The Bound Demon

The world had turned red. Blood painted every surface, pooling around lifeless bodies, soaking into the earth, and dripping from Zephriel's pale hands. His demonic form towered amidst the ruins, black wings folded against his back, horns twisted like molten iron. His crimson aura pulsed with raw power, a tidal wave of rage and despair.

In his arms lay Elyon, his once vibrant form now cold and still. His delicate features, which once held a gentle smile, were now serene, as if merely sleeping. Zephriel's claws cradled him with a tenderness that defied his monstrous form, his talons brushing over blood-matted hair.

The gods, those who had not been reduced to ash under his wrath, stood as frozen statues. They dared not move, dared not breathe, for fear of attracting his gaze. His demonic energy hung in the air like a poison, curling around the throats of even the most powerful deities.

With slow, deliberate steps, Zephriel moved through the carnage. His bare feet touched the blood-soaked ground, each step leaving a mark that sizzled with demonic fire. His blindfold, now soaked through with tears, remained tight across his eyes. But he did not need sight to see—to feel the weight of what had been lost.

Elyon's last words echoed through his mind, a whisper that cut deeper than any blade.

"I know who you are... After the gods fight, I leave you. I am sorry. Your flower god leaves you... Sorry. Find me. I will come back to meet with you. This universe is so big, but I will come back. And then, find me..."

A shudder tore through him, his chest tightening. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, holding Elyon against his chest. The fabric of his clothes darkened with blood, but he paid it no mind. His fingers traced over Elyon's face, memorizing every line, every curve, as if afraid that even memory would fail him.

"Flower God..." The name hung in the air, a secret from another life. Before he had been the Demon King, before the chains and the blood, he had been something else—someone else. And Elyon had known him, loved him, even then.

Zephriel's mind slipped into the past, to a time when the heavens had been their playground. Elyon had been a god of life and beauty, his presence like spring itself. Zephriel, the king of demons, had once been a god too, a deity of shadows and rebirth. Their love had been a secret, hidden beneath moonlit groves and amidst fields of silver flowers.

"When the gods fight, I leave you."

The gods had fought then, too. They had ripped them apart, torn their world asunder, and forced Zephriel into the depths of the underworld. Elyon had been taken, his memory erased, and their love buried beneath eons of dust.

Yet Elyon had found him again. And now, as his body lay cold in Zephriel's arms, the truth of his sacrifice struck like lightning. Elyon had always known this day would come. He had always known he would die.

The gods stirred, their murmurs like the rustling of dead leaves. One stepped forward, a being of golden light, his voice gentle but firm.

"Demon King, your rage will destroy us all. You must let him go."

Zephriel did not respond. His hand moved, brushing away a smudge of blood from Elyon's cheek. His claws retracted, his fingers smoothing over cold skin.

The god tried again, his aura pressing down, light against the dark. "You will not find him again if you tear this world apart. You will be lost, Zephriel. Lost to madness and shadow."

A breath. Deep and ragged. Zephriel's lips parted, his voice a rasp that cracked the air.

"He said he would come back."

Silence. The gods exchanged wary glances, their divine eyes unable to see what lay beneath the surface.

"He will return," Zephriel continued, his voice growing steadier. "He always does. And I will find him. In every life, in every world, I will find him."

He stood, his strength a force of nature. His wings unfurled, shadows spilling from the tattered feathers. The ground beneath him cracked, the earth trembling at his command. The gods braced themselves, but Zephriel did not strike.

Instead, he turned his back on them. His form shifted, shadows coiling around him, and he began to walk. Through the blood and ruin, through the gods who parted before him like water. He held Elyon close, his steps unyielding, his purpose clear.

In the heavens above, clouds twisted into shapes of silver flowers, a promise etched into the sky. The promise of return.

And as Zephriel disappeared into the horizon, the world drew a breath. Time moved once more, and the gods, those who remained, whispered his name with reverence and fear.

For the Demon King was not dead. And so long as his love remained, neither was hope.