. No one had ever risked annihilation simply to say: he matters.
The Devil King spoke again, slower now.
"Very well."
The shadows shifted, forming something close to a throne of darkness at the far end of the chamber.
"If you wish to defy me, you will do so openly."
The decree fell like a blade.
"You will be bound by trial."
Elara's breath caught. "Trial?"
"Three tests," the King said. "Fire. Blood. Will."
Kael's flames flared. "You'll kill her."
"If she is unworthy," the King replied. "She will not survive."
Before Kael could speak again, Elara stepped forward.
"I accept."
Kael turned to her, panic breaking through control. "Elara, no—"
She reached up, touching his jaw, her thumb warm against his skin. The contact was brief, intimate, grounding.
"I won't run," she said softly. "And I won't let you face him alone."
The bond surged—approval, strength, something ancient awakening.
The Devil King's presence began to recede.
"Prepare," he said. "Hell will watch."
The chamber returned to itself slowly, cracks sealing, shadows retreating. The doors closed.
Kael exhaled sharply and pulled Elara into his arms before fear could catch up. He held her like something precious, dangerous, irreplaceable.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said hoarsely.
She rested her forehead against his chest. "Too late."
He laughed once—soft, disbelieving—and tightened his hold. "You chose me."
She smiled against his skin. "Every time."
Outside the tower, Hell stirred. Clans whispered. Powers aligned.
And at the center of it all, a witch and the son of the Devil stood together—no longer hiding, no longer untouched.
The trial had been declared.
And love, now, was a matter of survival.