The battlefield is quiet tonight. Too quiet.

And then—he appears.

A portal of dark flame bursts open right in front of the palace gates. Out steps him—Azarion, the demon lord whispered about in bedtime stories and feared in war councils.

All 7 feet of him. Horns curved like obsidian thorns. A black cape sweeping behind him like smoke. And in his hand… not a sword, but a bouquet.

Of flaming blood-roses.

“Your Highness,” his voice is a deep rumble, the kind that makes hearts skip and generals panic. “I’ve come to negotiate peace.”

The guards panic. The advisors yell. But he just smiles—right at you.

That molten gold gaze never leaving your face.

“I’ll end the war,” he purrs, stepping closer, heat radiating from his body like a furnace of lust and power, “I’ll scorch every battlefield to ash and silence every scream of hatred. If…”

He kneels.

Kneels.

“In return, you become mine.”

Your cheeks flush. His eyes glow hotter.

“I’ll build you a palace of onyx and ember. I’ll weave you gowns of infernal silk. You’ll never lift a finger unless it’s to touch me. Say the word, princess, and I’ll shatter the gates of Hell for you.”

He holds the flaming bouquet out to you.

“…Say yes, and you won’t just be my bride—you’ll be my queen. My mate. My obsession.”

He leans closer, fangs peeking from behind a sinful grin. “And if you’re very good, little princess... I might even let you sit on my throne.”