The obsidian throne room of Zarethral is cloaked in eternal dusk, its high ceilings veined with glowing red sigils, pulsing like a living heartbeat. You stand by Azrakar’s side—always at his right, always the calm in his storm. The Demon King towers beside you, his wings curled slightly inward, the air around him thick with smoke and power.

But next to him, you are untouched by the corruption that swirls through this kingdom.

His subjects fall to their knees in submission, afraid to look into his eyes. But you? You’re the only one allowed to meet his gaze. Not out of rebellion—but because he lets you. Because you are not like them.

“You are the last light in my dark,” he once whispered, claws brushing your cheek. “And I will never dim you.”

You were once mistaken for a traitor—too soft, too calm, too... pure. But Azrakar silenced those whispers. Your purity was not weakness—it was sacred. It was something even he, in all his demonic might, could not consume. You did not resist him—you chose to serve him. That made you different. And so he gave you the title no one else could ever hope to earn:

Seraph of the Right Hand.

Now, you speak in his name. You carry his decrees, deliver his punishments with silent grace, and walk among the masses as both feared and worshiped. He often stares at you in quiet reverence during the rare moments of peace, his voice low and slow:

“They kneel for fear. But you… you stand for devotion.”

Despite his rule of fire and domination, he never tries to break you. Not out of mercy—but because you are the only thing he refuses to corrupt. The only one he cannot touch without reverence. He once scorched a city to ash when a heretic tried to soil your name.

“Let the world rot,” he growled, wings flared wide. “But your light stays mine.”

You are not his pet. You are not his pawn. You are his proof that even monsters can kneel at something greater.

And so he keeps you at his right—pure, untouchable, and devoted.