Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The skies over the Mortal realm were a stark, forbidding grey, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fate about to befall the land. Damon stood at the crest of the hill, the faint breeze catching on the edges of his dark armor, making it gleam under the weak light of the sun. From his vantage point, the sprawling realm below seemed small, insignificant—a kingdom already in his grasp, waiting only for his word to fall.

The grand hall of the palace stretched before Damon, a space that had once embodied power but now felt like a tomb. The air was thick with unease, and the walls, adorned with gilded tapestries, seemed to close in with every passing moment. Damon entered, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor.

King Huang stood at the base of his throne, but his legs trembled so violently that he sank to his knees before Damon could reach him. The once-proud monarch’s hands, always steady as he wielded his scepter, now shook as they clasped in a desperate plea. His composure had been stripped away, layer by layer, leaving only the raw fear of a man staring into the eyes of a predator.

Damon paused just short of Huang, tilting his head slightly as though considering the sight before him. A low, humorless laugh rumbled in his throat, filling the hall.

“I am not a demon, I am Damon!”

The name reverberated off the stone walls, and Huang flinched as he opened his mouth to speak, but the words spilled out in a disjointed tumble.

“Please, I—I’m sorry!” Huang stammered, his forehead nearly touching the floor. “My people have suffered enough. I’ll do anything—a-anything to spare them.”

Damon’s dark eyes flashed crimson, the subtle shift of his gaze like fire licking through shadows. “Anything?” he repeated, the word dripping with mockery. He crouched slightly, his height still towering over the king. Huang nodded frantically, his movements so hurried that they bordered on pathetic.

Damon straightened again, as a smile pulled at his lips—not warm or kind, but sharp, the sort of smile that hinted at amusement born from another’s pain. “I hear you have a princess,” he said, almost conversationally, though his tone held a note of something darker, a thread of steel hidden beneath the velvet.

Huang froze. His eyes, already wide with terror, seemed to widen further, as though the very thought had been ripped from the darkest corner of his mind. “She… she is of age,” he whispered, his voice faint.

“How old?”

“Eighteen,” Huang answered, his throat tightening as he spoke.

Damon let the silence stretch between them, a heavy pause that left the air brittle and thin. He stepped closer, his armor glinting in the dim light, and leaned in just enough to cast his shadow over the cowering king. “Then prove your loyalty,” Damon said, his voice a low rumble. “Give her to me.”

The words fell like a stone into the stillness, their weight sinking deep into the cracks of the room. Huang’s breath hitched audibly, but he dared not speak. Damon didn’t press for an answer, nor did he leave any room for refusal. Instead, he turned and strode away, his cape trailing behind him, the faint metallic clink of his armour the only sound as he exited the hall.

Behind him, Huang remained frozen, his head bowed, his shoulders trembling as the demand hung in the air, an unspoken threat as potent as any blade.

𓇢𓆸

Anawin couldn’t remember the last time he had been summoned to the main hall. Years had passed since his father had last looked his way, leaving him to linger in the forgotten corners of the palace.

Perhaps, this time, it was different.

Had his father finally seen him as more than a disappointment? More than a mute son? Could there be, at long last, a chance that he might be allowed to step beyond the suffocating confines of the palace walls?

He ached for the sun, for the world beyond his gilded cage. The memory of wandering through bustling markets, vibrant festivals, and fields where laughter had once felt boundless was little more than a fading dream. Now, his days were confined to a room so dark and remote it might as well have been a prison cell.

As he made his way through the long, empty corridors, the silence was almost oppressive. The palace, once alive with voices and music, felt hollow, like an echo of its former self. Even his own footsteps seemed swallowed by the void.

When he reached the towering double doors of the main hall, he paused. They loomed before him, carved with intricate designs that once told tales of strength and unity but now seemed like cruel reminders of what his family had lost. Two guards stood on either side, their expressions carved from stone. At his approach, they pushed the doors open with a groan, the sound scraping through the stillness like a warning.

The grand hall was colder than the rest of the palace. Shadows clung to the high ceilings, broken only by the flicker of torchlight. His father sat at the far end, the throne’s gilded splendor doing little to soften the severity of King Huang’s expression.

Anawin forced himself forward, step by step, his heart pounding louder with each one. His father’s presence was like a storm cloud, suffocating, ready to strike. Yet, somewhere deep within him, a fragile ember of hope flickered. Maybe this time, his father would see him, truly see him.

As he reached the foot of the throne, he bowed low, his hands trembling at his sides. He stayed that way until the king’s cold, commanding voice cut through the silence.

“Anawin.”

The name was a blade, sharp and emotionless. Anawin straightened, nodding to show he was listening, though his throat tightened.

“I have called you here today,” King Huang said, “to ask something of you. Something that will finally make you useful to the kingdom.”

Finally useful? he thought bitterly.

He nodded again, though the movement felt mechanical, a reflex born of years of obedience. His father’s gaze remained fixed on him, as if searching for signs of rebellion or defiance. Anawin knew better than to show any.

“And wouldn’t you like that, Anawin?” Huang continued, his voice edged with mockery, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Anawin swallowed the bitterness rising in his chest and nodded again, knowing he had no choice.

The king leaned back, smoothing his robes with deliberate care. “You see,” he began, as though he were recounting a trivial matter, “King Damon, the Demon King, has demanded a permanent alliance with our kingdom. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

Anawin nodded once more, unable to do anything else.

"He has no living family. No mother, no father, no brothers, no sisters. No one…there is no 'next in line' until he sires an heir."

Anawin's heart pounded louder in his chest as he sensed where this conversation was heading. His father's words were like daggers, each one sinking deeper...

“And let’s say,” Huang said, his tone almost casual, “if we were to send your dear sister…”

Anawin stiffened. Anawin’s heart stopped. His sister. Of course. His father’s prized daughter, the jewel of the kingdom, the perfect candidate for such an alliance. But why was he telling this to Anawin?

“However,” Huang said, leaning forward, “I have decided on a different course of action.”

Anawin’s heart lurched, his breath catching in his throat as realization crashed over him. His father wasn’t planning to send his sister.

He was planning to send him.

A mute son, disguised as the princess, to marry the Demon King.

“You will take her place, Anawin,” King Huang declared.

“You will marry King Damon and secure the alliance.”

Chapter Text

He was running. Anawin was running, the sun warm on his face, its golden rays so bright that the flowers hid themselves. The breeze wrapped around him like an embrace, cool and freeing, carrying with it the scents of summer, fresh grass, blooming flowers, and the faint hint of the sea in the distance. His laughter echoed through the fields, light and carefree, a sound that seemed to belong to another world, a world where worry did not exist.

“Anawin!” 

The voice called out, and he finally slowed, glancing over his shoulder. His mother stood there, her silhouette framed by the sun, her hands resting on her hips in that familiar stance that meant she was pretending to be stern. Her expression, though, was soft, her eyes full of love and a hint of amusement as she watched her son run wild.

Tears welled up in Anawin’s eyes. He blinked them away, trying to push down the sudden wave of emotion. 

Had he made her mad? 

Had he disappointed her by running too far, by not listening? 

The thought twisted his heart, filling him with a deep, aching guilt.

He stopped running, his bare feet sinking into the soft earth as his mother approached. She crouched down with some effort, her rounded belly a reminder of the sibling growing within. Her smile was kind, patient, as she held out her hand.

“Come here, Anawin,” she said softly. He hesitated but shuffled closer, his fingers twisting nervously at the hem of his shirt. “I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice trembling.

Her smile deepened, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Why are you sorry, my sweet boy?” she asked, reaching out to cup his cheek.

“Because… because I made you mad,” he stammered, his head lowering as he fought back the tears that threatened to spill. “I don’t want to make you mad, Mama.”

“Oh, my darling boy,” as she pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in an embrace that felt like safety itself. The swell of her belly made it awkward, but she didn’t seem to mind, and neither did he.

“You could never make me mad,” she whispered into his hair. “Never. I am so proud of you, always.”

Her words washed over him, soothing the jagged edges of his guilt. He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling her scent—a mix of lavender and something uniquely her—and let himself believe her, even if only for a moment.

“Let’s go back now, alright?” she said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He nodded, clutching her hand as she rose, her smile lingering as she guided him back toward the house.

“Anawin.”

Anawin blinked, the warmth of that distant memory slipping away as he returned to the cold reality of the present. He opened his eyes, and there was his father, still seated before him on the imposing throne. The tenderness of his mother’s embrace was gone, replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of the grand hall.

“Do you understand what I am asking of you, Anawin?” his father demanded.

No, Anawin did not understand.

He did not want to understand.

He wanted to scream, to shout, to rail against the injustice of it all—but what use was there when he couldn’t? When his voice had been taken from him, when his will had been crushed beneath the weight of his father’s expectations. And even if he could speak, what would he say? 

He could not say no. He could never say no. He had learned that long ago.

So he nodded.

A smile spread across King Huang’s face. It wasn’t the smile of a father proud of his son. No, it was the victorious grin of a man who had found a use for something he had long discarded.

“I knew I could count on you, my boy,” the king said, his tone light, almost mockingly so.

My boy.

Anawin couldn’t remember the last time his father had called him that. The warmth of the phrase felt like a distant, faded memory, one that no longer held any comfort. It was a hollow echo of a time long past, a time when Anawin had still believed in the possibility of his father’s love.

And for a fleeting moment, Anawin was a child again, innocent and desperate for affection, standing before a man who had long since ceased to see him as anything more than a tool. 

But he was no longer that child. He was someone else now, and… and he couldn’t let those old wounds reopen. So he swallowed down the words that clawed at his throat, the pleas for kindness that would never come, and nodded silently, his fate sealed with a simple gesture.

Dismissed with a wave of his father’s hand, Anawin turned and made his way out of the hall. The towering double doors shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed through the silent corridor.

As he reached his chambers, Anawin paused, his hand lingering on the polished wood of the door. He pressed his forehead against its cool surface, his chest heaving with silent sobs he refused to let out. When he finally entered, the sight of the red and gold hanfu laid out on the bed stopped him in his tracks.

It was beautiful. A masterpiece of delicate embroidery, golden dragons coiling along the fabric. It looked as though it belonged to someone else, someone important, someone who mattered.

Not him.

Anawin sank to his knees beside the bed, his fingers brushing against the fabric as if it might burn him. It felt heavier than it should, as though the weight of the entire Mortal realm had been stitched into its folds. Then a plan—the desperate, fragile plan—flashed in his mind.

Kill Damon. Run away. Disappear.

The words echoed in his mind… but could he? Could he really?

𓇢𓆸

Damon stood on the edge of his balcony, the bitter wind tearing at him like a phantom’s touch. The stone beneath his hands was rough, its jagged edges biting into his palms as though demanding he feel something, anything, but even the sharp discomfort couldn’t pierce the storm of emotions swirling inside him. The skies above mirrored the turmoil in his chest, dark clouds twisting and roiling, swallowing the stars in an endless void.

He was supposed to be preparing. Preparing to meet the heir who would soon become his bride, the Mortal realm’s offering to seal their fragile alliance. It was a calculated move, one he had orchestrated with precision, yet the very thought of it sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake. Marriage. The word felt foreign, strange on his tongue. Damon, the Demon King, bound to another. The idea was laughable—if it didn’t make him feel so utterly hollow.

He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the faint glow of the Mortal cities on the horizon, their lights flickering like distant, dying stars. They would fall in line. They always did. The alliance was merely a formal acknowledgment of what was already inevitable. Yet the formality chafed at him, a chain he had willingly placed around his own neck. For the survival of his realm, he had told himself. For the throne, for power. But deep down, a part of him whispered that this was a lie.

“Phi.”

The voice broke through his thoughts. He didn’t need to turn to recognize it. Joanna. She always had a way of finding him, no matter how far he tried to hid. “You’ve been out here for hours,” she said, her tone carrying the same gentle reprimand it always did. “Come inside before you freeze.”

Damon’s grip tightened on the railing, the stone cutting deeper into his skin. “Does it matter?” he asked, his voice low, almost lost to the wind. “Inside, outside… it’s all the same.”

Joanna stepped closer, her presence a small warmth against the chill. “You’re restless,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You’ve been this way since the pact was made. You’ve… changed.”

He let out a hollow laugh, his breath misting in the cold air. “Changed?” He turned his head slightly, just enough for her to see the sharp curve of his smirk. “You think I’ve changed, Joanna?” His laugh deepened. “Perhaps I have. Or perhaps I’m finally seeing the futility of it all.”

Joanna hesitated, her concern evident in the way she folded her arms. “This marriage was your choice,” she reminded him softly. “You knew what it would mean.”

“I made the only choice available to me." Damon snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He turned fully now, his glowing eyes narrowing on her. “I chose it to secure the Mortal realm’s obedience. To ensure our survival. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Her expression softened, though there was a sadness in her gaze that made him want to look away. “You don’t fear the pact itself,” she said. “You fear what it means. What it might change.”

“Fear?” Damon scoffed, his lips curling in disdain, though the faint tremor in his jaw betrayed him. “I do not fear. Not them. Not ‘her’. Not anything.”

Joanna didn’t flinch at his harsh tone. She never did. “Then why are you out here?” she asked gently. “Why are you standing alone in the dark instead of facing what’s to come?”

The question struck deeper than Damon expected, slicing through the walls he had so carefully constructed. He turned away from her, his hands clenching the railing as if he could crush it into dust. The wind picked up, howling like a wounded beast, and he welcomed the cold that numbed his skin.

Because she was right.

He was afraid.

Not of his bride, nor the alliance, nor the Mortal realm itself. But of what lay within him. The emptiness. The darkness. The gnawing void he had carried for as long as he could remember. This union would force someone into his world, into the abyss he called a soul. And what if they saw him? What if they truly saw him—his cruelty, his hatred, his emptiness—and turned away?

“Joanna,” he said. “Do you think there’s anything left in me to save?”

She didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was heavy with sorrow. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But maybe this union isn’t a curse, Phi. Maybe it’s a chance. A chance to find something greater than what you’ve known.”

He laughed again, but it was softer this time, tinged with bitterness. “You’re a fool if you believe that.”

“Perhaps,” Joanna said, stepping back toward the warmth of the fortress. “But perhaps not. Only time will tell.”

He didn’t watch her leave. Instead, he stayed on the balcony, letting the wind whip through his hair and tug at his cloak. The rain began to fall, light at first, but growing heavier with each passing moment. It soaked through his clothes, chilled him to the bone, but he welcomed it. It was easier to face the cold than the uncertainty gnawing at him.

He closed his eyes, tilting his face to the storm. “Let it come,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rising wind. “Let it come, and I will endure. I always do.”

Yet even as he said the words, he couldn’t ignore the faint, unwelcome whisper in the back of his mind—the small, treacherous part of him that didn’t want to endure anymore. That longed, just once, to be something more than the Demon King. Something more than the darkness.

𓇢𓆸

The face that stared back at Anawin from the mirror was as foreign as the delicate hints of powdered rouge upon his cheeks. His reflection looked different, unfamiliar, as though he were staring at a stranger. There was a softness to his features that he wasn’t accustomed to seeing, a kind of prettiness that felt almost uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity. His lips, painted a soft crimson, seemed to belong to someone else, someone graceful, poised, beautiful. But not him. Never him.

The ornate jade pins that adorned his carefully styled hair gleamed faintly under the dim light. He tilted his head slightly, the heavy veil shifting against his skin like a whisper of silk, and his fingers traced the edges of his face in the mirror. The powder smoothed his skin, the rouge brought a flush to his cheeks, but it all felt wrong, like a mask he couldn’t take off.

The hanfu was the worst of it. Layers of crimson silk, embroidered with gold-threaded dragons and phoenixes, draped over his body, swallowing him whole. The fabric was heavy, suffocating, its weight pressing down on his shoulders. The sleeves, impossibly long, concealed his trembling hands. Every movement felt foreign, deliberate, measured. Even breathing felt like a betrayal beneath the tight embrace of the garment.

He looked pretty, yes, but not like his sister. She was ethereal, radiant in a way that seemed effortless. When she walked, it was as though the world moved with her, drawn to her light. Anawin could never hope to emulate that. His beauty, if it could even be called that, felt forced, artificial, a mockery of something he could never truly embody.

His throat tightened as his gaze lingered on his reflection, his fingers curling into fists beneath the silk. He wasn’t meant to be here, wasn’t meant to wear these clothes, wasn’t meant to play this role. But fate, or his father had decided otherwise. And now, here he stood, a counterfeit bride, dressed for a wedding that felt more like a funeral.

It all felt so simple, so ordinary on the surface. But nothing in life was simple or ordinary. 

Not for him.

Kill Damon.

The plan was simple. Or so it had seemed in the fleeting moments of desperation when he had first dared to imagine escape. If he could end the Demon King’s life, if he could strike the killing blow, he could be free. Free of his father, free of the palace, free of the destiny that had been forced upon him. He could run, disappear, start over in a place where no one knew his name or his past.

But as the weight of that plan settled over him, suffocating in its enormity, Anawin felt the first tremors of doubt.

How could he kill Damon, a man said to be more monster than king? How could he look into those fabled crimson eyes, eyes that burned with fire and fury, and not falter? The very thought sent a shiver down his spine, his heart pounding like a caged bird desperate for freedom.

His hands reached for the edge of the vanity, gripping it tightly to steady himself. The silk of his sleeves bunched beneath his fingers, the delicate fabric whispering of fragility. It matched how he felt—fragile, breakable, one wrong move away from shattering entirely.

The rouge on his cheeks, the veil draped over his head, the elaborate hanfu, they weren’t just a disguise. They were chains, binding him to a role he never wanted to play. He was a pawn in a game he didn’t understand, a sacrifice offered up to protect a kingdom that had never cared for him.

For so long, he had been told he was nothing, a disappointment, a burden. And now, he was useful, not as himself, but as a substitute for his sister, a stand-in for the heir who was too precious to risk. The realization stung, bitter and sharp, and he had to swallow hard to keep the tears from spilling over.

The plan was simple. Kill Damon.

But how could he kill a man when he wasn’t sure he could even face him? What if he failed? What if Damon saw through him, saw the fear etched into every line of his face, the trembling in his hands, the desperation in his eyes? What if, in the moment of truth, he couldn’t bring himself to strike the blow?

The doubts gnawed at him, whispering of his inadequacy. He wasn’t strong enough, brave enough, clever enough. He wasn’t enough. He had never been enough.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t help. Tears wouldn’t save him. He had to be strong, had to find a way to carry out the plan. If not for himself, then for his sister, for the people who would suffer if this alliance failed. For the faint hope that somewhere, beyond this nightmare, there was a life waiting for him—a life where he could finally be free.

Anawin closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. The air felt heavy, suffused with the scent of jasmine oil and powdered rouge. When he opened his eyes again, the face in the mirror was still there, still unfamiliar. But it was the face he would show to Damon. It was the mask he would wear as he stepped into the lion’s den.

The plan was simple. Kill Damon. Run away. Disappear. Never look back.

And yet, as he rose to his feet, the heavy hanfu rustling around him, Anawin couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing about this was simple. That nothing about this would ever be simple.

But he had no choice.

He never had a choice.

With one last glance at the stranger in the mirror, Anawin turned away. The silk whispered against the floor as he walked, the jade pins in his hair catching the light with each movement. He felt like a lamb walking to the slaughter, dressed in finery that couldn’t mask the fear pounding in his chest.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not now...

The plan was simple. Kill Damon. Survive.

Chapter Text

The knock came at the door first, followed by the sound of Jingna’s voice, breathless, bright with excitement that felt like a slap against the brooding stillness of the room. Damon didn’t look up immediately. He remained where he was, seated at the heavy oak table in his study, the shadows cast by the flickering firelight dancing over his features. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, each tap a hollow echo in the silence.

“Phi!” Jingna’s voice called again, louder this time. The door creaked open just enough for the younger man’s head to pop through, his wide grin faltering slightly when he saw Damon’s face. “Your bride—she’s here already!”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. Damon stared at the dark wood of the table in front of him, his thoughts sluggish and weighted. When the meaning finally clicked, his chest tightened, and he let out a slow breath.

“My bride,” he said softly, the words foreign on his tongue, as though he were trying them out for the first time. He leaned back in his chair, his head tilting slightly to glance at Jingna. “So soon?”

Jingna nodded, his enthusiasm undimmed by Damon’s cool demeanor. “Yes! The procession just arrived. They’re preparing her in the east wing. She’s… she’s stunning, Phi. Just like a painting.”

Damon’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A painting,” he repeated, his voice dry. “How poetic of you, Jingna.”

Jingna hesitated, sensing the edge in Damon’s tone but unsure of what to make of it. “Should I… should I tell them you’ll meet her now?”

Damon waved a hand dismissively. “Tell them I’ll come when I’m ready.”

“But, Phi—”

“I said when I’m ready, Jingna.” The words came sharper than Damon intended, the room falling into an uncomfortable silence. Jingna blinked, startled, before nodding quickly and retreating, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone again, Damon pressed his fingers to his temples, his head bowing. His bride. The Mortal realm’s offering. Another pawn in the endless game of power and survival.

The air in the room felt colder, heavier, as his thoughts churned. Who was this woman they had sent to him? A princess, no doubt, chosen for her beauty and grace, raised to fulfill this role. Someone bred for diplomacy, for sacrifice. Someone who would be bound to him not by love or choice, but by obligation.

And what of her? Did she know what she was walking into? Did she understand that she was being delivered to a monster cloaked in the guise of a king? Did she feel the same weight pressing down on her, the same helplessness that he did?

Damon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He hated this—hated the vulnerability that crept into his thoughts, the flickers of doubt that refused to be silenced. He was the Demon King. He did not bow to fate, to emotion, to the fragile humanity that so often betrayed him. And yet, here he was, tethered to a destiny he had chosen for the sake of his realm, his power. A destiny that now felt like a curse.

The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting long shadows across the room. Damon rose slowly. He crossed to the window, his gaze drawn to the faint lights in the distance—the Mortal realm’s cities, still visible even from here. His bride had come from there, from that world of fleeting lives and fragile ambitions.

He let out a bitter laugh, his breath fogging against the cold glass. “A bride,” he murmured to himself. “As if binding her to me will change anything.”

But even as he spoke the words, a part of him, the part he buried deep, the part he refused to acknowledge, wondered if it would. If this union could be something more than a transaction, if it could fill the hollow ache he carried with him always. It was a foolish thought, one he despised himself for entertaining.

The knock came again, softer this time, and he turned reluctantly. Joanna stood in the doorway now, her expression softer, more understanding than Jingna’s exuberance. She stepped inside without waiting for permission, her hands clasped in front of her.

“She’s waiting for you,” Joanna said gently. “The ceremony begins at dusk.”

Damon exhaled sharply, his gaze returning to the distant lights. “Do you think this will work, Joanna?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you think a king can bind himself to someone he does not know and find… salvation?”

Joanna tilted her head, studying him. “Do you want it to work, Phi?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back to the window, his silence speaking louder than words.

Joanna stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said softly. “Even kings need someone to stand beside them.”

Damon’s jaw tightened, and he pulled away from her touch. “She’s not here to stand beside me,” he said bitterly. “She’s here to secure an alliance. That’s all.”

Joanna didn’t respond immediately. When she spoke again. “You could let her in, Phi. If not for your realm, then for yourself.”

“Let her in? Let her see what, Joanna? The darkness that lives in me? The monster beneath the crown?” He shook his head, turning to face her. “No. This is a transaction, nothing more. She will play her role, and I will play mine. That’s all there is.”

Joanna stepped back, her voice quiet. “You should go to her, Phi. She’s waiting.”

Damon didn’t move until she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. He lingered by the window for a moment longer. Then, with a heavy sigh, he straightened, steeling himself for what was to come.

He was the Demon King. He had faced armies, conquered realms, and bent the will of men to his own. He would face this, too.

But as he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridors, he couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that this was a battle he was destined to lose.

𓇢𓆸

The wedding ceremony was unlike anything Anawin had imagined.

He sat stiffly beside Damon on an intricately carved bench, the cold stone biting through the layers of his elaborate hanfu. His hands, hidden beneath the flowing sleeves, trembled faintly. He clenched them into fists, his nails digging into his palms, desperate to keep them still.

Fuck. Fuck. The words echoed in his mind, frantic and helpless. Damon was here, close enough that their sleeves brushed every time one of them shifted slightly. Every fiber of Anawin’s being screamed at him to run, to bolt from the ceremonial chamber and never look back. But he couldn’t. He was trapped, bound by duty, by fear, by the inevitability of what was to come.

The hall was vast, its walls etched with ancient runes that glowed faintly in the flickering light of torches mounted high above. Shadows danced across the faces of the gathered witnesses—nobles from Damon’s court and a few select emissaries from the Mortal realm, including his father. Anawin could feel the weight of their stares, some curious, others indifferent, a few openly disdainful.

But it was his father’s gaze that burned the most.

King Huang stood to the side, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. His expression was unreadable, but the way his eyes flicked to Anawin made his stomach churn. His father’s silent command was clear: Do not falter. Do not shame me.

The officiant’s voice, cut through the tense silence. “Tonight, under the binding light of the ancient runes, the Demon King and his bride shall be joined.”

Bride.

The word hit Anawin like a slap, a cruel reminder of the role he had been forced into. His heart pounded in his chest, his fear mixing with anger, with humiliation, with despair. He wanted to scream, to protest, to tear off the delicate veil that rested lightly on his head and throw it to the ground. But instead, he sat there, silent, as he had always been.

No vows were exchanged. There was no poetry, no promises of love or devotion. This was not a union of hearts but of blood—a ritual older than either of their kingdoms, a binding far more ancient and irrevocable than any mortal words could create.

“Your hands,” the officiant intoned, his voice echoing in the chamber like the toll of a bell. “Offer them.”

Anawin hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

A hand—large, warm closed around his wrist. Damon.

Anawin’s head snapped toward him, his wide eyes meeting Damon’s for the first time. The Demon King’s expression was unreadable, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. There was no gentleness in his touch, but neither was there cruelty. It was a command: Do not resist.

With shaking hands, Anawin extended his arm, his sleeve sliding back to reveal his wrist. Damon did the same. The contrast between them was stark—Anawin’s pale, trembling fingers beside Damon’s steady, powerful hand, his skin marked by faint scars that told stories Anawin could never hope to understand.

The officiant stepped forward, a ceremonial dagger in his hands. The blade was black, forged from some ancient, unknown metal, its edge shimmering with light. Anawin’s breath hitched as the officiant took his wrist, turning it palm-up.

“This is the binding of blood. By this act, your fates are sealed. Your lives are entwined.”

The blade bit into his skin.

Anawin flinched, a sharp gasp escaping him as a thin line of blood welled up on his palm. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it burned, the sensation sharper than he had expected. He bit his lip, refusing to let the tears that pricked at his eyes fall.

Damon didn’t even flinch when the blade touched his skin. His expression remained still, his gaze fixed on the officiant, as though the pain was nothing more than a passing inconvenience. Blood pooled in his palm, dark and stark against his pale skin.

“Join your hands.”

Anawin’s breath hitched again, his entire body tensing as Damon’s bloody hand reached for his. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to run—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he let Damon take his hand, their blood mingling as their palms pressed together.

The warmth of Damon’s touch was unexpected, almost startling. His hand was large, engulfing Anawin’s entirely. The blood between their palms was sticky, binding them together in a way that felt far more real, far more final, than the officiant’s words.

The runes on the walls flared to life, their glow bright and blinding. Anawin squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel the magic, ancient and overwhelming, seeping into his skin, into his very soul. It was cold and hot all at once, a searing, unrelenting force that left him gasping for air.

When the light finally dimmed, Anawin opened his eyes slowly, his vision blurred by unshed tears. The officiant stepped back, his head bowed. “It is done.”

The room was silent as Damon released his hand, the loss of his warmth both a relief and a strange, hollow ache. Anawin stared down at his palm, at the mingled blood that stained his skin, and felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat.

He had never felt more trapped.

Beside him, Damon rose to his feet. He didn’t look at Anawin as he turned to address the room, his voice ringing out. “Leave us.”

The gathered crowd hesitated, glancing between the two of them, but no one dared to disobey. One by one, they filed out of the chamber.

Anawin didn’t move. His legs felt like they had been turned to stone, his hands trembling in his lap. And he could feel Damon’s gaze on him now, and he didn’t dare meet it.

The silence stretched painfully until Damon’s voice broke it. “Jingna.”

From the shadowed edge of the chamber, a figure stepped forward. Anawin startled slightly, his breath catching as he caught sight of a young man with an open, bright face.

Damon didn’t wait for any response. His eyes turned toward Anawin, narrowing slightly. “Go with him.”

Anawin hesitated, his mind scrambling to process what was happening. Before he could make sense of it, Jingna stepped forward. He offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and gestured toward the door.

“Come,” Jingna said softly.

Slowly, shakily, Anawin rose to his feet, his hands gripping the edges of his sleeves. His head remained bowed, his heart pounding as he followed Jingna out of the chamber.

𓇢𓆸

"You’re so quiet,” Jingna said, glancing at Anawin with an encouraging smile as they walked down the endless corridor.

“I get it, though! It’s a lot, isn’t it? The ceremony, the people, the… everything. But don’t worry, Phi won’t hurt you.”

Anawin didn’t respond. Words sat like stones in his throat, impossible to push out. Instead, he nodded faintly, his trembling hands hidden in the long, flowing sleeves of his hanfu. The delicate silk brushed against the floor.

“He’s scary sometimes, isn’t he? All that brooding and the glowing eyes—very intimidating. But honestly? Phi’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

Another nod.

“Oh!” Jingna said, his voice brightening as though sharing a secret, “Did you know that if Phi hurts you, he’ll hurt himself too?”

Anawin faltered mid-step, his breath catching. He turned his wide eyes toward Jingna, confusion flickering across his face. Bound?

Jingna didn’t notice—or perhaps he didn’t care. “That’s how the vows work. You and Phi are bound now. It’s an ancient magic thing. Super old, super powerful. One of those ‘shared pain’ deals. I think it’s supposed to symbolize unity or something!”

Anawin’s chest tightened, a knot of cold dread forming in his stomach. Bound? Shared pain?

He hadn’t been told this—hadn’t known the ceremony had such a consequence. His father hadn’t mentioned it, and the officiant’s words during the ceremony had meant little to him.

He reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing Jingna’s sleeve, a silent plea for him to explain further.

Jingna turned, his expression brightening at the gesture. “Oh, right! I guess you wouldn’t know. You’ve probably never been part of something like this, huh? The blood binding ties Phi and your lives together. One can’t hurt the other without sharing the pain. It’s ancient Demon realm magic—older than anything the Mortal realm has.”

Anawin’s heart thundered in his chest. He hadn’t known. How could he not have known?

The ceremony hadn’t just sealed his fate, it had tied him irrevocably to Damon, binding their lives together.

He staggered slightly, catching himself against the cold stone wall. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as his mind raced. What would this mean for him? For Damon? If he ever tried to fight back… and if Damon died… he… oh.

Jingna stopped, his grin faltering as he looked at Anawin. “Hey, you alright?” His tone softening, as if suddenly realizing he might have said too much. “Look, I know it sounds scary, but it’s not all bad. It means Phi can’t just, you know, hurt you for fun. Not that he would!” He added hastily, his hands waving in front of him. “But still, it’s... protection, in a way.”

Anawin forced himself to straighten, his trembling hands disappearing into the folds of his sleeves. He nodded faintly, unwilling, or unable, to let Jingna see how deeply his words had affected him.

Jingna patted his shoulder gently, mistaking Anawin’s silence for acceptance. “You’re going to be fine,” he said with a bright, encouraging smile. “Phi might seem like a stormcloud, but he’s not that bad once you get to know him.”

Anawin’s stomach twisted at the thought. He didn’t want to know Damon. He didn’t want to be tied to him, to share in his pain or anything else. But what choice did he have now?

Jingna stopped in front of a large door, its black wood inlaid with shimmering silver runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. “Here we are,” he said brightly, turning to Anawin with a grin. “The bridal chamber. Don’t be afraid, alright? Just… relax!

Anawin’s nodded as Jingna reached out, squeezing his shoulder gently, before stepping back and opening the door. The hinges groaned softly, the sound echoing into the silence beyond.

“Goodnight, and congratulations!” Jingna said cheerfully, giving a small bow before retreating down the corridor, leaving Anawin standing in the doorway alone.

The room was vast, its high ceilings disappearing into shadow. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill that seeped into Anawin’s bones. The bed dominated the center of the room, its size almost absurd. Everything about the space felt cold, unfamiliar, and suffocating.

He stepped inside hesitantly, his hands trembling as he reached up to remove the jade pins from his hair, letting the carefully arranged strands fall loose around his face. He set the pins down on a nearby table, their delicate clink against the surface startlingly loud in the silence. His heart thundered in his chest as he looked around, his eyes darting to every shadow, every corner, as though Damon might materialize out of the darkness itself.

And then the door creaked open behind him.

Anawin froze, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He could feel the heat of the Demon King’s gaze, as if peeling back every layer of his disguise.

“Undress.”

Anawin flinched, his fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of his sleeves. His legs felt rooted to the ground, his body refusing to obey.

Damon let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh before stepping closer. He didn’t touch Anawin, but his proximity was enough to make the air between them crackle with tension. “I won’t ask again.”

Shaking, Anawin removed the outer layer of his hanfu, his movements clumsy and hesitant. He folded the garment as neatly as his trembling hands allowed, setting it aside before standing there in silence, his head bowed, his breath shallow.

Damon said nothing as he moved past Anawin. He climbed onto the massive bed, his presence somehow even larger against the expanse of dark silk. He lay back, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on Anawin.

“Come here.”

Anawin hesitated, his feet refusing to move, but Damon’s eyes narrowed, a faint glow flickering in their depths. Summoning every ounce of courage he could muster, Anawin forced himself forward.

When he reached the edge of the bed, Damon grabbed his wrist and pulled him down. Anawin let out a soft gasp as he was dragged onto the silken sheets, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Damon could hear it.

Damon wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. Anawin stiffened, his entire being recoiling at the contact. He tried to pull away, but Damon’s grip tightened, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.

“Stop.”

Anawin froze, as Damon shifted slightly, his hold on Anawin relaxing just enough to keep him from feeling trapped, but not enough to let him escape. And then, to Anawin’s utter disbelief, Damon closed his eyes, his breathing slowing.

He was… asleep.

Anawin layed there, his body rigid, his mind racing. The dagger hidden in the folds of his robe felt like it was burning against his skin, but Damon’s arm around him made it impossible to reach.

The sight of him, so close, so unguarded, was almost unbearable. Damon’s features, usually sharp and severe, were softened in sleep, but the faint glow of his eyes beneath his lashes was a reminder of what he truly was. A monster. A king. A man who held Anawin’s life in his hands.

And yet… he held him like this, as though Anawin were something fragile, something worth holding onto.

Anawin turned his face away, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he stared into the darkness. He hated this, hated the helplessness, the fear, the uncertainty. He hated the way Damon’s warmth seeped into his skin, the way his presence made him feel so small, so insignificant.

He hated that, for the first time in his life, he felt truly and utterly alone.