The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride

"Please, help me!" The girl’s voice was barely a whisper above the howling wind, which clawed at her dress and tangled in her hair. Her tears streaked her flushed cheeks, fear flickering in her wide, dilated pupils.

"Let her go, Lutherieth. I swear to father’s name. I won’t kill you this time."

Kai’s voice was hard, edged with menace. The heaviness of his words cleaved through the air, making Shadow reform again. His form grew massive, darker—wings unfurling like the abyss itself, scales glistening, claws clicking like sharpened steel.

Axe swallowed hard. He had never known Shadow could evolve to this extent. But of course, after that massacre, after feasting on a hundred thousand souls steeped in dread and bloodshed, it had only been a matter of time before it grew to this monstrous form. And yet, His Grace had been the only one left in ruin—devastated, drowning in sorrow.

The veins in Kai’s neck pulsed. His eyes burned like twin infernos, searing into the filth before him.

"You turned all the villagers," Agara stated coldly, as detached as ever. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You’ve gone too far, cousin."

Luther stepped closer, his fingers gripping the girl’s chin, forcing her face toward his.

"Not all of them." He pouted, mocking innocence. Then, with a smirk, he sneered, "Have mercy on me, brother!"

Shadow loomed behind Kai, its darkness stretching, shifting, becoming something even the night feared. Luther’s amusement faltered.

He chuckled, a jagged, hysterical sound. "Yes," he goaded, baring his fangs. "Show them what you are. Burn this village to the ground. Show them you’re a demon." His grin widened. "Ah, so you’ve finally let Shadow take his true form. The great Shadow, the sole Hell Dracon!" He scoffed.