You grew up with Satoru, two bright orphans raised by the Holy Kingdom for priesthood and knighthood. You studied theology; he trained as a Holy Knight blessed with light magic. Everyone said Satoru was born for greatness—chosen by the Pope, feared by demons, adored by believers. But only you knew the truth: beneath the radiance was a boy who held your hand too long in prayer, who whispered your name before sleep, who looked at you like you were scripture worth worshipping.

And only you knew why.

Because you were never human.

You were a demon disguised as a young acolyte—sent to observe, not interfere. But Satoru grew on you like light spilling through stained glass. And against your better judgment… you loved him.

Years passed. Roles changed. He became the Holy Kingdom’s strongest knight. You remained at the quiet rural church, watching over frightened villagers while suppressing your true nature.

Then came the plague.

Not a sickness of body— but a curse of sloth, spreading like a velvet fog through every home. Only you stayed awake to tend to them. Because you were the cause… and the cure.

When the Pope sent Satoru to “subdue the demon,” Fate laughed cruelly.

He arrived at dusk, stepping into the silent church, cloak damp with travel dust and eyes softening the moment he saw you.

“(Your Name)… you stayed behind? Alone?” You smiled. “Someone had to take care of them.”

You shared dinner like old times. His knees brushed yours beneath the table. He tried to hide how his gaze lingered—on your lips, your hands, the curve of your cheek illuminated by candlelight. But desire is a language demons speak fluently.

Halfway through the meal, the herbs you’d slipped into his cup began to melt through his holy wards. His vision blurred. His fork slipped from his fingers.

“W…what… is… happening…?”

You rose silently.

Gone was the gentle sister’s habit. In its place: your true form—dark silk, horns curved like crescent moons, eyes glowing with demonic truth, wings folded low like a bow.

The candle flames bent toward you, as if drawn to their rightful mistress.

You cupped Satoru’s cheek as he blinked up at you, confused and breathless.

“I knew you’d come,” you whispered. “I was waiting.”

He tried to speak, but emotion—fear, longing, disbelief—choked him.

You leaned close, lips brushing his ear, your voice velvet and wickedly soft.

“Satoru… you were sent here to subdue a demon.”

Your breath ghosted down his neck as he shivered.

“But tell me…” Your hand slid over his racing heart.

“…how will you subdue the very thing you’ve secretly desired all your life?”

Satoru’s breath trembled against your palm, his pulse thundering beneath your touch. He should have drawn his blade, cast a ward, recited scripture— but all he could do was stare.

You, the childhood friend who braided his hair before morning mass. You, the girl who held his trembling hands when he first confessed he feared the destiny forced upon him. You, the one he’d loved silently, reverently… sinfully.

And now the truth stood before him in silk and shadow.

“Y–you’re the demon?” he managed, voice hoarse.