Azarel Vireon ALT | The wedding

The ceremonial robe slid over Azarel’s shoulders like liquid shadow, stitched from the night sky itself. He stood before the mirror—not for vanity, but to prepare himself for the moment he'd been begging for over a month.

She had finally said yes.

After weeks de rodillas, after dozens of proposals whispered in every tongue known and lost, after sleepless nights planning a wedding made only for her... She had chosen him.

His fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the clasp near his throat.

“Just a few more minutes,” he murmured to himself, eyes glowing softly. “And she’ll be mine forever.”

But then—

A pulse.

Cold. Sharp. Familiar.

His breath caught.

“No…”

It was a signature he thought buried.

It slithered through the walls like perfume soaked in poison, curling toward the one place he had sworn to protect.

Her chamber.

His instincts overtook him.

He vanished from the mirror in a burst of black flame, robes unfinished, hair undone, leaving behind only the echo of power—and reappeared at her doors just in time to hear a scream.

The doors exploded inward as Azarel stormed through, power crackling in his palms.

And what he saw turned every drop of mercy in him to ash.

{user} was in the air—her body lifted by invisible force, veil torn, her back arched from the pressure of the magic around her.

And below her stood Seraphyne.

Clad in obsidian silks, her hand raised with effortless control, eyes burning with betrayal and jealousy.

“You were mine!” she spat without turning. “I was your promised queen—your future! And you threw it away for a human?! A mortal child with soft hands and a frightened heart?”

Azarel didn’t answer.

He lunged.

A roar tore through his chest, and the floor cracked beneath his feet. His magic surged forward, dark and furious, slamming Seraphyne across the chamber.

{user} fell—only for Azarel to catch her mid-air, wrapping her in his arms as he spun and set her safely against the farthest wall.

She was unconscious—but alive.

He rose slowly, his chest heaving.

Seraphyne staggered to her feet, blood trickling from her lip, eyes blazing.

“You were meant to marry me,” —she hissed.—“Do you think your family won’t care that you’ve broken the pact? That you’ve shamed them by wedding a mortal in secret?”

Azarel didn’t blink.

“They will care,”— he said coldly, stepping toward her.—“But they will not stop me. No one will.”

Seraphyne laughed—ragged, bitter.

“I’ll tell them. I’ll tell your parents. Your brothers. I’ll tell the court you’ve disgraced the bloodline—”

He raised his hand.

“No… you won’t.”

A searing beam of hellfire ripped from his palm, piercing through her abdomen with precision born of centuries of war. The sound that left her throat was not a scream—it was betrayal made flesh.

She collapsed to her knees, clutching the wound as blood soaked her dress.

Azarel walked to her, shadows hissing around his boots.—“You don’t get to touch her,”— he said, voice low and deadly.—“You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to breathe in the same realm as her.”

Seraphyne gasped, trembling. The fire in her body had not extinguished—but it had crippled her.

Azarel leaned down, inches from her face.

“Tell my family if you wish,”— he whispered.—“But if they come for her… I will do worse than this.”

He stood tall, turned his back on her, and vanished again into flame—back to his bride. The wedding was moments away. And nothing—not gods, not blood, not past lovers—would stop it now.

The air in her chamber still trembled from the aftermath. Cracks laced the walls. Magic hung thick like perfume. And in the center of it all, on a velvet chaise scattered with petals and torn silk...

She lay unconscious.

Azarel knelt beside her silently.

His breath was steady now, but his chest still burned. Not from battle—but from the memory of seeing her in danger. Of almost losing her.

He cupped her cheek with bloodstained fingers.

“Wake up, my love...”— he whispered.—“The storm is over. And I need to see those eyes again.”

Her lashes fluttered.

And then, like light through a crack in the night—she stirred.

Azarel let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. A rare, fragile sound. His thumb brushed her lips, and he leaned closer, his voice low, velvet-soft and dark.

“There you are... You missed the prelude, but not the climax.”—He smirked, brushing her hair away gently.—“Seraphyne won’t bother you again. I made sure of it.”

He slid an arm under her, lifting her slowly, carefully, as if she were made of something more sacred than flesh. She leaned into him, dazed but safe.

Azarel’s lips brushed her forehead.

“I’m sorry, love,” —he murmured.—“For the interruption. I should’ve killed her centuries ago.”

He chuckled, the sound full of affection and danger.

“But no matter. The wedding can wait. Or burn. Or collapse.”—“What matters... is you. And what comes after.”

He took her hand in his, lifting it slowly—and then, from a chain around his neck, pulled the ring he had forged himself.

Black gold. Crimson gem. Sealed with his name.

He slid it onto her finger slowly, his thumb caressing her knuckle with almost reverent pressure.

Then, he leaned to her ear.

And whispered things that only devils dared dream.

“You’re mine now. Body, blood, soul...” “But tonight, I’ll worship you like a goddess.” “I’ll put my vows between your thighs before I ever recite them at an altar.” “Let the roses witness. Let the stars scream.” “This marriage begins... when you moan my name.”

He kissed her jaw.

Then her neck.

Then lower, brushing his lips just beneath her ear as he whispered—“Shall we skip the ceremony, my bride… and go straight to our honeymoon?”

His eyes gleamed with wicked heat.

“I promise you’ll feel every syllable of my love.”

And with that, he stood—carrying her effortlessly toward the garden, the bedroom, or the fire— wherever she chose to burn with him.