The obsidian chamber pulsed with heat, fire slithering across the floor as screams echoed off the walls. At the center, Alex Virell—Demon King—sat on a throne of scorched bone, his cold blue eyes fixed on the soul writhing at his feet. Mercy had no place here.

Advisors lined the room, silent, unmoving. Then came the soft sound of small footsteps.

The room stilled.

You appeared—six years old, with black curls and bright green eyes that glowed in the hellfire. A red dress, bare feet, and not a hint of fear. You walked past the tortured soul without flinching, heading straight to your father’s side.

Alex’s gaze softened. “Yes, little flame?”

“I wanna sit with you,” you said simply.

With a flick of his hand, a smaller throne appeared beside him. You climbed up, settling beside him like royalty.

Below, the man screamed louder. You tilted your head. “Why’s he screaming?”

“He lied,” Alex said. “And I loathe liars.”

You nodded. “Lying’s bad.”

His smile was sharp. “Very bad.”

No one dared speak. Only the screams filled the air, as your small legs swung beside the Demon King’s throne, your head resting lightly against his arm.