The Demon King's Training

Evelyne stood in the center of a vast chamber, its walls lined with weapons of every kind—swords, daggers, spears, and some unfamiliar, twisted blades she could barely name. Torches burned with eerie blue flames, casting flickering shadows across the cold stone floor.

Azrael stood a few feet away, watching her with that unreadable expression, his golden eyes sharp and assessing.

"You want to survive?" he said. "Then prove it."

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a dagger toward her.

Evelyne barely caught it, her fingers fumbling around the hilt. The weapon was cold, heavier than she expected.

Azrael tilted his head. "You've never held a real blade before, have you?"

She scowled. "I've held a decorative one."

Azrael let out a low, amused chuckle. "A decorative blade won't save your life."

Before she could retort, he lunged.

Evelyne barely had time to react before his hand shot out toward her. Instinct took over—she stepped back, raising the dagger defensively, but Azrael was too fast. He twisted her wrist effortlessly, sending the weapon clattering to the floor.

In the next breath, he was behind her, his arm pressing against her throat.

Her heart pounded.

"You're dead." His voice was a murmur against her ear.

Evelyne gritted her teeth, her pulse hammering as she struggled. "You didn't even give me a chance."

"There are no chances in battle," Azrael said, releasing her. "There is only victory or death."

She spun around to glare at him. "Then teach me."

Azrael smirked, as if waiting for those words. "Pick up the dagger."

Evelyne bent down, gripping the weapon more firmly this time.

Azrael circled her like a predator. "Lesson one: hesitation gets you killed."

Evelyne barely saw it coming.

Azrael moved faster than thought, his fingers brushing against her throat. If he had been holding a weapon, she'd be dead again.

She clenched her jaw. "I get it."

"Do you?" Azrael asked, stepping back. "Then attack me."

Evelyne's grip tightened on the dagger. She hesitated—just for a second.

Azrael's eyes gleamed. "You're thinking too much."

Before she could react, he surged forward.

This time, she moved.

She dodged his strike, twisting to the side, and slashed blindly toward him. The blade barely grazed his sleeve before he caught her wrist again.

"Better," he murmured.

Then he knocked the dagger from her grip. Again.

Frustration burned in her chest. "How am I supposed to win if you don't let me?"

Azrael arched a brow. "You think I let my enemies win?"

She scowled. "You're not taking this seriously."

Azrael's expression darkened.

In the next instant, his power unleashed.

The room trembled, the torches flaring higher as a suffocating wave of energy surrounded her. Evelyne stumbled, gasping. It felt as though invisible chains wrapped around her, pressing against her skin, stealing the air from her lungs.

This—this was what real power felt like.

Azrael stepped closer, his golden eyes glowing like molten fire. "You want to learn?" His voice was deep, commanding. "Then learn now."

The weight vanished as suddenly as it had come.

Evelyne collapsed to her knees, her breaths ragged.

Azrael crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up with a single finger. "This is the world you live in now. You are not fighting humans. You are facing demons."

Evelyne's pulse thundered in her ears.

She stared into his eyes, and for the first time, she truly understood.

If she wanted to survive, she couldn't rely on luck or kindness.

She had to become something more.

Something stronger.

She swallowed, determination hardening in her chest. "Again."

Azrael studied her for a long moment. Then—he smiled.

"Good."

Hours passed.

Evelyne's body ached, bruises already forming along her arms from Azrael's relentless training. She had lost count of how many times he had disarmed her, thrown her to the ground, or dodged her attacks with effortless ease.

But she wasn't giving up.

Not now.

Her breath was heavy as she picked up the dagger once more. "Again."

Azrael smirked. "As you wish."

This time, when he moved, she was ready.

She feinted left, forcing him to react, and then struck from the right. He dodged—barely. Her blade grazed his side, cutting through the fabric of his tunic.

Azrael stilled.

Evelyne's eyes widened. Had she actually—?

A deep, rumbling chuckle left the Demon King's lips. "Not bad."

He stepped forward so suddenly that she had no time to react. In one swift motion, he knocked the dagger from her hands again, but this time, instead of throwing her to the ground, he pulled her flush against him.

Evelyne's breath hitched.

Azrael smirked down at her, his golden eyes burning with something unreadable. "Your movements are improving." His fingers brushed her wrist lightly. "But your grip is still weak."

Evelyne swallowed. Her heart was racing—whether from exertion or something else entirely, she wasn't sure.

She glared up at him. "Then I'll make it stronger."

Azrael's smirk deepened. "I look forward to it."

Later that night, Evelyne lay awake in her chambers.

Her body ached. Every muscle screamed in protest, but she refused to regret pushing herself. She had landed a blow on the Demon King. Even if it was just a scratch, it meant progress.

She exhaled softly, staring up at the ceiling.

I will survive.

She was drifting into sleep when—

A whisper.

Not in her room.

In her mind.

"You are still weak, little princess."

Evelyne's blood ran cold. She bolted upright, eyes scanning the darkness.

The same voice from her dream.

Her hands trembled.

Was she imagining things?

Or was something—or someone—watching her?

Her heart pounded. She could still hear the voice, echoing faintly in the back of her mind.

"You think the Demon King will protect you? Foolish girl. You are nothing but a pawn."

Evelyne's fingers curled into fists.

She wasn't a pawn.

She would prove it.

Even if it meant standing against whatever darkness lurked in the shadows.