The kingdom of Eldoria had always feared the mountain.
Blackspire Peak rose like a jagged tooth against the sky, wrapped in smoke and whispered legends. It was said that beneath its molten heart lived the Devil King — ruler of the Underrealm, master of fire, and collector of debts.
Princess Elara had grown up hearing his name spoken only in trembling tones.
But now she was to marry him.
The war had lasted seven years. Crops burned. Rivers turned red. Entire villages vanished overnight. No army could defeat the creatures that poured from the mountain's shadow. At last, the Devil King sent his terms:
A royal bride in exchange for peace.
Elara volunteered before her father could finish reading the parchment.
She stood now in a gown the color of moonlight, its silk trembling like her hands. The courtyard of Blackspire was carved from obsidian. Torches burned with blue fire, casting unnatural light over stone gargoyles and silent armored sentinels.
The gates opened with a groan like a wounded beast.
And he stepped forward.
The Devil King was taller than any man she had seen. His hair fell like dark ink past his shoulders, and faint crimson light glowed beneath his skin, as though embers lived inside him. A crown of black iron rested upon his brow, shaped like curling horns. His eyes — molten gold.
Elara forced herself not to look away.
"You came willingly," he said. His voice was deep, edged with something ancient.
"Yes."
"You understand what this means?"
"It means my people will live."
He studied her for a long moment. No warmth. No cruelty either.
"Then let the pact be sealed."
The ceremony was brief. No priests. No blessings. Only blood.
He cut his palm with a blade of flame and extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Elara did the same. Their blood touched, hissed, and vanished in smoke.
The mountain trembled.
And just like that, she became Queen of the Underrealm.