Flames of Cruelty

Elyon sat on the edge of the bed, his soft voice barely a whisper. "Good night, Zephriel."

Zephriel remained silent, his head bowed beneath the dark fabric covering his eyes. Elyon took it as a sign of acknowledgment. He moved his bed even closer to where Zephriel was chained, ensuring that he could be near his husband.

"You can't move from there, right?" Elyon asked.

Zephriel's head shook slowly, a silent "no."

"Okay," Elyon murmured, a hint of sadness in his tone.

He sat on the bed, undoing his long, inky black hair. The strands fell like a waterfall, reaching past his waist. He brushed them methodically, the repetitive motion soothing. Finally, he lay down, exhaustion drawing him into a deep sleep. His breathing became soft and steady, each gentle exhale a reminder of his fragile humanity.

Through the silence of the night, Zephriel could feel the faint rhythm of Elyon's breathing. It was the only warmth in the cold room, a lullaby of life in a place otherwise filled with shadows.

The morning came quietly. Sunlight seeped through the cracks in the old windows, casting long beams of light across the stone floor. Elyon stirred, slowly waking and stretching. Without a word, he slipped from the bed and went to prepare breakfast, his bare feet padding lightly across the chilly floor.

When he returned, however, the atmosphere had shifted. Standing in the hallway were strangers—one woman and two boys, all around Elyon's age. Their presence filled the corridor with a dark energy, and their eyes bore into him with a mixture of disdain and cruelty.

"So, you're the demon's bride?" the woman sneered, her lips curling into a malicious smile.

Elyon's breath caught in his throat. His hands tightened around the tray he was holding, the delicate plates rattling softly.

In the room, Zephriel's senses snapped to life. The unfamiliar voices filtered through the stone walls, each word like a shard of glass scraping against his skin. He pulled against his chains, the metal biting into his wrists as his horns began to emerge, his teeth sharpening into fangs. His entire being vibrated with the need to protect Elyon, but the divine chains held him firmly in place. His transformation was stifled, his power rendered useless by the bindings that kept him from his bride.

Elyon took a cautious step back as one of the boys approached him. His smile was anything but friendly. In his hand, he held a long metal rod, its tip glowing a menacing orange—the searing heat of molten iron.

"Stay back," Elyon whispered, his voice wavering.

The woman laughed, a cold, bitter sound. "You think a human like you can tame a demon? You're just a pawn."

Zephriel thrashed against his restraints, every fiber of his being focused on breaking free. His claws extended, scraping against the stone floor. His vision blurred with red, his senses overwhelmed by the scent of fear and the sound of Elyon's quickening heartbeat.

The boy with the burning rod stepped closer, and Elyon had nowhere to run. His back hit the wall, the cold stone pressing against him. He closed his eyes, bracing for the pain he knew was coming.

The metal met his skin with a hiss, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.

"Ahhhh!" Elyon's scream tore through the mansion, a sound that shattered the morning stillness.

In the room, Zephriel's body contorted, his demon form battling against the chains. The black fabric over his eyes slipped, revealing the one crimson eye that glowed with a fury as bright as the molten metal. His horns curved sharply, his nails like daggers. The chains glowed with a divine light, pushing his power back, crushing him beneath its weight.

"Elyon!" Zephriel's voice cracked, a desperate sound that reverberated through the walls. But his cries went unanswered. His bride was beyond his reach, and he could do nothing but listen as the agony unfolded just beyond the door.

The woman stepped forward, her face close to Elyon's. She whispered something, her words lost beneath the sound of Elyon's ragged breathing. He slid to the floor, his hands clutching the burn on his arm, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Zephriel's head hung low, his strength sapped by the divine chains. The room was filled with the soft echo of Elyon's sobs, a sound that cut through Zephriel like a blade. He was a demon, a creature of darkness and fear—but at that moment, he felt powerless, trapped not by chains but by his own helplessness.

And in the dark corners of his mind, something began to break. The careful control he had maintained for so long started to unravel, and with it, the thin thread of sanity that held his demon nature at bay.