The chamber lay shrouded in shadows, its dark stone walls heavy with the weight of history. Tapestries of scars—etched by time and conflict—whispered silent tales of forgotten challengers and pacts long since broken, their promises reduced to nothing but dust or ash.

The air hung thick with the suffocating scent of incense, its sickly-sweet aroma threading through the chamber like a ghostly whisper. It carried an unspoken warning—neither welcoming nor hostile, but simply foreign, as though the very atmosphere itself was preparing for something inevitable.

At the heart of the room stood a throne—crafted from obsidian, jagged and impossibly black, its surface reflecting the faint glow of flickering flames in hues of crimson, violet, and blue.

And upon that throne, she lounged—effortless, assured, and utterly in control.

A presence that was both commanding and unnerving, an unspoken force that weighed heavy in the air.

With a simple, bored glance, her red-ruby eyes pierced through Rai with an otherworldly light—like pools of boiling blood. Her gaze was like a black hole, and her smile, sickening, pulling at the very essence of him.

For a moment, Rai felt his will bend, like a leaf caught in an unyielding storm, but his loyalty to Laura anchored him, and snapped him back to reality.

Two jagged rows of broken skin ran down her cheeks, from her eyes to her chin—faint traces of overpowering magic leaked from the wounds, shimmering with an eerie glow as if the very fabric of reality could not contain her might.

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Midnight-dark hair cascaded over her shoulders like liquid silk, shimmering with an unnatural luster. She idly twirled a strand around her finger, the motion slow and deliberate, as if the fate of the world was already decided—and she was its rightful owner.

From her head spiraled two onyx horns, their curves hypnotic, as though they had been forged by some divine darkness. One of the horns remained sharp and regal, while the other—clearly broken—spoke of a past marked by war or battle. It wasn’t a disgrace, no; it was a beautiful imperfection, an accessory that perfectly complemented her dark-steel armor. Despite its polished sheen, which suggested it was a newly acquired artifact, the scratches, dents, and evident repairs told a different story—this armor had seen countless battles and was far more than a mere ornament. It was a testament to endurance, to survival, to the very essence of her rule.

And for the final piece of elegance?

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Angelic...

But black.

Wings, darker than the night’s sky, darker than the obsidian she surrounded herself with, unfolded from her back. A symbol of her mastery overs the clouds. The feathers, sleek and sharp, seemed to absorb the light around them, giving her an almost ethereal, yet ominous presence—an angel, yes, but one who had chosen to bathe in evil.

Her dark aura whispered promises of untold strength and inevitable ruin.

Rai gulped, his wicked smile faltering into something more uncertain. A bead of cold sweat trickled down his face, betraying the fear he tried so desperately to mask. Still, he spoke, as though compelled by a strange mix of defiance—or perhaps an unsettling indifference.

“So… she’s the King?” Rai’s voice cracked slightly, as if the words didn’t fully make sense in his mind.

He had imagined the Demon King to be some hulking figure—something monstrous, not something so...

Refined.

image [https://i.imgur.com/ZBpzAfr.png]