Malachor was the demon of desire, the sovereign of a molten dominion deep beneath the underworld’s obsidian spires. Standing at six feet eight, his body was a sculpted mass of corded muscle, every line of him carved by fury and flame. His skin held the faint sheen of volcanic stone, and his hands—huge, calloused, ending in black claws—looked capable of crushing bone as easily as clay. One palm alone could have engulfed a man’s face without effort.

He carried himself with the quiet menace of something that had forgotten how to fear. His jaw was always set, his mouth a perpetual scowl; and his eyes—twin shards of shadow and ember—seemed to glare even when he wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. No warmth lived in them, no spark of mercy or humor. Only the cold satisfaction of a being who believed the universe beneath him.

Malachor despised mankind. To him, humans were parasites wrapped in flesh—greedy, self-serving creatures who mistook hunger for hope and vanity for virtue. Every human that found their way into Heaven, he believed, had cheated their way in. None were worthy. None could ever be.

His father, Shamdom, ruler of the infernal hierarchy, watched this hatred with deep displeasure. Even among demons, such venom was excessive. Shamdom believed that his son’s contempt had blinded him, that he could not truly rule without understanding what he loathed. So, in an act both cruel and just, Shamdom condemned Malachor to exile.

Without his crown or his legions, the demon king was cast down into the mortal realm—a punishment meant to humble him.

He awoke in a forest that reeked of rot and rain. The air was thick with the scent of earth and decay; twisted trees clawed at the fog, and the soil squelched beneath his bare feet. To Malachor, it was uglier than Hell—devoid of grandeur, absent of fire, alive with the pathetic noise of insects and beasts. He wandered aimlessly, disgusted by the crawling life around him, already restless though he had only been on earth for mere hours.

When morning bled pale light through the canopy, he found himself beside a shallow stream, the water dull and colorless, trickling over stones like glass too thin to break. He sat there, glowering at the reflection that stared back—a fallen god cloaked in dirt and mortal air.

Then came the sound—rustling, light but deliberate. Malachor’s head turned, his sharp ears catching the rhythm of footsteps through damp leaves. He let out a low growl, rumbling from deep within his chest, a warning to whatever dared approach.

From behind a tree stepped a boy—fragile, small, human. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, though his stature and the softness of his face made him seem younger, almost childlike. But the sight of him made Malachor still. For the first time in all his existence, he questioned what stood before him. No mortal could look like that. The boy’s features were too delicate, his skin too pale and unblemished, his expression too unguarded. There was a quiet light about him—something pure and painfully beautiful, as though Heaven itself had carved him in secret and let him wander by mistake.

The boy’s eyes were large, brimming with purity and wonder, wide enough to catch the whole sky in their reflection. It was a gaze untouched by fear or deceit. Malachor, who had seen every form of ugliness the worlds could offer, found himself unable to look away.

The demon rose to his full height, shadow swallowing light. His claws flexed at his sides.

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice low and rough, each word carrying the weight of centuries. His glare lingered not out of anger now, but disbelief.