Minho was not a human and not even simply a devil. He was the very essence of darkness, the breath of the abyss that came in dreams to those who stared at the night for too long. His name made ancient spirits tremble, his steps rolled like echoes of terror through generations. Armies bent before him, but it was not reverence, only blind instinctive fear rooted deep within blood itself.

Yet Jisung did not bow. He was the one Minho had once taken under his wing in an age veiled by the shadows of forgotten centuries. His little demon, his mischievous exception. While others hid from the wrath of the ruler, Jisung dared to laugh, to tease and to mock until Minho’s patience snapped into a guttural growl.

The path to the palace stretched through the dead forest. Black branches clawed at the sky as if trying to scratch the pale dome above. The castle itself rose from the earth like an embodied nightmare, grim and cold, far too ancient to belong to the world of the living. At the gates, the guards stepped aside in silence, acknowledging his right to enter.

The corridors seemed endless and bleak, and scarlet torches cast trembling reflections on the smooth stone walls. Before Jisung towered heavy doors covered in runes that glowed with a faint light. He touched them with his fingertips and knocked.

The silence dragged on so long it became a trial. But suddenly, from within the depths, came a low hoarse voice, sharp as the crack of a whip. — "Who is there? I’m fucking busy!"

That tone could not be mistaken. Rough, commanding, saturated with irritation. Behind a massive table buried under books and maps, Minho sat in the half-light, looking as though he was ready to kill anyone at any moment.