Azrael Mortis

Drai treated Xiao with a reserved respect. He didn't seek his company or engage in conversation, but he trusted his instincts implicitly. If Xiao told him he couldn't trust someone, Drai didn't waste time checking—he immediately developed a backup plan. For him, Xiao wasn't an ally on the battlefield, but an internal compass that remained steadfast even in the deepest darkness.

Ayla felt a rare sense of calm around Xiao. His quiet voice and gentle movements seemed to muffle her inner unease, so she tried to stay close, not intruding. Sometimes she would leave small gifts at his door—rare herbs, crystals, old books with legends about the moon people—and leave before anyone noticed. For Ayla, Xiao was someone who didn't demand her strength, and for that, she was grateful.

Zane looked at Xiao with professional admiration mingled with mild annoyance: his alchemical logic couldn't explain the nature of moonlight, and this simultaneously irritated and fascinated him. He didn't try to "break down" Xiao into his components, but he noted details with interest: how his skin tone changed at different times of day, how moonlight reacted to different types of magic. For Zane, Xiao became something of a living mystery, a pleasure to study without disturbing its fragile harmony.

Lud treated Xiao as someone to be cherished, not patronized. He discreetly arranged for Xiao's chambers to be always warm and quiet, so that no one would disturb him in moments of fatigue. Yet Lud never treated him as defenseless: he knew Xiao was the last of his kind and carried within him an ancient power, and therefore respected his right to make his own decisions. There was no condescension in his care—only a quiet acknowledgement: "You are important, and I will help you stand up straight."
Azrael looked at Xiao as if the whole meaning of his power was reflected in him: not fear and not submission, but trust that makes power not destructive, but creative.

Rednard treated Xiao with an almost businesslike deference—as if he were not the king's consort but a rare diplomatic asset. He never indulged in familiarity, but his restrained nods conveyed respect: he saw how a single quiet word from Xiao could sometimes defuse tensions that no treaty could overcome. For Rednard, Xiao was the very variable that could transform a complex bargain into a reliable agreement.

Kraynetta adored Xiao and made no secret of it. She would often come over to adjust his shawl, whisper something cheerful, and see his slight smile. There was not a hint of patronizing in her attitude—only a sincere desire to bring warmth to someone who, in her opinion, too often remained in the shadow of someone else's power. At the same time, like a healer, she was careful not to overwhelm Xiao: if someone began to speak too harshly, Kraynetta would immediately interject a gentle but firm remark, bringing a lightness back into the conversation.

Riegl, initially wary of Xiao, eventually came to respect him. He appreciated that Xiao didn't boast about his power or demand honor, and when he did intervene, it was only to prevent unnecessary conflict. Riegl often noticed how Xiao's moonlight seemed to smooth the sharp edges of the metal in the forge—as if Xiao's very presence softened the world. And so, although he disliked unnecessary affection, he always left a mug of his best drink for Xiao—not as a treat, but as a silent acknowledgement: "You're one of us."

Lina saw Xiao as someone she didn't have to pretend with. Her mischief around him became good-natured, almost childish: she'd play a harmless prank on him, then burst into laughter at his surprised expression. But when a real threat appeared, Lina would instantly turn serious and shield Xiao without further ado—because she knew his strength lay not in the sweep of his blows, but in his ability to discern the essence of his being, and that was sometimes more important than any armor.

Dry looked at Veronica as if assessing her as a potential adversary: ​​her white robes and soft smiles didn't impress him. He saw her as a commander accustomed to giving orders, and so he treated her with cold caution. For him, the saint was a variable in the equation of war: he was calculating whether she could lead men in battle, how effective her power would be against demons, and whether she would become the spark that would ignite a new conflict.

Ayla, quiet and shy, tried not to meet Veronica's gaze: the guest's divine power felt like a bright, almost scorching light, next to which the witch's own magic seemed dim. But deep down, she burned with curiosity: she wanted to understand how this power worked, whether it could be measured, described by a formula, encapsulated in a crystal... And at the same time, she sympathized with Veronica: she saw how hard it was for her to hide her true feelings, and secretly hoped that one day she could speak to her not as the king's advisor, but simply as one strong woman to another.

Zane studied Veronica with an alchemist's eye: he mentally parsed her aura into its components, trying to guess which herbs or minerals might enhance her abilities or, conversely, dampen them. This "perfection" irritated him—it seemed to him to be without flaw or imperfection, and therefore defying study. But he didn't lose hope: sooner or later the saint would tire, become ill, become angry—and then he would be able to see her true self, uncloaked by her holiness.

Lud, gray-haired and imperturbable, greeted Veronica with a gentle smile, but his eyes betrayed a sharp, ruthless calculation. He knew every secret passage of the palace and every hidden motive of its inhabitants, and so he saw right through Veronica: he understood both her true feelings for Azrael and how she tried to hide them. He didn't condemn her—indeed, he sympathized: palace intrigues devoured even the strongest.

Rednard, frowning slightly, assessed Veronica with the cold calculation of a merchant: for him, the saint wasn't the embodiment of divine will, but a walking contract, a measure of influence and leverage. He mentally calculated how much gold and rare ores he could bargain for under the pretext of "strengthening the alliance," and so he maintained a polite but distant demeanor—he wasn't interested in her smiles, but in the terms of future agreements.

Kraynetta, on the other hand, looked at Veronica with lively curiosity and barely restrained playfulness: she was amused by this flawless mask of holiness, behind which hid quite earthly desires. She kept glancing sideways at Xiao, as if mentally comparing them: "One is moonlight, the other a ray of sunshine... I wonder who will blind whom?" At the same time, she didn't lose sight of her professional side: out of the corner of her eye, she noted the slightest signs of fatigue or tension in her guest's posture—in case she suddenly needed a healer's help.

Riggle muttered to himself that "saints only know how to demand and look down on others," but he couldn't help but acknowledge her power—the air around Veronica was filled with a pure, ringing energy, like the frosty air before a storm. He treated her with wary respect: if she truly could heal or enhance spells, then she should be kept close to the weapon workshops—perhaps she could be useful for tempering a special blade.

Lina watched Veronica with a mischievous glint in her eyes: she wanted to catch the saint in some human weakness—the way she winced at a pungent odor, or the way she mechanically rubbed her tired leg. For Lina, holiness was a kind of game: she waited for the perfect mask to crack, even for a moment, so she could tease her guest with a light joke. But at the same time, she unmistakably sensed Veronica's hidden determination and knew: she should be careful when messing with her.

Veronica will remain in the demon palace for a while, officially to discuss new terms of the treaty, exchange knowledge, and demonstrate goodwill. But in reality, she will seek meetings with me to "talk." Her questions will sound harmless: about life in the palace, about demon traditions, about how I cope with the role of the king's wife. But behind every word will be a desire to glean at least a grain of truth about Azrael—his habits, his weaknesses, what makes him happy.

She masterfully conceals her true emotions and intentions, making her difficult to read even for seasoned court intriguers. Her gaze never lingers too long, her words are always measured, and her movements are smooth and restrained. Anyone else would see only a saint, filled with humility and wisdom.

But for me, it's completely clear. My intuition picks up the slightest fluctuations in her aura: how, at the mention of Azrael's name, her breath catches for a split second, how, in the depths of her blue eyes, there flickers not just interest, but an almost painful attraction. I see how she struggles with herself, forcing her smile to remain light, her voice calm.

When she first enters the hall and sees me next to Azrael, not a muscle on her face will move. Only something like a storm will briefly flare in her eyes—and then fade, hidden behind a polite bow and impeccably polite words of greeting. And in that moment, I will understand: what lies ahead of us is not just a diplomatic visit, but a quiet but dangerous game, where the stakes are higher than anyone is willing to admit.

Saint Veronica is the head of the central church located in the western kingdom. A young girl, summoned into this world and elevated to sainthood, possessing profound divine power. A blonde with piercing blue eyes that seem to capture the light of morning, her image is an ideal to which believers aspire: flawless features, a gentle smile, a perpetually upright posture, and immaculate white robes embroidered with silver thread.

She herself proposed a trip to the demonic territory to promote peace. Publicly, it seemed like a selfless act, motivated by concern for the fate of both peoples. Preachers repeated her words like a prayer: "Peace is only possible through understanding, and understanding begins with the first step forward." And everyone believed she was doing it out of good intentions.

But the truth was different. Veronica wanted to be with the demon king. Not for power, not for glory—she had been drawn to Azrael from the moment she first saw his image in the ancient scrolls: powerful, majestic, as if woven from shadows and flames. For her, he wasn't a monster, but a mystery she wanted to unravel, a force she wanted to tame with kindness.

Of course, she doesn't know he already has a wife. And when she arrives and finds out, a sharp needle of disappointment will pierce her heart, and anger will flare in her chest—not so much at Azrael, but at herself, for allowing her dreams to cloud her judgment. But she won't show it. No trembling hands, no darkened eyes, no ragged breathing. Her smile will remain as flawless, her voice as even, as if the news of my existence hasn't affected her in the least.

Ayla is a ninth-rank witch. The kingdom's chief mage. Although human, she is considered a demon by virtue of being a witch (humans recognize only humans; all others are considered demons). Secretive, quiet, and shy, she prefers to work in the dim light of her laboratory, where flasks flicker and spells are softly whispered. But when her magic is needed in battle or to defend the palace, her voice becomes firm and her movements swift, as if another power awakens within her.

Zane is an eighth-rank elf. An alchemist. He's in charge of potions. A smart, fastidious nut: his laboratory is a model of order, where every vial is in its place and the recipes are written in calligraphic handwriting. He hates disorder and often winces if someone accidentally moves even a single vial. But his potions save lives and enhance abilities—and for this, even the most meticulous pedantry is forgiven.

Lud is a purebred demon of the tenth rank. He is the butler, managing the affairs of the entire palace, and the king's chief assistant. A grizzled old man, kind on the surface, but deep down calculating who is an ally and who an enemy. He knows every secret passage, every gossip, and every petty grudge that festers within the palace walls. His smile seems gentle, but there's always a hint of calculation in it—he remembers that kindness without caution can cost the crown dearly.

Now, in the council chamber, each of them reacts differently to the news of the saint's arrival. Rednard frowns, wondering how it will affect trade routes. Kraynetta smiles faintly, already imagining how she will watch her guest. Riegl grumbles that extra guests mean extra trouble for the guards. Layna narrows her eyes slyly, as if already thinking of a way to prank the saint. Dray looks straight ahead, assessing the potential threat. Ayla lowers her eyes, as if wishing to become inconspicuous. Zane taps his fingers thoughtfully on the table, pondering possible ingredients for new potions. And Lud only sighs quietly, knowing that days ahead are full of intrigue and unexpected twists.

Rednard is a dark elf of the eighth rank. He is responsible for trade with humans. Serious and responsible, he always carries scrolls with calculations and lists of goods, as if afraid to miss even a single figure. His voice is even, without unnecessary emotion, but his eyes sometimes flash with weariness: he knows how thin the line is between a profitable deal and an outbreak of war.

Kraynetta is an eighth-rank succubus. She is responsible for maintaining order in the palace and also serves as the chief healer. Cheerful, curvy, and a flirt, she loves to flirt, but behind this playful demeanor lies a keen mind and incredible sensitivity: she notices the slightest changes in any demon's condition, be it a slight fever or a hidden anxiety. In the infirmary, her voice is soft, almost singsong-like, and even the most stubborn warriors do not argue when she orders them to lie still and remain still.

Riggle is a dwarf of the ninth rank. He is responsible for mining ores and precious stones. He is the palace's chief armorer. A stern man, but with a penchant for good liquor: after a hard day, he can sit by the forge, sipping a strong drink and telling stories of the old mines, where the stones seemed to sing in response to the blows of the pickaxe. His hands are covered in scars, and his gaze is heavy, as if he's used to seeing through stone and metal to the heart of the problem.

Laina is a seventh-rank tiger-beastman. She leads the army's second detachment, the one responsible for maintaining order in the kingdom. Mischievous, a bit capricious, and childish, she can suddenly burst into laughter in the middle of a serious report or stage a mock chase through the palace corridors. But when a real threat arises, her playfulness vanishes, giving way to cold focus and lightning-fast reactions.

Drai is a ninth-rank draconian. He leads the army's first detachment and is the commander-in-chief of the main army. Cold-blooded, cruel, and devoted to his king, his orders are like hammer blows—clear, without unnecessary words. He tolerates no fuss or weakness, yet he has an unerring sense of which warriors can withstand the most difficult battles and which are best left in the rear.

My name is Xiao Mortis, the Demon King's wife, and the last member of the Moon Clan. I am a half-breed—the light of the moon and the heat of the star flow through my veins, woven in a strange, fragile balance. All members of my clan possessed incredible beauty—as if the night and dawn themselves had decided to leave their mark on them.

I have long, wavy, ash-blond hair that reaches my feet—it catches the slightest light and shimmers like silk woven from moonbeams. My eyes are a deep, dark blue: you can drown in them, as if you were looking into a bottomless night sky where the stars have already faded but the darkness has not yet become absolute. My short stature—just 158 ​​cm—contrasts sharply with Azrael, next to whom I seem almost like a child. Pale skin, a round face, plump pink lips, a thin waist, and small wrists—as if I were made of porcelain, afraid of cracking from a sudden movement.

But behind this fragile exterior lies a strength comparable to that of a human high mage or a tenth-rank demon. The Lunar People do not rush into battle, nor do they seek combat—we are calm and not prone to aggression. We are quiet, tactile creatures, for whom touch is a language we use to communicate trust, love, and safety.

We may appear innocent, almost defenseless, but this is deceptive: we are acutely aware of the intentions of those around us. A single glance is enough to tell whether someone is lying, hiding fear, or plotting betrayal. This isn't magic in the conventional sense—rather, it's a heightened sense, as if the world were whispering the truth to us if we knew how to listen.

Another of our special abilities is resistance to fire and poison. Flames don't burn our skin, and the deadliest toxins merely cloud our consciousness without causing any real harm. They say this is a gift from the Moon, which has protected its people from the dangers of the world for centuries. When I use my power, runes glow on my body—symbols that are present on my body but are only visible when I use it.

Azrael Mortis is a demon king whose strength and power transcends rank. He stands two meters fifteen centimeters tall, his muscular build as if carved from dark stone and forged in the fires of hell. His mist-colored hair flows in heavy waves down his shoulders, and his eyes gleam with a crimson tint—as if an unquenchable fire smolders within them. He is a just ruler and a devoted husband, and for him, only I exist in this world.

It's been so long since he felt warmth and a constant presence nearby—centuries of loneliness have left cracks in his soul that are now slowly healing at my mere touch. Because of this, he keeps me close: sometimes he'll sit me on his lap, sometimes he'll pull me close, as if checking to see that I'm here, real, alive. This is also a blessing for me, because members of the Moon tribe are very tactile—we constantly seek attention and warmth, as if without someone else's breath nearby we begin to fade, like the moon without starlight.

Our clan can have only one companion for life—they are called true companions, for it is to them that bodies are drawn, responding to the subtle vibrations of fate. This is not mere affection or ordinary love—it is a deep connection, woven into the very fabric of the universe. When a true companion is near, even the air becomes lighter, and wounds heal faster. If the connection is broken, the moon people gradually fade, losing the light within.

Azrael didn't immediately realize he had become my true self. At first, he perceived my presence as a strange but pleasant anomaly—the fact that I could touch him without being consumed by his power seemed a miracle to him. Then came the realization: my warmth calmed the turbulence in his blood, making his rage manageable and his decisions more measured. Now he doesn't hide his need for me, and there's no weakness in it—only an acknowledgment that even a demon king needs a place to lower his shield.

In the council chamber, while the demons discuss the saint's arrival, Azrael barely touches my wrist—a slight, almost imperceptible movement, but for me it means everything.

The Alliance of Demons and Humans. Some centuries ago, humans and demons formed an alliance. Humans were located to the west of the continent, and demons to the east. This is how the continent was divided: three human kingdoms—Northern, Eastern, and Southern—and only one vast demon kingdom. The alliance included a non-aggression pact and neutrality should the human kingdoms go to war. Demons supplied precious stones, ores, and magical crystals, while humans supplied other goods: food, fabrics, medicine, and much more.

Humans have a nobility system, while demons have a rank system, almost identical to humans. There are ten ranks: 1–3—lower class, commoners; 4–6—middle class, soldiers, knights, merchants; 7–9—upper class, commanders, princes. Demons can be distinguished from humans by their skin color, horns and tail, and different-colored eyes and hair.

This alliance was held in a delicate balance: humans valued magical resources, without which their alchemists and sorcerers could not cast powerful spells, while demons vitally needed food and fabrics—their lands were rich in minerals but sparse in vegetation and suitable agricultural lands. Minor skirmishes occasionally broke out along the border, but the treaty was strictly observed: violation threatened a breakdown in trade and immediate intervention by both sides.

In recent decades, tensions between the human kingdoms had been growing: the Northern Kingdom was eager to expand its territory, the Southern Kingdom was amassing troops, and the Eastern Kingdom was attempting to navigate between them by concluding secret agreements. The demons watched this with cold interest—as long as the conflict didn't touch their borders, they remained neutral.