The bells of the Human Realm tolled at dawn, not to welcome the sun but to announce the arrival of their new sovereign in all but name. The sky itself seemed to darken as the sound rolled across cities, mountains, and fields, summoning nobles and peasants alike to the temples.
At the heart of the capital, beneath a dome carved with constellations long extinct, stood Azeriel.
He was neither god nor man, yet the kings bowed lower than any vassal before him. His presence was thunder caged in flesh — tall, cloaked in black so deep it drank the light, with eyes that shimmered like burning coals under stormwater. When he spoke, it was not a voice but an edict carved into the marrow of those who heard him.
"Rise, children of dust," Azeriel said, his words rolling like a tide across the temple floor. "The time of your division has ended. The oracle speaks: the world trembles because of her."
The priests, already kneeling in rows, lifted their hands and echoed him, their chants weaving his words into the air until the sound became an atmosphere, dense and suffocating.
"The Spirit Princess," Azeriel continued, his gaze sweeping the assembly like a blade. "Born of endless mana. Crown of your fears. She is not blessing — she is curse. Her blood unravels balance, her power devours harmony. The realms fracture because of her. And you… you will be the ones to bind her."
Murmurs rose like wind in tall grass, fear mixing with fervor. One of the kings — an older man draped in gold-trimmed velvet — dared to lift his head.
"My lord Azeriel," he said, voice trembling but striving for steadiness, "you speak of the Spirit Princess as curse… yet the spirits have long claimed her as their heir. Do you mean to oppose their claim?"
Azeriel smiled. It was not warmth but the tightening of a predator's jaw before the strike.
"The spirits?" His laugh was a ripple of thunder. "The spirits are children playing with fire. They do not see the blaze they have unleashed. She is not heir — she is a weapon, untamed, blind, bleeding imbalance into creation. And what is a weapon, kings of men?"
The question hung like a dagger in the silence. Then Azeriel himself answered, his voice a lash of certainty:
"A weapon is forged. A weapon is wielded. A weapon is owned."
The priests erupted, their chants rising higher, their bodies swaying as though seized by unseen winds. The kings exchanged glances — some pale, some eager — but none could deny the truth Azeriel planted in their hearts like iron seeds.
He stepped forward, arms lifting as if to embrace the horizon itself.
"Wash her memories," he declared. "Strip her of self. Bind her with chains not of iron, but of belief. Make her forget she was ever sovereign. In her emptiness, carve purpose. And in her purpose, carve dominion. With her, the Spirit Realm will bow. With her, the Beast Realm will kneel. And mankind—" his smile cut like glass "—mankind will lead."
The amphitheater shook with the roar of voices. Kings lifted their swords in salute, priests wept in ecstasy, commoners outside pressed their foreheads to the stones, whispering prayers to a figure who was no god but had stolen their worship all the same.
From the shadows of the colonnade, Azeriel watched the fever spread, and his eyes glowed brighter. He did not need their love. He needed only their devotion, their fear, their hatred — all the raw, unrefined emotions that fed his dominion. And if Illyria, the Spirit Princess, was the vessel that could yield them all in one perfect torrent, then she would be his masterpiece.
---
Far away, across the veil of realms, the Beast Kingdom lay restless.
The skies there burned softer, tinted in hues of twilight even at noon. The winds carried whispers of beasts unsettled, of mountains trembling in their sleep. At the heart of the royal citadel, Seraphine stood on a balcony carved into the stone of an ancient dragon's skull. Her hand tightened around a jewel — half her mana crystallized, gifted to Illyria long ago.
She lifted it now, the gemstone catching the dim light, refracting it into shards across her face.
"Illyria…" her voice broke into the air, hushed and aching. "Where are you now?"
Her sister, Valerina, entered the chamber behind her. Draped in armor gilded with obsidian scales, Valerina was the image of command — younger than Seraphine, yet with a fire that had kept the kingdom intact during her sister's long yearning.
"You cannot let yourself be consumed like this," Valerina said, her tone sharp, though not unkind. "The gate has not opened in years. The order has been broken since the Spirit Realm fell. Thinking of her will not bring her back."
Seraphine turned, her eyes blazing though damp with longing.
"Do you think I do not know that? Do you think I have not tried to let her go? But every breath, every beat of my heart, is bound to her. This jewel—" she lifted it, and the light pulsed faintly, as if answering "—is half of me. Half my mana, half my soul. She carries it still. And if she suffers, I feel it. If she is chained, I am bound."
Valerina's sternness faltered. For a heartbeat, silence lay between them, filled only by the low rumble of distant beasts.
"You love her still," Valerina murmured.
"I will always love her," Seraphine whispered. "Even if the world calls her curse. Even if they forge her into something unrecognizable. I would still know her. I would still choose her."
Valerina clenched her fists, the metal of her gauntlets groaning. "Then we must prepare. If Azeriel moves to claim her, he will not stop at the Spirit Realm. He will come for us, too. For you."
Seraphine's eyes hardened, though grief still lined her face. She turned back to the horizon, clutching the jewel. "Let him come. If the world seeks to bind her, then I will tear the world apart."
---
Back in the Human Realm, Azeriel stood alone after the council had dispersed. The amphitheater lay silent, but its silence was not emptiness — it was echo, filled with the residue of voices, prayers, and fear.
He lifted his hand, and shadows crawled across his palm like liquid serpents. In the reflection of the marble floor, he did not see himself but Illyria — bound, broken, hollow-eyed. He smiled.
"Yes," he murmured. "You will be my crown. The jewel of all I have wrought. Not beloved, not adored — possessed. Entire. And through you, I shall drink every last thread of creation's grief, joy, rage, and love."
"Illyria… the jewel of the Spirit Hall, the child of order, heir of the forgotten bloodlines. To the world, you are their hope. To your people, you are their savior. To me… you are hunger made flesh.
Do you think you shine because of your purity? No. It is because your soul is an uncut diamond, and I, Azeriel, am the only one with hands sharp enough to carve it. Every whisper of grief you bury, every yearning you hide, every tender glance you cast toward that beast girl… I see it. I taste it. I savor it like the finest wine."
He leaned forward, voice low, yet resonant with something serpentine and enthralling.
"You breathe like prey, Illyria, though you pretend to be a queen. You clutch at your jewel of borrowed mana, gazing into it as if it will shield you. But I know. Deep down, you are already fraying at the seams. A creature stitched together with duty and longing. And when you break—oh, when you break—it will not be gentle. It will be exquisite. It will be mine."
A faint smile curved his lips, not warm but merciless, the kind of smile a hunter wears when the stag limps.
"What do mortals know of desire? Their wants are shallow, their lusts fleeting. But I… I crave not your body, nor even your crown. I crave the storm inside you. The tempest of memories, the anguish of loss, the fire of loyalty you chain yourself to. That is what I will consume. Piece by piece, until nothing remains but a husk that answers only to my will. And in that ruin, in that hollow shell, I shall craft a masterpiece. The world will kneel before it—not because it is strong, but because it is broken beautifully."
He straightened, voice booming now, as though addressing gods and mortals alike.
"Do you hear me, Illyria? You are no curse, no blessing. You are a vessel. And when I hollow you out, when I pour my will into your empty core, you shall become the instrument by which this fragile balance shatters. Spirit, Beast, Human—all realms will kneel beneath the perfection of my creation. And at its heart will be you… the princess who thought herself untouchable."
He let silence stretch, only the sound of his own breath, like the rustle of burning parchment. Then softer, almost tender, but cruel in its intimacy:
"I do not love you, Illyria. Do not soil the word by imagining so. What I feel is higher, older, purer. It is obsession honed into an art. It is hunger refined into worship. And when you scream—whether in agony, or in silence—I will listen. I will drink it. And I will finally be satisfied."
The shadows recoiled back into him, and his cloak flared as though alive. The storm he carried was only beginning.
---
And in the quiet halls of the Spirit Realm's remnants, a figure stirred.
Kaelira, the guard who once guarded Illyria, stood before a circle of fading runes. Her gaze lingered on the empty throne where the Spirit Princess had once laughed, once ruled, once wept.
She closed her eyes.
"Seclusion," Kaelira whispered, her voice like wind through abandoned halls. "She is in seclusion. Hiding, healing… or perhaps breaking. And while she hides, the world shifts. Azeriel moves. Seraphine waits."
Her hand hovered over the rune-carved throne.
"But you, Illyria… you must rise. Or the crown they forge will not be yours — it will be your cage."
The runes flickered, as if in answer, and then dimmed again.