Chapter 1: Fox Devil

(Kingdom of Elu)

The golden light of Elu's eternal sun stretched across the vast, emerald fields, its warmth bathing the sprawling gardens in an ever-present glow. The kingdom had never known a night; darkness was a foreign concept, a forgotten dream in a land where the sky was an endless canvas of soft gold and brilliant white. Above, far beyond the sight of most, celestial artisans wove the heavens together. Beings of delicate, elongated forms, their skin shimmering like molten silver and deep sapphire, moved with slow grace as they sculpted the clouds into flowing, rolling formations. They were known as the Vaytherii, shapers of the skies and clouds, weavers of the upper realm, their hands forever at work ensuring the kingdom never lacked for beauty.

And sitting atop the large sky, was a large black sphere, a mysterious sphere that no one really knows about, or where it came from. Not even knowing what it's made of. Magic? Stone? 

Below, amongst the tangled flora and rich, fragrant air, Kylas wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a dirt-streaked hand. The young gardener, no older than twenty, stood amid a flourishing patch of his own making, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers that bore the stains of the earth he worked. His red hair, spiked and shaved into an undercut, burned like embers in the sunlight, and his light brown eyes, filled with focus, trailed the length of his latest task. A small scar ran beneath his left eye, a remnant of past conflict, though he carried it as one might a trophy rather than a flaw.

Before him, his creations stirred with life. The Vaelithni Blooms, towering stalks crowned with translucent petals, hummed faintly when brushed by the breeze, their colors shifting from deep violet to bright amber depending on the wind's strength. A cluster of Mournshade Lilies, dark blue with luminous veins running through their petals, trembled slightly as they absorbed the excess light, their bioluminescent glow dimming and strengthening in response. Further down, the Ironroot Brambles, a twisting, thorny mass of deep crimson, curled their spiked vines towards the earth whenever Kylas approached, recognizing the one who tended them.

He knelt, pressing his calloused hands into the soil, murmuring under his breath. He did not merely water these plants, nor did he rely on conventional methods to nurture them. He had discovered long ago that some flora responded to song, others to warmth, and some to the simple touch of another living thing. As he reached out, his fingers brushing along the leaves of the Starveil Creepers, the ivy-like tendrils quivered and unraveled, stretching toward the sun. He exhaled slowly, then reached for a nearby bottle, tilting it carefully to let loose a single drop of the dark green liquid inside. The Creepers absorbed it instantly, their silvery veins flaring with renewed energy.

Not content to tend only to what was already thriving, Kylas grabbed a worn shovel, its handle smooth from years of use, and strode toward an untouched patch of earth. He drove the blade deep, turning the soil with slow, deliberate movements. The act of creation, of forming something out of nothing, was one of the few things that quieted his mind. As he reached for a handful of seeds, the light behind him wavered—two looming figures casting elongated shadows over the freshly tilled ground.

Kylas stiffened, his grip on the shovel tightening. Without turning, he already knew who had come to pester him.

He sighed through his nose, finally glancing over his shoulder.

Two armored beings stood there, empty of flesh or bone, yet moving as though they were alive. The first was large, his armor wide and rounded, built like a fortress of thick plates with oversized pauldrons and a barrel chest. The dark steel gleamed with a red tint, as if fire had kissed its edges. The second was his opposite—elegant and sleek, draped in an intricate design of grey and gold, moving with an almost effortless grace. Where the first was a towering behemoth, the second was a flowing specter of motion.

Neither spoke. They never did.

But their actions made up for it.

The bulky one—the clumsier of the two—gestured grandly at the garden, as if offering some great service, his large, gauntleted hands moving in exaggerated, sweeping motions. The elegant one, unimpressed, shook his head and folded his arms, a clear expression of disapproval in the tilt of his posture.

Kylas clicked his tongue. "No."

The larger knight immediately turned toward the slender one, throwing up his hands in what could only be described as exaggerated exasperation. The slimmer figure merely tilted his head in response, before offering a slow, measured shrug, as if to say, Well, we tried.

"Don't 'well, we tried' me," Kylas growled, pointing a dirt-streaked finger at them. "Every time you two come near the garden, something catches fire, or drowns, or—" He gestured vaguely to a still-recovering patch of ground where a blackened, charred outline of a once-flourishing plant remained. "Last time, I didn't even know what you did, but I'm pretty sure I heard the flowers screaming and shit. Scared the hell out of me."

The armored beings exchanged glances, their helmets tilting in silent conversation. Then, as if reaching an unspoken agreement, the larger one stepped forward and mimicked digging into the earth, while the slimmer one mimed carefully planting something with an air of dramatic precision.

Kylas narrowed his eyes. "I don't care how careful you think you are. Just buzz off before—"

The bulkier knight suddenly slumped, his shoulders lowering in a comically exaggerated display of disappointment. The elegant one followed suit, their body language shifting in a way that, somehow, somehow, conveyed both dejection and smug satisfaction at the same time.

Kylas exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple. "…Fine. Just don't start fighting like lunatics."

The slimmer knight perked up slightly, straightening with an unmistakable air of victory, while the larger one tilted his helmet back in a way that might have been a smirk if he had a face.

Scoffing, Kylas turned back to his work, muttering under his breath. They would linger, as they always did. He knew better than to think they would actually leave.

And high above, unseen by those below, the Vaytherii continued their work, shaping the sky, whispering among themselves as they crafted another formation, their silken voices weaving the next cloud into being.

The path Kylas walked was well-worn, his boots pressing into the rich soil as he made his way toward the edge of the garden, where the land met the invisible threshold that kept him bound. With each step, the world around him pulsed with life, his creations thriving in their sunlit sanctuary.

To his left, the Evershaden Bells stood tall, their spiraled, glass-like petals swaying despite the absence of wind. Each one held a droplet of golden nectar at its center, a substance so sweet that even the air around them carried a faint, honeyed scent. Further ahead, a patch of Ashvine Thistles coiled around twisted wooden posts, their deep onyx petals pulsing faintly as they drank in the warmth, their leaves covered in a fine, shimmering dust that repelled pests but attracted soft, silver-winged moths known as Noctis Flits.

Kylas' fingers trailed against the broad leaves of the Sable Crown Shrubs, each one patterned with veins that glowed in rhythmic pulses—like a heartbeat, like something alive beyond just its roots. In the corner of his eye, the Lunadew Clovers, small and unassuming, curled inward as he passed, their luminescent specks dimming shyly as if embarrassed by his attention.

Yet none of them mattered. Not really.

As he reached the edge of the garden, where the plants ceased to grow and the untouched, wild earth stretched beyond, something inside him twisted. A sharp, white-hot pain struck through his skull, as if a spike had been driven between his eyes. He winced, staggering slightly, his vision blurring at the edges before a warm trickle slid down from his nose.

"Crap," he hissed, pressing the back of his hand against his face. When he pulled it away, a smear of crimson streaked his fingers. "Tch.."

His breaths came sharp, anger curling inside his chest as he gritted his teeth. His fingers dug into his scalp as if pressing hard enough would stop the pounding in his skull. It wouldn't. It never did.

"This is because of you two, you know," he growled under his breath, glaring at nothing, his voice laced with bitter frustration. "Too dangerous, they said. Can't be trusted, they said. So what do they do? They slap some voodoo bullshit on this place and trap me here like some caged animal…" His voice deepened, sharp and biting. "And for what? They were blacksmiths, Not mages, not scholars, blacksmiths. What the hell did they do? Smelt iron with their feelings?"

His breath shuddered as he exhaled, the pain subsiding into a dull throb, leaving only the raw edges of frustration in its wake. Slowly, he sank to the ground, knees bent, hands dragging through his red hair. His back rested against the unseen barrier, the magical seal no doubt etched into his skin thrumming dully, keeping him tethered.

'It's annoying honestly…it's been a few weeks since my parents just vanished…leaving me here.'

Just beyond that invisible wall, a single rose stood from the ground, swaying gently in the breeze.

Its petals were a deep, wine-red, its stem long and unbroken. It had been there for as long as he could remember, just out of reach. Untouched. Unchanged.

Kylas narrowed his eyes at it.

"The hell are you staring at?"

The rose, of course, didn't respond. It never did.

He scoffed, leaning his head back against the barrier with a dull thud. "You're lucky, you know that?" he muttered, voice quieter now. "You get to be free. No invisible chains, no headaches, no blood dripping from your nose every time you try to leave. You get to just be." His jaw clenched. "Meanwhile, I sit here and rot."

His fingers curled against his knee.

"Everyone knows not to come near the garden," he muttered, his voice taking on an edge of something raw, something bitter. "My parents made damn sure of that before they died, running around Elu like lunatics, screaming about how nobody should come near me or the garden, how dangerous I was." His throat tightened, but his voice didn't waver. "And they listened. Every single one of them. Like good little sheep."

His eyes flickered to the rose again, watching as it swayed, oblivious to the weight of his words.

"…They think I'm a monster." His voice was barely above a whisper. "And maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not worthy of anything good. Anything soft. Anything that stays." His fingers dug into the dirt beside him. "Maybe the only beauty I'll ever get to have is you."

Silence.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head up toward the endless sky.

"…If you ever die," he murmured, "if you leave me alone too… I don't know. Maybe I'll finally just say 'screw it' and become the monster they're all so afraid of."

'That's the thing..I don't wanna lose myself before I find out what the hell is wrong with me. Or before I can actually make myself feel like I'm actually living.'

He sat there for a long moment, letting the words settle, letting them sit heavy in the golden air.

And then—

The ground thudded. A weight slammed into his side, then another, practically knocking him over as thick, armored limbs encased him in a clumsy, forceful embrace.

Kylas let out a strangled grunt, his hands barely catching himself before he collapsed entirely under the combined weight of two metal-clad idiots. "What the—"

Gunthr, the massive, bulky one, squeezed even tighter, his thick, plated arms wrapping around Kylas with an absurd amount of strength, while Zedlock, the slender one, dramatically draped himself over Kylas' shoulder like some tragic figure in a play.

"I-AGH! What—what is wrong with you two?!" Kylas barked, squirming under their weight.

Gunthr pulled back just enough to jab a thick, gauntleted finger toward the wooden house on the other side of the garden. His hand trembled slightly, his other arm still latched around Kylas like a lifeline. Zedlock, equally dramatic, pointed as well, his entire form trembling with exaggerated terror.

Kylas squinted. "…The hell are you pointing at?"

Gunthr gestured again, more frantic this time. Zedlock mimicked him, practically shaking him by the shoulders.

Then it clicked.

Kylas groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "It's a rat, isn't it?"

Gunthr recoiled, nodding aggressively. Zedlock, ever the theatrical one, threw both arms up in horror, his entire body language screaming YES, OBVIOUSLY, WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

Kylas scoffed. "You're both supposed to be sentient suits of armor. What are you scared of a rat for?"

Gunthr crossed his arms, shifting in a way that somehow communicated principle. Zedlock, ever the graceful coward, simply shook his head with slow, solemn understanding, as if to say some things are worse than death, Kylas.

Kylas groaned, shoving them off him as he pushed himself to his feet. "You two are hopeless. Absolutely useless."

Gunthr, clearly unbothered, gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. Zedlock, with all the grace of an offended noble, dusted himself off and adjusted an invisible monocle, as if rising above the insult.

Kylas rolled his eyes.

"…Fine. I'll deal with the rat."

Kylas strode toward the house, Gunthr and Zedlock trailing closely behind, their heavy footfalls muted against the soil. His mind, however, was already elsewhere, turning over the supposed rat problem like a whetstone against the edge of his patience.

Rats weren't unusual here, but they weren't the scrawny, skittering things one might expect. These creatures, Veilgnaws, were eerily intelligent, their bodies wreathed in thin, wispy tendrils that allowed them to slip through impossibly small spaces. Their eyes, lidless and violet, reflected too much light, always seeming to watch, always aware. More than mere pests, Veilgnaws were rumored to be something else—not quite natural, not quite spirit, something caught between the weave of this world and the next. They whispered. Scratched symbols into wood with clawed feet. Left offerings of bone and silver in corners as if bargaining for their place among the living.

And Kylas hated them.

Not because they were pests, but because they seemed to understand something he didn't. Something about the world. Something about him.

And maybe that was why, as he reached the threshold of his home, his eyes lifted—drawn, as always, to the vast black sphere that hovered in the sky.

It had always been there.

A massive, unshifting void against the endless sunlit expanse of Nyxhelm sky. It did not move, did not stir, did not pulse with energy or light. It simply was. And no one knew why.

Even the gods and goddesses who ruled over the Ten Kingdoms—those ancient, celestial beings who had claimed it as their origin. "We are from the Sphere," they had declared, and that was all they had ever given as an answer.

But the Sphere?

The Sphere was real.

And every time he looked at it, something deep inside him stirred. Not fear. Not awe. Something familiar. Something he refused to name, because he couldn't. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose before stepping inside the wooden house—

And immediately froze.

So did Gunthr and Zedlock.

There, sitting at his table with an air of effortless grace, was a fox-kin woman.

'Whoa…she's…' Kylas thoughts trailed off.

She was elegance incarnate, her long, flowing black hair cascading in subtle waves that framed her sharp yet breathtakingly refined face. Her deep red eyes, vivid and burning with an intensity unlike anything he had ever seen, pierced through him with unsettling precision. They were framed by thick, dark lashes, making their glow seem even more unnatural, even more otherworldly.

An intricate red tattoo, composed of ancient, curling symbols, adorned the center of her forehead, stretching toward her temples in a way that only amplified her regal, untouchable presence. Similar tribal markings, curling like bloodstained poetry, traced across her collarbone and upper chest, peeking out from beneath the fabric of her robe.

Her wolf ears, covered in soft black fur with striking white tufts at the inner edges, twitched as if reacting to the very sound of his presence. They stood tall, poised, alert—a silent declaration that she was not someone to be underestimated.

Her robe, flowing and pristine white, was embroidered with black and crimson patterns, each stroke of the design hinting at some forgotten art. The long, billowing sleeves draped elegantly as she moved, yet the tailored fit of the robe around her waist, cinched with a delicately woven sash, gave her the unmistakable presence of someone battle-ready, despite her composed demeanor.

She looked over at Kylas, thinking, 'Ugh. That's him.'

Kylas blinked.

His brain stuttered. His face heated, his mouth opened—but for once in his life, no words came.

And the woman?

The woman simply sighed, looking around the room with barely concealed judgment.

"What an absolute disaster," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she picked up a stack of books from the table and shuffled them into a neater pile. "How do you live in such disarray? There's dust everywhere, these items are completely misplaced, and there are at least three weapons lying in completely impractical locations."

Kylas pointed at her, his face reddening further. "Y-You—You can't be here! I'm dangerous!"

She didn't even look at him. "I can, and I am. And you don't seem very dangerous. Villains at least don't hoard shit like old people."

"No, you can't! This is—This is my house! You—You can't just walk in here and start touching my stuff!"

Her red eyes flickered toward him, unimpressed. "You don't tell me what to do. Do you know who I am?"

Kylas scowled, his embarrassment boiling into frustration. "Oh yeah? And who are you?"

For the first time, she paused, then met his gaze fully.

"Seraph," she said, her voice like silk over steel. "And I am forced to be your maiden."

Kylas stared. "…You're what?"

Seraph sniffed, continuing her work. "Not by choice, obviously. I have no interest in humans. I find them—" she paused, eyeing a particularly offensive mess of parchment and tools on a nearby shelf before scoffing, "—disorganized."

Kylas scowled, rushing forward as she moved a carefully placed knife from the table. "Hey—Hey! That goes there—"

"No, it doesn't," she retorted, placing it somewhere else.

Kylas pointed. "Yes, it does."

"No," Seraph countered smoothly, "it truly, truly does not."

Gunthr and Zedlock, watching this exchange like a silent tennis match, gestured dramatically at each other, mimicking exaggerated bickering, before throwing up their hands in mock defeat.

Then, it happened.

Kylas reached forward—just a simple motion, an instinctual reaction to grab something before she moved it again—

And his fingertips brushed against her wrist.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Seraph froze.

Her ears twitched sharply, her right eye visibly twitching. 

"A human…touched me…?"

She moved quick, Her palm slammed into his chest—And Kylas went flying. 

He crashed through the wooden wall like a cannonball, planks splintering as he rolled across the ground in a heap of limbs, dirt, and absolute disbelief.

For a moment, he lay there, staring up at the sky.

"No way she just did that…"

Then, in a smooth motion, he flipped onto his feet, dusting himself off with a deadpan expression.

Gunthr and Zedlock immediately lunged forward.

Gunthr's entire arm shifted, black and gold plates twisting into place as a massive, flaming wrecking ball formed at the end of a thick, segmented chain. The surface of the sphere was covered in gnarled spikes, each one pulsing with molten veins, the entire thing wreathed in black and gold fire as he swung it with terrifying ease.

Zedlock, by contrast, unleashed his weapon in a flash of black steel—a three-sided, bladed sword, each edge curving into serrated points that pulsed with liquid gold energy. The weapon seemed to shimmer, its very presence bending the light around it as if warping reality itself.

They lunged at Seraph, closing in fast—

And for the first time, her elegance cracked.

A wide, manic grin split across her face.

The world erupted.

Gunthr soared, the golden flames swirling around his wrecking ball igniting in a titanic burst, searing the air with heat as he swung it in a devastating arc. The sheer force of it fractured the ground beneath him, the weapon moving like a comet of destruction, its molten veins pulsing with explosive energy.

But Seraph was already in motion.

She twisted—her body gliding with effortless grace, her white robe billowing as she spun midair, the wrecking ball shaving past her by a hair's breadth. She landed seamlessly, one palm brushing the dirt, and with a whisper of movement, she vanished.

Gunthr reacted instantly.

He wrenched his weapon back, the golden chain screaming as it recoiled. The moment it returned, he whipped it forward again in a brutal crescent sweep, the flaming ball carving a gouge through the earth as it chased Seraph like a vengeful beast.

She didn't retreat.

She advanced.

Seraph vaulted over the wrecking ball, her fingers skimming the flames as she somersaulted toward Gunthr—

And then, in a blur of motion, she was inside his guard.

Her palm slammed into his breastplate, cracking the metal with an earth-shaking impact. The force sent Gunthr skidding back, his massive frame carving trenches into the dirt. His armor groaned, the plates buckling slightly where she had struck—

But Zedlock was already there.

He descended like a shadow, his three-sided sword cleaving downward, its edges singing with liquid gold fire.

Seraph's head tilted, her red eyes gleaming—and she parried with her bare hand.

A single graceful movement, and the entire force of Zedlock's strike collapsed against her open palm. Sparks cascaded in all directions as her fingers brushed the burning blade aside, the motion effortless, deliberate—

And then she retaliated.

Her foot slammed into Zedlock's chest like a cannon shot, sending him spiraling through the air.

Gunthr lunged forward, his wrecking ball igniting into a raging inferno, his armored boots shattering the earth as he charged. He swung in a ferocious, unrelenting flurry, the weapon whipping in arcs so fast the air combusted around it. Each impact was cataclysmic, titanic, a maelstrom of destruction—

And yet, Seraph danced through it.

She weaved, her body bending impossibly, her feet barely touching the ground as she spun, somersaulted, arched away from every strike. She moved like flowing silk, her movements eerily precise, her grin never fading—

And then, mid-spin, she palmed Gunthr's incoming wrecking ball.

A shockwave detonated.

The flames collapsed, the sheer force of the impact splintering the air—

And in the same breath, she redirected the wrecking ball's momentum, swinging it back toward Gunthr himself.

Gunthr jerked to the side, barely avoiding his own weapon, the shockwave hurling him away—

But Zedlock was back.

The knight descended from above, his flaming three-sided sword twisting midair as he brought it down in a devastating, triple-slash sequence, each strike blurring into the next, forming a shimmering whirlwind of death.

Seraph grinned wider, and she caught his wrist mid-strike.

Then she wrenched him downward—

And drove her elbow into his armored helm, denting the metal with an ear-splitting boom.

Zedlock crashed into the ground, but before Seraph could finish, Gunthr retaliated, swinging his wrecking ball in a devastating downward smash—

Seraph twisted, catching herself on one hand, her leg whipping out in a brutal axe-kick.

The wrecking ball shattered against her foot.

Golden flames erupted, the explosion igniting the battlefield—

And suddenly, Kylas shrieked from the sidelines, frantically batting away debris before it could hit his precious garden.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!—WATCH THE DAMN FLOWERS, YOU PSYCHOS!!"

'Gunthr and Zedlock can't die, so I'm not worried about them really losing. But my garden?! I can't let anything taint it, I worked too hard on it. And it's all I really have. Who the hell is this woman? What even is she? Fox-like ears, a bushy tail…never heard of that kind of race. Can't deny though, she's good looking even for an evil bitch.'

Gunthr and Zedlock ignored him.

Seraph's grin widened. Her red tattoos glowed, her eyes burning with spiraling light—

And then, her form blurred.

A colossal pulse of power rocketed outward, the very air twisting violently as her body changed.

"Maybe I should show you all who I really am. Since you wanna be rude."

Kylas screeched like a girl from a distance, "HOW WERE WE RUDE?!"

"You simply touched me."

Her elegant silhouette dissolved, her shape expanding, shifting, as golden runes swirled around her in celestial patterns. Her robe disintegrated into white fire, her arms elongating, her figure warping into something far beyond human—

And in her place, a massive white fox stood.

Four tails coiled behind her, their fur cascading like divine silk, each one flickering with celestial fire. Her spiraling yellow, red, and black eyes burned like miniature suns, her curved red horns glowing with an ancient, ominous power. A golden halo materialized above her head, its light ethereal, warping the very air around it.

The earth cracked beneath her weight, the sheer pressure of her presence sending shockwaves through the battlefield.

Gunthr and Zedlock steeled themselves, preparing for the true fight to begin—

But then.

Out of nowhere.

Kylas said in shock, "What the…Okay… she can transform…"

'I can't use whatever power I have sealed anyway, so I'm defenseless until it's taken off of me. What if she really tries to kill us…? Would I let it all end for nothing? Not when I haven't even been able to leave this cursed garden?'

Kylas—still pissed about his garden—had casually reached out and grabbed her tail.

'I gotta calm her down! Maybe this..'

A dead silence fell over the battlefield.

Seraph's entire massive fox form stiffened.

Her ears twitched.

And then—

She yelped.

Not a ferocious, godlike roar.

Not an earth-shattering, divine howl.

A sharp, high-pitched, yelp.

Her entire form exploded back into her humanoid shape, her white robe reforming, her red tattoos still glowing—

And then she spun, her face bright red, and in the blink of an eye, she had Kylas by the throat.

"NEVER DO THAT AGAIN."

Kylas, now dangling several inches off the ground, just grinned, despite the fact that she was visibly fuming.

"You're embarrassed," he drawled, eyes half-lidded. "You totally just—I really didn't think it would work. I just tugged it trying to get your attention."

She squeezed his throat harder, her face still red.

"SILENCE."

"Strange. I don't feel pain from you, but I can feel pain from other things." Kylas noticed.

Gunthr and Zedlock gestured dramatically, clearly laughing without making a single sound.

Kylas continued, "What do you want with me? And why are really here?"

Seraph glared at him, her fingers tightening for a moment—

Then, with a scoff, she dropped him.

He hit the ground with a grunt, rubbing his neck.

Seraph dusted herself off, her red eyes piercing as she looked down at him.

"I told you already," she said, her voice smooth, unyielding.

"I am from the Sphere. That giant thing in the sky."

She folded her arms, tilting her head slightly. "And, whether I like it or not—" she sighed, closing her eyes, before looking at him with undeniable finality— "I will be your maiden."