The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 211: Lillieth saved him.

Chapter 211: Lillieth saved him.

The energy burst was immediate, an invisible wave rippling out from the pillar, ruffling feathers, cloaks, and flame alike. The rings flared as if lit by lightning, and the sky above the platform darkened in a blink. A thick, roiling cloud punched through the air, descending like a claw from the heavens.

And then, silence. The rings vanished. The symbols blinked out. The blood stopped flowing. Something had answered.

The impact struck like a falling star.

Snow exploded outward in a ring of white fire, flurries whipped into the air as if the sky itself had gasped. Arkilla reacted instantly, shielding Ren with her body, her arms raised as shards of ice stung her skin. A deep hum echoed from the ground, a heartbeat of something ancient waking.

Principal Arcane stumbled back, his feet slipping in the frost. He raised his long black sleeves to shield his face, breath caught in his throat. Cold air rushed into his lungs like needles, each inhale tearing. It had been a thousand years since he last dared to perform this summoning, and now his magic core felt as if it had been cracked open and drained dry.

As the last flurry fell and the temple yard stilled, the wind died completely, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence. The torches flickered. The shadows grew long.

They turned their eyes toward the center of the stone platform.

He stood there.

A towering silhouette cloaked in the remnants of the storm, his presence folding the air around him. The light bent at the edges of his frame. His aura was not just powerful, it was oppressive. Every breath inside the pillar circle became a struggle, like trying to inhale beneath deep, crushing water. The cold wasn’t merely physical anymore, it dug into the spirit, numbing thoughts, and slowing hearts.

The demon god. That was how his power was illuminated in real life.

Each step he took off the platform sounded like a stone door grinding open in the deepest crypt. Yet as his feet touched the earth, his aura softened, retreating just enough to let their lungs expand again. The thin air thickened slightly, returning to mortal standards, but it still clung to the back of their throats like smoke, itching.

He looked around the temple yard with a narrowed gaze, his voice gravel and thunder.

"This place still works."

Then he inhaled slowly, deeply, as if drawing in the memory of a forgotten world. The ancient scent of stone, blood, and frost filled his lungs. This world, the place he lived with his lover.

"It has been a long time..." he murmured, more to himself than to them. "I had no intention of breathing this air again."

Ren, ever composed, stepped forward. Her spine straightened, and she bowed her head low, her voice steady as flame.

"I appreciate your kindness in answering my call."

Arkilla, still standing a step behind, could only stare, wide-eyed, breath shallow. No wolf in the history of Thegara had ever seen this being in the flesh. She was not merely looking at a god.

She was looking at the father of the Alpha King.

She was looking at the god of the underworld.

"I know why you summoned me," the demon god said at last, his voice low, curling like warm fog through the cold air.

But his eyes drifted, not toward Ren, but to the shadows behind the temple. Something unseen tugged at his senses. His irises, twin voids laced with ember light, narrowed.

He moved toward Saint Saga with a quiet, terrible purpose. The white owlman lowered his gaze respectfully, but even he took a step back as the god approached.

"I feel it," the demon murmured. "The breath of the Gods’ Prison. It hangs in this air like rot beneath snowfall. You’ve felt no malformation?" His tone was neither accusatory nor concerned, it was the distant chill of recognition. The confirmation of a festering wound that they were unaware of.

Ren’s eyes darted to Saga. Her heartbeat picked up a quick pace. Ogain had said the same. Something was wrong here.

"Ogain," she called, her voice urgent.

The ground trembled faintly as the beast approached. He emerged from the edge of the frost-hung yard like a shadow-given form, massive, silent, and proud. White snow framed his midnight feathers in stark contrast. His eyes glowed blue beneath the black crests of his brow, and the wind bowed before him.

The griffin stood beside her, an avenging ghost in the body of a beast.

The demon god turned to face them both. His head tilted slightly, an amused glint flaring in his eyes as he studied the beast.

"A royal bloodline..." he murmured. "He’s an heir to the Griffin throne. What is he doing here, in your service?"

Ren’s voice softened with emotion. "He lost his parents. I am his foster mother."

A flicker of surprise crossed the god’s face, quick, almost hidden beneath his ancient calm. But he nodded once, slowly, acknowledging a bond that even the divine could not mock. She wasn’t lying, the bond was far stronger than a simple service.

Ren had raised Ogain with her own hands in the past three months. Fed him. Trained him. Watched over him on the coldest nights and through the scorching sun of the summer. He was more than a beast. He was her son.

"So..." the god’s voice lowered. "Why am I here?"

Ren’s eyes, bright and unyielding, met his. "I want my husband back," she said, every word carved from pain and defiance. "And I need you to tell me how Lillieth came after you... riding a griffin."

The demon god stilled.

His brows rose slowly, betraying his shock. For the briefest moment, the weight of centuries seemed to falter, and what remained was only a man caught in the unraveling of his deepest secret.

Without another word, Ren reached into the folds of her coat and drew out a small box, no larger than her palm. She extended it to him, her hand steady. The god took it.

He opened the lid, and whatever lay inside struck something within him.

His shoulders eased. The hard edge in his expression melted into something peaceful, quieter. Regret? Reverence? Or maybe respect for Lillieth. The woman he could never love, but she always came to save him.

His features softened, as if a door he’d long sealed had been opened again.

"Yes," the demon god admitted, his voice weighted with something between bitterness and pity. "It’s true. She opened the gate, Lillieth. She found me, using the blood of our son. We didn’t have a bond."

The wind curled around them like a whispering ghost, whistling. The torches lining the temple walls sputtered under a new chill.

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