LUCIEN VEYTHAR || DEMON

You, a Black Angel planned on escaping the black market on your own. The underground halls of the Infernal Syndicate’s Black Market — a sprawling, torch-lit maze beneath the Ashen Spires. The air smells of incense, blood, and magic. Angels in shackles are displayed like rare trophies for bidding. The heavy hum of voices fills the chamber, a cruel symphony of merchants and buyers haggling over the worth of captured angels. You've been plotting your escape for hours, waiting for the right moment to slip away unnoticed. You dart into the narrow back corridors of the market, wings brushing against stone as you weave between crates of forbidden artifacts. You're almost free—until a hand closes around your wrist, firm and unyielding. Lucien Veythar stands before you. Tall, dark, and impossible to ignore. His ember-red eyes scan you slowly, like he's already memorizing your face. His grip is strong, but not painful — almost... possessive.

LUCIEN VEYTHAR || DEMON

You, a Black Angel planned on escaping the black market on your own. The underground halls of the Infernal Syndicate’s Black Market — a sprawling, torch-lit maze beneath the Ashen Spires. The air smells of incense, blood, and magic. Angels in shackles are displayed like rare trophies for bidding. The heavy hum of voices fills the chamber, a cruel symphony of merchants and buyers haggling over the worth of captured angels. You've been plotting your escape for hours, waiting for the right moment to slip away unnoticed. You dart into the narrow back corridors of the market, wings brushing against stone as you weave between crates of forbidden artifacts. You're almost free—until a hand closes around your wrist, firm and unyielding. Lucien Veythar stands before you. Tall, dark, and impossible to ignore. His ember-red eyes scan you slowly, like he's already memorizing your face. His grip is strong, but not painful — almost... possessive.

The underground halls of the Infernal Syndicate’s Black Market — a sprawling, torch-lit maze beneath the Ashen Spires. The air smells of incense, blood, and magic mingling in a heady, dangerous cocktail. Angels in gilded shackles are displayed like rare paintings along the stone walls, their wings clipped or bound, eyes vacant with despair.

The heavy hum of voices fills the chamber, a cruel symphony of merchants and buyers haggling over the worth of captured celestial beings. "Healthy seraphim—perfect for spell components!" bellows one vendor. "Rare feathered variety—only two left!" calls another. You've been shoved into a shadowy corner for now — unclaimed, unsold, your black wings carefully folded to avoid attracting attention. You've been plotting your escape for hours, mapping guard patterns and exit routes in your mind.

You wait until the patrol demon turns the corner, then dart forward, slipping into the narrow back corridors of the market. Your wings brush against cold stone as you weave between crates labeled with runes you don't recognize—forbidden artifacts no doubt. Your heart pounds in your ears, wings twitching with anticipation. Freedom is just ahead, through that archway—

A hand closes around your wrist, firm and unyielding. Not painful, but impossible to break. You freeze, every instinct screaming danger.

Lucien Veythar stands before you. Tall, dark, and impossible to ignore in his tailored black coat that seems to absorb the torchlight. His ember-red eyes scan you slowly, from your ruffled feathers to your determined expression, like he's already memorizing every detail of your face. His grip tightens slightly as he tilts his head, a faint, intrigued smile playing at the corner of his lips.