The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 151: Giving up on his son.

Chapter 151: Giving up on his son.

Kai hugged his distressed wife tightly.

"Just calm down. I’ll summon Azrael," he murmured against her hair.

Only then did Ren release a shaky breath.

When Kai pulled back from their warm embrace, Ren immediately sensed Azrael’s presence nearby.

"Why did you call me, brother?" Azrael asked lightly. "Another wish that must be granted?"

He stood by the open window, where the lazy wind carried the first scent of rain. The sky would be fierce tonight.

"How much do you know about the immortal weapon Lutherieth is keeping in Deagara?" Kai asked.

Azrael’s brows lifted in mild surprise. "What weapon?"

"A spike made from the Tree of Life," Ren said, her voice tightening. She frowned, her heart sinking, her stomach twisting into knots. He was surprised. "And what do you mean, you don’t know?"

"When I left, there was no such thing," Azrael answered. "And after escorting Niemoieth’s husband to the Underworld, I never returned."

The couple exchanged a dangerous glance.

"Could it be a trap?" Ren whispered, desperation threading her voice.

"For goodness’ sake, tell me what’s going on here! You summon me just to speak in riddles?" Azrael objected, his voice sharp with impatience.

"Fine, look," Kai said, his tone darkening. "We saved a human girl who turned out to be a spy. She was being deceived by Victor Keleemont. The bastard took the girl..."

Kai quickly laid out everything they knew, and Azrael tilted his head, processing it.

"A trap? It doesn’t sound like one," Azrael muttered. "I’ll take a look. I’ll be back soon."

With that, he vanished.

~*~

Deagara—the City of Saints—lay frozen in time.

It had been long since Azrael last set foot here. This was his birthplace, the soil where he had witnessed things few souls could bear.

Did he like it here?

No. He hated it.

But to understand what his brother was about to unleash, he had to look.

Little did they know about his plans- no portal to the Underworld was needed. Dark, berserk souls had already been set loose, crawling into this world and if he was up to open a way for them, Az had to chain Luther.

The winds howled, whipping snowflakes through the broken streets.

Azrael’s gaze fell on a crumbling wall, and a wave of savage memories crashed through his mind. Screams echoed, and wild vampires attacked people, a massacre that time had never seen.

He pressed forward toward the frozen castle, now buried beneath a thick, merciless veil of snow, nothing like the vibrant gardens he once ran through as a child. It was no sanctuary now.

It was a frozen hell.

His eyes flickered toward the countless vampires lurking around the ruins.

He passed by them without a whisper of notice, these walking corpses couldn’t see him.

Striding toward the throne hall, the place Kai had described, Azrael caught sight of it, and his eyes narrowed.

The wooden spike hovered midair, roughly the length of his forearm, surrounded by shimmering golden sparks of life.

The human girl hadn’t lied.

Around the spike, the snow had melted away, leaving a clean, warm circle in the otherwise frozen wasteland. A strange, gentle warmth radiated from it, as if the Tree itself still breathed within the wood.

Azrael stepped closer.

The moment he was to cross the line and enter the circle, a surge of energy struck him, making him gasp.

He reached out instinctively, only for his palm to slam against an invisible barrier. The touch seared his skin.

Hissing, Azrael yanked his hand back and scowled.

Who had placed this here?

The Fae, King Xakiel? He doubted it.

Leaving the throne hall, he made his way to the courtyard. There, he found a damaged stone slate half-buried in the snow.

He knelt, studying it, and his breath caught.

"Damn," he muttered. "This was Dragon Stone, only found in the Fourth Realm of Heaven. But how...? Did a Saint help the humans?"

He turned the broken slab over, and his suspicion hardened into certainty.

One of the Saints had aided humankind in the ancient wars.

Someone who had refused to kneel before Niemoieth. And that human... Gods.

It was him. The first King of Alvonia, King Alvone, the same man later crushed by the D’Orient House.

Azrael’s hands trembled as he vanished, taking the broken slate with him.

The gods had interfered in the war against Niemoieth, how could he have doubted it? Perhaps they had allowed humanity to win and he wasn’t there to witness.

When the Fae King withdrew from the mortal world, humans had been left vulnerable, left to beg the gods for mercy.

Niemoieth had fallen, but the abominations she created, the monstrous armies she unleashed, still roamed the human realms and still spilled blood.

Reneira had been right all along.

That small, unassuming piece of wood in the throne hall was an immortal weapon, though it hardly looked the part.

It was the weapon the gods had used to destroy Niemoieth, and somehow, the humans had found it.

But the worst part, the part that made Azrael’s blood run cold, was what the weapon truly did.

An immortal weapon did not burn a soul.

It shattered the mortal body and imprisoned the spirit, trapping it in an endless half-life.

Which meant...

Niemoieth’s spirit was still alive. A violent shudder raked down his spine.

Azrael could still taste the iron sting of her whip across his back, the wounds that had never healed, neither in flesh nor in spirit.

Instead of returning to Alvonia’s castle, Azrael reappeared in the Hall of Mirrors.

Inside, his father was speaking with a limp red demon, its yellow eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light.

"You can leave," the Demon God said, dismissing the creature with a flick of his hand.

The demon, a servant of darkness, wagged its long, pointed tail once before slinking away.

Azrael approached, extending the broken slate toward his father.

"What is this?" he demanded.

The Demon God barely spared it a glance, as if he’d already known.

"A ruined fragment of unwritten history," he said coolly.

Azrael rarely lost his temper, but rage clawed at him now.

That weapon—the spike—was still active. It could even kill him.

And it was now in Lutherieth’s hands, which made it infinitely more dangerous.

Azrael clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out. He, too, was high on Lutherieth’s list of enemies, second only to Kai.

"I didn’t know the Spike was still in the mortal world," the Demon God continued, almost lazily. "I assumed it burned with Niemoieth’s body."

The light in Azrael’s eyes dimmed. So he had known.

All this time, he had known that Niemoieth’s spirit had not perished, only imprisoned.

"How could you let Lutherieth have it?"

Azrael’s voice rose in a rare outburst, but before he could say more, his father slammed his staff onto the floor.

The crack of impact echoed through the darkness, and the light crystals overhead shattered, raining sharp shards around them.

Azrael winced, feeling the sting of his own reckless defiance.

He had disrespected his father on purpose, and he knew the price.

"Raise your voice at me again," the Demon God growled, "and I’ll be the one to lock you out."

Azrael swallowed hard. His father knew exactly where to strike.

His weakness.

"Just help us," Az pleaded, lowering his voice. "Please."

"I can’t," the Demon God said coldly. "That weapon is beyond my reach. Only celestials, or a pure human with an untainted heart, can wield it. King Alvone was one such soul. Heavens claimed him the moment he died, never even allowing his spirit to brush the edges of the Underworld."

He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes.

"Perhaps," he said, "you can find someone carrying his blood. Someone innocent enough to wield the Spike again. Or someone who hates demons."

Hate? Wasn’t it a bad trait? Damn, this weapon might have other ways to be moved otherwise how Luther brought it to Deagara.

Azrael’s heart twisted.

Gods, did his father understand how impossible that task would be? Tracing a bloodline through centuries of war, betrayal, and darkness?

Yet even as despair gnawed at him, a thought sparked, an idea so dangerous he dared not speak it aloud.

For now, he kept it buried deep within him. Kai was the only one he trusted with a secret like this.

"Maybe I must give up on my son,"

The Demon God confessed, his voice colder than the void itself.

Azrael froze.

This wasn’t just a statement.

It was an order.

And not from any being, but from the god of the Underworld himself.

"You mean... we stab Luther?" Azrael asked, his voice low.

The King didn’t answer.

But he didn’t have to. Azrael was sharp enough to read the unspoken truth.

King Axaxeal, ruler of the Underworld, had given his wayward son more chances than he deserved.

Yet Luther’s reckless ambition now threatened to ignite a war between the heavens and the underworld, at a time when the mortal world was not ready to fall.

The end had not yet come.

And they could not let it come too soon.

Without another word, Azrael vanished into the shadows.

He had to find out how Luther had laid his hands on the Spike...

The weapon that should have been buried far from Deagara, hidden where Nimoieth had fallen to King Alvone’s immortal weapon.

And how the hell could he find someone with that blood? Someone who would be willing to step in the Devil’s mouth. A colony full of vampires! You must be a fool to jump into such a trap.

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