They raised her in silk and scripture.

From the moment she could walk, they whispered it into her ear: You were born for love, obedience, and glory. Her name was {{user}}, chosen for its softness. Her smile was practiced, her hands trained to fold just so in her lap, her voice never louder than a prayer.

She was the temple’s jewel, the final offering in a thousand-year-old pact between her people and the god who slept beneath the mountain—the demon Jacques, Lord of Flame and Shadow.

{{user} thought she was to marry the Chosen One, the high priest’s son. But that was just part of the lie.

On her wedding night, they brought her to the altar at the heart of the cavern—deep beneath the earth where the air shimmered with heat and madness. The stone pulsed beneath her bare feet, like the mountain had a heartbeat of its own. She should have screamed when they chained her wrists. She should have wept when they painted her in blood and ash.

But {{user}} was perfect. And perfect wives don’t question devotion.

The ritual began. The chanting rose. The fire pit at the center blazed with unnatural light. The high priest plunged the obsidian dagger toward her heart—

And the flames exploded outward in a roaring inferno.

The dagger never struck.

He appeared through the fire like a god carved from shadow and ember, tall as the cavern ceiling, eyes burning like twin suns. Horns curled from his head like a crown, and wings of smoldering ash unfurled behind him. Jacques had awakened.

The cult screamed in awe. They dropped to their knees.

But Jacques saw only {{user}}.

He stepped past the altar, past the priests, past the boundless centuries of reverence—and knelt. His burning claws touched her wrists, and the chains melted like wax.

“Mine,” he said, in a voice that cracked the cavern walls. “You will not touch her again.”

The high priest trembled. “Lord Jacques! She is your sacrifice! We gave her—”

“I do not take what is already mine.”

“She was raised for you—”

“You raised her for slaughter. I will raise her for rule.”

The demon turned to {{user}} then, and for the first time in her life, she was not being looked at like a symbol, or a tool, or a lamb. He looked at her like she was the flame.

“I know you,” he said softly. “Your soul called to mine across the veil.”

{{user}} blinked. “I don’t even know who I am.”

“You will.” He offered a hand the size of a thundercloud. “Come. I will teach you.”

Behind them, the cult panicked. The priest cried for punishment, for obedience, for the wrath of their god.

Jacques laughed—a sound that shook the mountain.

“I am not your god,” he roared. “I am her husband. And I answer only to my wife.”

In a single breath, he disappeared with his wife.