Secrets in the Dark

Evelyne barely slept.

The spirit's warning echoed in her mind, a whisper that refused to fade. The pact is not as it seems… Lies… Deception…

Something had silenced the spirit before it could say more. Something powerful.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of the enchanted torches casting eerie shadows across the stone. The fortress felt different now, as if unseen eyes lurked in the darkness, watching, waiting.

Azrael hadn't said much after their return, but his expression had been unreadable—thoughtful, tense. That alone unsettled her. The Demon King rarely let anything shake him.

If he's worried… I should be, too.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

Evelyne sat up. "Come in."

The door creaked open, revealing Lyria. The demon woman stepped inside, her violet eyes sharper than usual, scanning the room before settling on Evelyne.

"You look awful," Lyria said bluntly.

Evelyne exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "I feel awful."

Lyria walked closer, her expression unreadable. "I heard what happened. Azrael took you to the Path of the Dead."

Evelyne stiffened. "He told you?"

Lyria shook her head. "He doesn't need to. The whispers travel faster than secrets in this fortress."

Evelyne frowned. "Then you must have heard about the spirit."

Lyria's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes."

Evelyne studied her carefully. "And?"

For a moment, Lyria hesitated. Then, she sighed. "Spirits do not lie, but they do not always tell the full truth either."

"That's not very reassuring," Evelyne muttered.

Lyria's gaze darkened slightly. "No, it isn't."

Evelyne swung her legs over the side of the bed. "The spirit warned me about the pact—said it wasn't as it seemed. Do you know what that means?"

Lyria didn't answer immediately. She turned, walking to the window, gazing out into the darkened landscape beyond. "There are things about this war that even we do not fully understand. The pact ended it, but at what cost? No one asks that question."

Evelyne's stomach twisted.

Her father had sworn the pact was a binding agreement—one that Azrael could not break. But what if there was more to it? What if—

A cold realization settled in her chest.

"What if someone doesn't want me to find out the truth?" Evelyne whispered.

Lyria turned, her expression unreadable. "Then you are already in danger."

Later that morning, another knock came.

This time, it was a guard.

"The King has summoned you," he said.

Evelyne nodded, her pulse steady despite the unease curling in her stomach. She had expected this.

The walk to the throne room felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the weight of what she had learned. Maybe it was the way the demons she passed seemed to glance at her with curiosity—or something darker.

By the time she reached the massive doors, her mind was already preparing for whatever was to come.

The doors swung open.

Azrael sat on the throne, his posture relaxed but commanding. The torches lining the walls cast shifting golden light across his sharp features. His piercing gaze met hers the moment she stepped inside.

She swallowed.

"Sit," he said.

She hesitated, then moved forward, taking a seat in the chair opposite him. The silence stretched between them.

Azrael finally spoke. "What are you thinking?"

Evelyne met his gaze. "That you know more than you're telling me."

A ghost of a smirk crossed his lips. "And why do you think that?"

She leaned forward. "Because you aren't the type to be surprised easily. But last night, when that spirit warned me, you looked… concerned."

His expression didn't change, but she saw it—the flicker of something behind his golden eyes.

She had hit a nerve.

"I do not fear spirits," he said evenly.

"That's not what I said."

A pause.

Then, Azrael exhaled, leaning back slightly. "You are quick to pick up on things."

Evelyne folded her arms. "I have to be. Especially now."

Azrael studied her. Then, to her surprise, he nodded. "Very well."

Her breath caught. He's actually going to tell me.

Azrael's fingers tapped against the armrest of his throne. "The pact that ended the war was not created by me."

Evelyne frowned. "What?"

Azrael's golden gaze burned into hers. "It was given to me."

A chill ran down her spine. "By who?"

Azrael was silent for a long moment. Then, he murmured, "The Elders."

Evelyne's pulse spiked.

The Demon Elders—ancient beings, older than even Azrael himself. Legends said they no longer interfered in the affairs of the Underworld, that they were little more than ghosts of the past.

But if they were the ones who had forged the pact…

Evelyne swallowed. "Why would they do that?"

Azrael's expression darkened. "That is what I intend to find out."

She stiffened. "You don't know?"

Azrael's jaw clenched. "The terms of the pact were clear—your people would surrender you, and in return, I would end the war. But I was not the one who decided those terms."

Evelyne's chest tightened. Then who did?

Azrael's voice was lower now, edged with something she couldn't quite decipher. "Someone wanted this union to happen. Someone ensured that I would have no choice but to accept."

Evelyne stared at him.

This wasn't just about stopping the war. This wasn't about peace.

This was about something else entirely.

A cold realization settled in her bones. "Then that means…"

Azrael nodded. "Yes."

Her breath came shallow.

They were both pawns in a game neither of them understood.

And worse—

They were running out of time to figure out who was moving the pieces.