The Bound Demon

The grand hall of the demon king's palace stretched endlessly, its dark arches adorned with twisted iron and obsidian. Shadows danced in the dim light, and the air hung heavy with centuries of despair. At the center of it all, upon a throne carved from the bones of fallen gods, sat Zephriel, the Demon King.

He held a crystal goblet, the dark red wine within swirling lazily as if bound by his very presence. His long white hair cascaded over the armrests, pooling on the floor like molten silver. His crimson eyes, once filled with love and longing, now held only the weight of an eternity spent in waiting.

Two demons, clad in black armor, approached the throne with hesitant steps. Their horns curled backward, eyes cast to the ground in fear. They knelt before Zephriel, their bodies trembling under his silent scrutiny.

"My lord," the first demon spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "We have searched through every realm, every world. We bring before you the most beautiful mortals with green eyes and black hair, as you commanded."

The second demon raised his hand, and from the shadows emerged a line of men and women. Their beauty was undeniable—perfect features, elegance in every movement, eyes as green as jade, and hair as dark as midnight. They stood with bowed heads, too afraid to meet the gaze of the demon king.

Zephriel remained still, the wine glass resting against his lips but untouched. His cold aura filled the room, a frost that settled in the bones of all who dared to breathe near him.

He opened his eyes slowly, a flicker of red beneath silver lashes. His gaze swept over the mortals, each one more perfect than the last. Yet, none stirred anything within him.

"Useless," his voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. The mortals shivered, a few choking back sobs.

"Ugly."

The wine in his goblet rippled, the dark liquid responding to his seething aura. Shadows curled around the floor, devouring the light, and the demons recoiled as if burned.

Zephriel stood, his tall, imposing figure casting a long shadow over the hall. His white hair swayed with his movements, like a river of silver flowing behind him. His horns, sharp and gleaming, caught the dim light, a reminder of his demonic nature.

He stepped down from his throne, each step resonating through the stone floors. The mortals shrunk away, some collapsing under the weight of his presence. The demons dared not speak, their eyes wide with fear as Zephriel passed them.

He moved through the hall, the temperature dropping with every stride. His breath misted the air, and frost formed on the stone. The grand doors opened before him, the palace bowing to its king.

Outside, the landscape was barren, an eternal twilight draped over the realm. Dead trees with silver leaves stood twisted, and rivers of black ichor carved paths through the ashen ground. The sky was a void, neither sun nor stars gracing the world.

Zephriel walked on, the wind carrying whispers of his name. His hands tightened around the empty goblet, his claws biting into the crystal until it shattered. Shards fell, glittering like fallen stars, but he did not stop.

In his mind, he still saw Elyon's face—the soft curve of his smile, the warmth of his green eyes, the delicate touch of his hands. The memory twisted within him, a blade lodged in his heart that he could not pull free.

"Find me."

Elyon's last words haunted him. Sixty thousand years had passed, and still, he searched. Every green-eyed mortal, every black-haired beauty—none of them held the soul he sought. None of them could say his true name with the same gentle reverence.

Time had become a loop of bitter hope and shattering disappointment. Realms had fallen, gods had perished, and still, Zephriel wandered. The demon king, bound not by chains but by love, an eternal prisoner of his own promise.

As he vanished into the mist, the palace behind him seemed to sigh, its dark halls once again empty. His throne sat vacant, the remnants of wine staining the stone—a crimson echo of all he had lost.

But the search continued, and the universe would tremble until Elyon was found.