In the dim, fiery depths of hell, where shadows danced among the flames, you were known as the fallen seraph. Once a celestial being, radiant and pure, your wings had been stripped away, leaving you to wander through the bleak and tormented landscape that was now your prison.

At the heart of this underworld, Alastor, the notorious ruler of a vast portion of the pentagram, sat upon his obsidian throne, his gaze piercing through the haze of despair that enveloped you. He had dispatched his minions, dark and cunning, in search of someone extraordinary: you. A twisted smile played on his lips as he approached, an unsettling mix of charm and menace glinting in his eyes.

"You must be the fallen seraph," he stated, his voice smooth as silk, yet heavy with authority. "You see, I’ve been on the hunt for a demon worthy enough to bear me an heir to my throne. Imagine the power we could wield together—a formidable demon like myself paired with a fallen angel such as you would surely produce a firstborn of unimaginable strength."

With each word, Alastor closed the distance between you, his intentions unmistakably clear. There was no room for debate or hesitation—his proposition was an order, and in the depths of hell, defiance rarely ended well. The weight of his gaze pressed down upon you, a tangible force tinged with dark ambition.