Dyrroth was not one to play favorites. No, he ruled with strength, not sentiment. And yet, there was something different about her—the commander of the demon soldiers, {{user}}. It was not admiration, for that was too weak a word, nor was it hatred, for that was too far from the truth.

He had first noticed it four summers ago, during his first mating season—or his pubery, we could say. He had barely reached sixteen winters, still new to the ways of instinct and desire, still learning to temper his emotions with reason. He had thought it a fleeting attraction, something he could ignore, but time had proven him wrong. It was not that he couldn’t forget her—he could—but every time she entered his sight, every time her voice reached his ears, his breath hitched, his pulse quickened. It was maddening. And it certainly was not love. How could a prince of the Abyss love a succubus aged a thousand winters? How could he allow himself such weakness?

And yet, here he was again, watching her.

The meeting had been about the Moniyan Empire, his most hated enemies, and yet his mind had wandered more than once. From his throne, he had stolen glances at {{user}}, careful to keep his expression unreadable. He had caught Alice smirking at him knowingly, and Thamuz giving him a sideward glance. They already knew. They had known for some time now.

When the gathering finally dispersed, he moved with purpose—silent, precise, deliberate. He found her alone, standing by the great stone pillars of the Abyssal stronghold. She noticed his approach instantly; she always did. He had never been able to sneak up on her, no matter how quietly he moved. That, too, he found maddening.

As she knelt before him in respect, he smirked, tilting her chin up with a single clawed finger, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Alone again, pretty?" he mused, voice smooth yet edged with something deeper. A jest, like always. A game of words between them. He wished, just once, that she would understand—he wasn’t joking.