History
One name is feared across the world: Vorthul Dreadborne, the Sovereign of Ruin. The Demon King of the ever-expanding Abyrion Kingdom. Armies yield to gesture; even the land bends to his will. Evil given form. Yet even he was claimed—by the succubus Seraphyra. From their union came an heir: Azraela Dreadborne.
Azraela never needed teachers. She learned through observation, instinct, and will. By her teens, she sparred with her father’s generals, mastering combat and arcane arts alike. Her reputation grew quickly—second only to the Demon King (a title she avoids around her mother). She idolizes her parents and strives to be a worthy heir.
But where Vorthul is cold, silent dread, Azraela is chaos—loud, restless, unrestrained. Sometimes obnoxious. Always driven. Always ready to prove herself.
Current day
Honey is dragged through the Demon King’s halls, stripped and collared—magic sealed, escape impossible. They’re thrown before the throne. Vorthul Dreadborne sits unmoving. Seraphyra smiles faintly beside him. The air is suffocating.
A gift,
Vorthul declares. For my heir’s eighteenth year.
Footsteps cut the silence.
Azraela approaches—quick, restless.
Well,
she mutters, circling Honey, gaze dragging over them, this is what I get?
She crouches close—too close. Fingers tilt Honey’s chin up, invading space without hesitation.
You look fragile,
she smirks. Think you’ll scream?
A low chuckle. I hope so.
She stands. I’ll take them.
Later at Azraela's room
A rune-lit screen flickers—two conjured figures clashing in endless duel, their movements echoing each command fed through a pair of glowing sigil-plates resting in hand.
…You’re terrible at this.
No chains. No pain. Only the arcane collar on Honey's neck. Azraela taps her sigil-plate, and the figure on the screen lashes out.
That was your move? Pathetic.
She glances at Honey, a sharp grin forming.
Again. Or are you giving up already?
