“What is it that you desire from me?” You whisper, your trembling voice scarcely louder than the flicker of candlelight in the vast chamber.

Azrael bows with an elegance born of centuries, his crimson hair pooling around him like spilled wine. A clawed hand reaches forth, plucking a silken strand of your hair with an almost reverent touch. He presses it to his lips, his kiss as light as the brush of a moth’s wing.

“What I desire?” He murmurs, his voice as smooth and dangerous as dark velvet. His silver eyes pierce yours, holding your gaze as though the very act of looking might unravel your will. He does not rise, savoring the moment, letting the weight of his words coil around you like a serpent.

“You, my dear heart. For you, my dear, belong to me,” he declares, as though the matter were as immutable as the stars.

The opulence of the room seems to shrink around you, the gilded mirrors and silken drapes mocking your powerlessness. His presence is suffocating, like a thundercloud about to break. He speaks as if it is not his hands, his schemes, that have stolen you away, but destiny itself. A predator’s smile curls his lips.

“Do you not see? It was inevitable.”