The morning light was a faint red, spilling through the tall windows of the Devil Palace. Lyra opened her eyes to the strange, unnatural calm that seemed to suffuse the halls. It was not peace. It was control—the kind that wrapped itself around her chest and made it hard to breathe if she allowed herself to feel too much.
She had barely slept. The night had been long, her thoughts restless, spinning with questions she was not yet ready to answer. She rose from the black silk sheets, her fingers brushing the edges as if grounding herself in something tangible. Every step she took across the polished obsidian floor echoed, a constant reminder that she was no longer in the familiar safety of her demon home. She was bound to a realm that demanded perfection, obedience, and vigilance—whether she was willing or not.
By the time she arrived at the training hall, the sun had barely begun to pierce the crimson clouds overhead. The hall itself was immense, stretching endlessly, with walls carved from black stone and floors polished smooth to the point of reflection. Runic symbols glimmered faintly along the walls, protective wards and binding sigils that whispered warnings to those who could read them. She could.
Lyra's fingers tingled as she traced the edge of one of the symbols without touching it. She had always been sensitive to magic, though her abilities had been carefully suppressed. Now, in the Devil Realm, she was beginning to feel the stirrings of her own bloodline again—the heat in her veins, the latent power waiting for her command.
A voice broke her thoughts.
"Lyra Vael."
She turned to see Azrael standing at the far end of the hall, his arms crossed, the faintest smirk on his lips. He was dressed in the black training robes of the Devil Heir, and every movement he made seemed deliberate, precise, a predator sizing up prey. His eyes, as dark as polished obsidian, followed her with a quiet intensity that made her chest tighten.
"Your first lesson begins today," he said simply. "You will learn to control your bloodline. You will learn the rules of this court. And you will learn that mistakes here are not tolerated."
Lyra's lips pressed together. "I am ready," she said, though her heart raced. Ready? she thought. Is anyone ever truly ready for this?
Azrael's smirk deepened, though it did not reach his eyes. "We shall see."
The first exercise was simple in theory: control. Her Bloodline's power had been sealed for a reason. But the moment she attempted to summon even the smallest spark, her energy flared unpredictably, licking the edges of the training hall like angry fire.
"Focus," Azrael commanded, his voice calm but absolute. "You are not a child to fumble with flames. You are the bride of the Devil Heir. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she said through gritted teeth, though her pulse pounded and sweat beaded along her hairline.
He stepped closer, moving like a shadow. "Let me see it."
Lyra exhaled sharply, forcing herself to calm her racing thoughts. She traced the circle of energy that had begun to form around her feet. A small flame pulsed, unstable but alive. She felt it respond to her fear, her frustration, and her will.
Azrael observed silently. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Better."
Better. The single word felt like both praise and warning. It was never enough, she realized. Nothing here would ever be enough unless she proved herself.
The training continued for hours. Lyra's muscles burned, her mind strained, and her bloodline pulsed with power she had not yet learned to control. Azrael watched, spoke rarely, and corrected her movements with precise, cold instructions. His presence was overwhelming, yet it was not oppressive. It was… measured. Protective, even, though she did not dare call it that.
By the time the first meal of the day arrived, she was exhausted but alive. She sat alone in the dining hall, the shadows stretching long as crimson light filtered through the tall windows. The food was unfamiliar but nourishing—meat roasted over flames she could not name, bread dark as night, and water that shimmered faintly as though it contained the essence of magic itself.
A group of devil nobles entered the hall, their laughter sharp, mocking. One of them, a young noblewoman with eyes like amber fire, approached her table.
"You're the demon bride, aren't you?" she said, voice dripping with disdain. "I hear you can barely control a spark."
Lyra met her gaze evenly. "I am learning."
The noblewoman laughed, low and cruel. "Learning? In this place, learning gets you killed. Perhaps you'll prove… interesting for the first day of your failure."
Lyra's fingers curled around the edge of her cup, but she did not respond. She had learned long ago that words were weapons, but so was silence.
Azrael appeared behind the noblewoman, tall, imposing, his presence like a wall pressing against them. His eyes flicked to Lyra, then to the woman. The air shifted, subtle but sharp.
"Perhaps you should be more careful with your words," he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. "Some mistakes here are… permanent."
The noblewoman's laughter died in her throat. She bowed her head subtly, retreating to her companions.
Lyra exhaled, though no one could see it. The weight of being watched, protected, and tested simultaneously was heavy.
Azrael stepped closer, just enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him without touching. "Do not misunderstand," he said quietly. "I do not protect you because I care. I protect you because I cannot allow you to die before you learn to stand. And because your Bloodline… is not something to be underestimated."
The words sent a shiver down her spine. Not because he was threatening her, but because he had spoken a truth that no one else had acknowledged. She could feel the heat of her own bloodline thrumming beneath her skin, awakening in response to his presence.
Training resumed after the meal, moving to more advanced exercises. Azrael taught her to manipulate energy through movement, through thought, through the unspoken connection between mind and magic. He was exacting, unyielding, and relentless. Each correction, each sharp word, forced her to push past her limits, to focus, to command her own power rather than allow it to flicker chaotically.
She failed often. And each time, Azrael would not step in—would not lift a hand to save her from mistakes. Only his eyes followed, unwavering, assessing, waiting.
By the end of the day, Lyra's arms ached, her muscles trembled, and her mind felt like it was on fire. But for the first time, she felt the stirrings of control. A small, fleeting spark, held steady, responding to her will instead of her fear.
Azrael did not speak as she knelt, exhausted, sweat and ash streaked across her skin. Instead, he simply nodded once, turned, and left the hall.
Lyra's breath caught. That single nod was more than praise. It was acknowledgment. Recognition. And, she realized with a pang, the faintest hint of respect.
The night fell quickly, and Lyra returned to her chambers, every step heavy with exhaustion and thought. She did not dare sit on the bed immediately. Instead, she stood by the window, looking out over the Devil Realm. The clouds had shifted, moving like silent predators over the horizon. The palaces and towers below shimmered faintly, glowing with the energy of countless devils moving in disciplined precision.
She felt small. Insignificant. And yet… powerful.
Her Bloodline pulsed again, faintly, as if sensing her awakening. She did not yet understand it fully, but she knew it was changing her. Strengthening her. And she could feel the faintest pull of Azrael's presence, even from across the palace.
It was frustrating. Infuriating. And… strangely comforting.
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms to her temples. She was far from safe. Far from in control. But for the first time, she believed she might survive. And perhaps, just perhaps, she might even learn to thrive.
Because in the Devil Realm, nothing came without cost. And Lyra Vael intended to pay hers on her own terms.