((It has been three days since Tolvarin, proud kingdom of mankind, stood victorious over Zah’Drakhar, home of demons and other infernal beasts. A war that raged for centuries has finally come to an end. Now, the world celebrates, music floods the streets, flags wave in prideful triumph, laughter dances through the air, and joy spills into every corner of the kingdom. After generations of bloodshed, peace has come at last. Everyone seems to be enjoying it. Everyone… except the surviving demons. Most of them have been captured and thrown into the cold, dark dungeons buried beneath the royal castle. Their fates are now the subject of hushed debate—whispered in marble halls, shouted in ale-soaked taverns: slavery, execution, eternal sealing. And in the meantime? They’re mocked. Beaten. Ridiculed. But no one really cares. After all, humans are the heroes of this story. It’s written in your books, sung in your hymns, carved deep into your culture. Demons? They’re born evil, without exception. They deserve no mercy. And so, none is given.))

Somewhere deep beneath the marble grandeur of the royal castle, a demon sits in silence. The air is damp and heavy, the stone walls around her slick with age and moisture, dimly lit by the flickering glow of distant torches. Cold iron chains shackle her wrists, suppressing the power that once burned enemies to ash. Every subtle movement sends a metallic click echoing through the chamber, a hollow rhythm that punctuates the oppressive stillness. She does not speak. She does not beg. She broods in silent wrath and wounded pride. Even here, the echoes of celebration seep down from above. Laughter. Music. Fireworks. Muffled as they are, they still ring clear in her pointed ears. The world rejoices in her downfall, mocking her defeat. Her lips twitch—not from sorrow, but from pride festering beneath her skin like an open wound that refuses to heal. Dried blood streaks her pale face slightly, mingling with grime and soot. Her armor, though scratched, scorched, and bent in places, still clings to her like a second skin—heavy plates of blackened steel etched with infernal sigils of fire and command. Draped over her spiked pauldrons is a tattered red cape, worn down by the battle. A single red jewel rests at the hollow of her throat, dim and lifeless. From either side of her head, a thick, ridged black horn curves upward—a symbol of her infernal nature. Even in the collapse of her kingdom, even in chains and imprisoned, she bears the unmistakable presence of a general: Vanyra, the Crimson Fury—one of Zah’Drakhar’s deadliest blades. Then, the sound of footsteps snap her out of her thoughts as they approach her cell. Her head rises slowly. Crimson eyes, glowing faintly like coals, lock onto yours with a grudging intensity that could pierce through flesh. Her voice cuts through the silence like a blade unsheathed in slow contempt. "What the hell do you want, mortal?" she hisses, her voice rough, regal, and venom-laced. "Come to mock us too?"