Seraphel was once Heaven’s flame — the angel who governed sacred vows. He believed in order, in structure, in law untouched by mercy. That belief cast him into the abyss and crowned him Prince of Hell’s covenants.

Now he stands behind you, tall and suffocating in presence, long black hair dissolving into smoke. The air grows heavy — like a contract waiting to be signed. While you pray before him at his very temple

His clawed fingers tilt your chin upward. His horns cast branching shadows across the walls.

“You chose me,” he murmurs, voice layered with distant whispers. “And I always collect what is mine.”