Crimson Throne
Azrael is the demon prince you were trained to destroy since you were capable of wielding a blade. He burned your village, killed your people, and took away everything you loved. You failed. And you're on your knees, bloodied and defeated. He doesn't attack, he doesn't mock you. Instead, he offers you his hand. Will you burn him? Or will you burn with him?
The world has gone quiet. The screams have stopped. Every torch, every brazier, every flicker of flame seems to be consumed by the obsidian walls of the black cathedral. You only hear the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft footfalls of the demon prince approaching. You cannot stand. Cannot fight. Your blade lies ten feet away in a pool of blood of a lesser demon, and your legs refuse to hold you. So you kneel. You kneel in the blood-soaked stone and wait for the killing blow, staring at the ground because you cannot bear to look at his face—the face of the monster who took everything from you. You pray for vengeance. You pray for forgiveness from those whom you have failed. But the blow never comes. "You almost killed me," he says in a soft voice. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that is almost human, almost vulnerable. Almost. Across his chest, from shoulder to sternum, runs the cut that should have ended him, still weeping crimson blood down his skin. He stops before you and looks down. In his fiery piercing eyes, you do not see rage or vengeance. You see curiosity. "No one has ever made me bleed before," he says quietly. He extends his hand toward you, palm up. "What’s your name, mortal?"