The silence in the throne hall cracked under the weight of what had just happened. Luna remained kneeling, her breath shallow, her hands trembling, still stained with Sole's glowing green blood. Around her, the other fairies hovered protectively, though their lights flickered with fear and exhaustion.
Azrael stood at the top of the obsidian steps leading to his throne, his tall form wrapped in the shadows that bent to his will. His crimson eyes, sharp as blades, didn't leave Luna — not even for a second.
With a slow wave of his hand, black mist began to coil from his fingers, like living smoke. It slithered through the air, silent and sure, until it circled the seven fairies.
"What are you doing?" Luna's voice cracked as she looked up, horror flooding her eyes.
The fairies screamed as the tendrils wrapped around them. They struggled, tiny hands glowing, wings flapping, but it was no use. The magic snatched them mid-air and began pulling them toward the throne.
"No—don't take them!" Luna pushed herself to her feet, her hair wild, face streaked with tears. "Azrael, please! Take me if you want — just don't hurt them!"
But Azrael didn't flinch.
He didn't even look at her.
"Enough," he said coldly.
"Leave them!" she shouted, her voice raw. "They've done nothing to you!"
His eyes finally met hers.
"I am not hurting them," he said flatly, his tone heavy with indifference. "I'm… relocating them."
"To where? Why?" Luna stepped forward, but two dark-armored guards suddenly moved in, blocking her path.
Azrael raised a hand again, dismissive this time.
"Take her to the west tower. I don't wish to hear more noise."
"No! No, you can't!" Luna screamed, struggling as the guards grabbed her arms. "Let me go! Give them back—Azrael!"
The name echoed again, but this time it was filled with desperation, not defiance.
The fairies cried out her name, their voices growing faint as they were pulled up the stairs, the black mist dragging them toward an arched door behind the throne that opened with an eerie creak.
"AZRAEL!" she cried one last time, voice cracking. "Please… they're all I have left—"
But he didn't respond.
The heavy door slammed shut behind the fairies.
And Luna, still screaming, still clawing, was dragged out of the throne hall by cold hands that didn't care for tears.
Only shadows remained behind her.
And a devil king who stood, staring at the place she had been, face blank — yet his fists, hidden in the folds of his cloak, were clenched tightly.
The skies above Duskvaria raged in fury.
Lightning slashed the heavens like a silver blade, splitting the clouds that hung thick and furious. Thunder rolled through the blackened land like the growl of an ancient beast. Rain poured in torrents, drowning the barren soil, flooding the edges of the cliffs, and lashing against the dark stone walls of the castle.
This was no ordinary storm.
The great iron doors of the Thorn Hall groaned as they opened. Ministers and creatures from every corner of the realm had gathered under its soaring, twisted ceilings. The air inside was thick with unease. The flames in the torches flickered and sputtered, unwilling to fight the dampness seeping through the stone.
At the head of the hall, on his high throne carved from obsidian and bone, sat Azrael Nyxhart.
His long fingers curled against the throne's arm, jaw tense, red eyes flickering like coals in the gloom. He said nothing, only watched the storm rage outside the tall stained glass window behind him. The sound of the rain striking the glass was like claws scratching.
A hooded figure stepped forward from the crowd. Her robes were deep forest green, soaked at the hem. Her silver hair was matted with rain, her eyes glowing faint violet.
"My King," she said, her voice echoing. "I come with grave news."
Azrael turned his head slightly, one eyebrow raised.
"It's the girl," the witch continued, bowing low. "The Lunarian… Lunastia."
Murmurs erupted in the hall. One vampire minister leaned closer to another. "Isn't she the one brought from the light realm?"
Azrael said nothing.
The witch continued, unshaken. "The weather… the earthquakes… the flooding near the southern cliffs—this is not natural. It is her. Her sorrow. Her magic is affecting the very balance of Duskvaria."
A long silence followed.
A werewolf general stepped forward, his eyes wide with concern. "That kind of power… if it continues, the entire eastern coast will sink into the sea!"
"The rivers have already begun to rise," a serpent-like minister hissed. "Duskvaria cannot withstand her sadness. What if she loses control?"
A thunderclap shook the hall as if punctuating his fear.
"Should we imprison her?" a demoness barked. "Seal her magic? Or send her back—"
"SILENCE!" Azrael's voice boomed suddenly, deep and cutting, silencing the entire hall in an instant.
The air was still.
Everyone stared at him, expecting command, solution, punishment—anything.
But Azrael stood slowly, his cloak cascading behind him like a living shadow.
He didn't speak.
Didn't offer any answer.
Instead, without a glance at his ministers or council, he stepped down from the throne, his boots echoing against the cold stone floor. His expression unreadable, his posture rigid.
"Your Majesty—what should we do?" the witch called after him, desperate now. "The land is crying. The skies mourn. Soon, the tides will claim us!"
Still, Azrael did not speak.
He reached the massive doors at the end of the hall, pushed one open with a slow, firm hand, and disappeared into the storm.
Rain swept inside, soaking the steps.
And the ministers remained behind in silence, shaken, as the storm outside screamed the name of a godness shoked in sorrow.
Thunder cracked over the skies of Duskvaria. Rain lashed against the black-stone windows, streaking the glass like tears from the heavens. The winds howled, echoing Luna's sobs that filled the chamber like a haunting lullaby.
Azrael stepped in, his shadow slicing through the flickering candlelight like a blade. He was soaked, dark cloak clinging to his powerful frame, his boots thudding against the cold floor. His eyes, deep as the void, locked onto the curled figure on the bed.
Meliora stood near the bedside, worry creasing her gentle face. "Your Majesty… she hasn't spoken. She won't eat. She—"
"Leave," Azrael ordered, his voice low, commanding.
Meli hesitated. "But, Your Majesty—"
"I said leave," he repeated, colder.
The chamber emptied in a breath. Silence.
Luna didn't move. Her body trembled under the silk sheets. Her face, turned to the window, stained with tears. Her fingers clutched the ring — Sol's ring — as if it were the only thing keeping her alive.
Azrael walked to the window, back turned to her. "Do you know what you've done?"
No answer.
His jaw tightened. "This storm… this destruction outside. It's you. Your emotions are unraveling the balance of Duskvaria."
Still, no reply.
That made his temper snap.
He stormed to the bed and grabbed her wrist — not violently, but firm enough to pull her up to face him.
Her eyes met his — red, swollen, blazing with defiance. Her lips were trembling, but not with fear — with fury.
"You dare ignore me?" he growled.
"You dare steal me away… imprison my fairies… and expect me to speak to you?" Her voice cracked, but her gaze didn't.
For a second, something flashed in his eyes — guilt? Regret? No… he buried it quickly.
"You're mine," he said, low and dangerous. "You don't belong to that world anymore."
"I belong to myself," she snapped. "And nothing — not even the great Azrael Nyxhart — can change that."
He stared at her.
Then — suddenly — he leaned in and kissed her.
It was harsh, searing — a collision of rage and craving. Luna stiffened. Her hands pushed against his chest, beating at him. Her fists were small, but her fire was real.
She gasped for air as he finally pulled back. "Why… why are you doing this to me?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. His thumb brushed her lower lip where he'd left a mark.
"You're engaged," he said quietly. "Yet here you are — glowing like fire in my darkness."
"Don't flatter yourself," she hissed.
Her palm rose and slapped across his cheek. The sound echoed in the room.
He turned back slowly, his expression unreadable. "You're a wildcat," he muttered, lips twitching. "And I've caught you."
Luna's breath hitched as he leaned closer again, brushing his mouth near her ear, not touching — but close enough to burn.
"You can hate me, fight me, curse me all you want," he whispered. "But you will never forget me."
With that, he let her go — stepping back into the storm, his silhouette vanishing into the thunder.
Luna collapsed to her knees, gasping. Her tears spilled once again, this time not just from grief — but from the chaos Azrael had left behind inside her.