All eyes turned.
Lira, Sira, Vina, Floe, Myra, Sole, Crysie, the Lords, the guards, the maids, and Lunastia herself.
A faint light shimmered far beyond the edge of the camp. Not just any light—this was pure, blinding white, brighter than moonlight, brighter than Lunastia's own glow.
Brighter than anything they had ever seen.
It pulsed once, and from within it, a figure began to form. Slowly, as if the world itself had to adjust to him.
He wore layer upon layer of white garments, none resembling any culture of Lunaria or Duskvaria .No thread of gold, no gem, no sparkle. And yet, he gleamed more than any royal.
His entire appearance radiated, not with magic—but with presence.
His face was hidden behind a large, intricate eye-mask, carved from some unknown white metal, like starlight solidified. His body was adorned with ornaments strange and unplaceable, crafted in a style that didn't belong to either continent.
He looked like he came from a world beyond maps.
Lunastia's breath caught in her throat.
"Wh… what is that light?" whispered Vina.
"No," said Floe, stepping slightly behind Lira. "That's not light. That's something else."
"Is he real?" murmured Myra.
"If he's not," said Sira, "then we're all dreaming the same nightmare."
"He's more white than Luna," Crysie said in awe. "That shouldn't be possible."
And it was true—even Lunastia, the daughter of the light, looked dim beside him.
The man stepped forward, entering the camp without a word.
Not a single guard moved.
Not a sword was raised.
His gaze never left Lunastia. Not for a breath. Not for a blink.
"Shouldn't we… stop him?" Lolan whispered to Mirzand, eyes narrowed.
"Be my guest," Mirzand said dryly. "I'd love to attend your funeral."
"Who even is that?" Lolan hissed. "What side is he on?!"
"Not ours," Mirzand muttered. "Or maybe not anybody's."
The fairies stood frozen. Even Sole, who usually stood fearless beside Lunastia, dared not step forward.
Lunastia stood still. Her hands clenched. The light from the stranger was so overwhelming, it cast shadows behind her.
He stopped.
He was standing right in front of her now. Close. Too close.
And then… he simply stared.
Nothing else.
Not a sound.
Lunastia met his gaze, though she could not see his eyes behind the mask. It felt like the mask itself was watching her. Peering into something no one else could see.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
The camp held its breath. One second. Then another. Then—
He vanished.
Not in smoke.
Not in wind.
In light.
Like the moon absorbing its last lost beam.
The space he stood in was now empty.
"Did he just—" Lolan began.
"He vanished," whispered Myra.
"No magic leaves no trace like that," said Sole.
Everyone's heads turned—Crimson was gone. His men were gone. Not even a bootprint left behind.
Mirzand stared at the space the man had disappeared from.
Silence reigned.
And then—
He exhaled sharply and said, low and slow:
"What. The. F**k."
The words cracked through the tension like lightning.
Even Noctarion's lips twitched slightly, though his arms remained crossed, silent as ever. His cold eyes stayed fixed where the man once stood.
"I think," Lira whispered, "we just met someone above all kings."
"He looked at Luna like she was… part of his past," said Vina, voice shaking.
"Or his future," Sira murmured.
Lunastia was still staring at the place he had vanished. Her heart beat loudly in her chest.
"He didn't speak," she whispered, "but I understood something."
"What?" Floe asked.
"He's not done with us," Lunastia said softly.
The wind picked up.
The light faded.
But no one in the camp would sleep this night.
Because whoever that man was,
He changed something.
And he'd be back.
***************************
After all the turmoil earlier, midnight had quietly settled over the camp. Most had drifted off to sleep, weary from the long day. They needed rest before dawn's departure. Only the night guards remained awake, moving silently between tents as they prepared everything for the journey—despite their exhaustion.
Inside her tent, Lunastia sat alone. Her fairies and maids fluttered about, packing, sorting, and casting gentle enchantments on their belongings. But her mind wasn't on leaving. It was somewhere else—on someone else.
With a hesitant breath, she reached under her cot and pulled out a small, ornate box—the one she had taken from the Devil King's palace in Drakarith. Slowly, she opened it.
Inside lay a bracelet, delicate yet strange. It was the same design she'd seen wrapped around the wrist of the mysterious man from earlier—the one who appeared from nowhere and vanished like moonlight.
She picked it up, running her fingers over the metal. It shimmered unnaturally, glowing faintly in the dim lantern light. Then she reached deeper into the box and pulled out an old portrait of a woman… a woman who looked exactly like her.
Her brows furrowed.
"Who… are you?" she whispered to the image.
She blinked. The jewelry in the picture… the bracelet, the ornaments, the clothing—it all matched the mysterious white man's style. Even the aura.
"Are you… related to him?" she murmured, staring at the image.
"Who are you talking about?"
A cold voice came from behind.
Startled, Lunastia whirled around. Noctarion stood at the entrance of her tent, his arms crossed, his gaze unreadable.
She quickly shut the box and rose to her feet.
"You scared me," she muttered, brushing her hair back.
He cleared his throat awkwardly. It was obvious he wanted to ask something, but words didn't come easily to him.
Luna understood instantly.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
"…That man," he said after a pause. "Do you… know him?"
She shook her head.
"No. I'm just as curious as you are," she replied honestly.
Without another word, Noctarion gave a short nod and turned, walking out of the tent as silently as he'd come.
Luna watched him go, still puzzled by his cold demeanor. Before she could sit down again, someone else stepped inside.
"Still awake, Princess?" came a familiar teasing voice.
She turned to see Mirzand, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.
"Do Shadow Masters ever sleep?" she asked dryly. "First your lord, now the famous playboy… Why is everyone walking into my tent tonight?"
"So Nocta was here?" he asked, raising a brow.
She gave him a side-eye.
"What do you want?"
"Just checking in on my favorite moonbeam," he said with a wink. "Your boyfriend?"
"Excuse me?" she snapped. "He's your Lord. And we're just… contract partners."
Mirzand raised both eyebrows in amusement.
"I wasn't talking about Nocta. I meant the glowing white mystery man."
Luna's cheeks flushed faintly.
"Nope."
"Mmm, sure," he hummed, clearly unconvinced.
He walked closer and leaned casually against a post.
"So you're a single white butterfly, huh? Need a partner?"
"What happened? Did your bed partner abandon you tonight?" she shot back playfully.
"That bastard Crimson stole all my beauties," he groaned dramatically.
Luna chuckled.
"There are plenty of pretty girls out there, Master Mirzand."
"But none of them are the goddess of Lunaria," he said, eyes twinkling. "The King's Moonflower. A queen-to-be who can steal hearts with one glance… and who's got mysterious protectors showing up out of nowhere just for her."
She smiled.
"You're right. Soon to be queen. Not of Duskvaria though—of Lunaria. I'm engaged."
Mirzand blinked.
"Engaged? Where's the ring?"
She tapped her chest softly.
"Even if it's not on my finger, it's here. In my heart."
He held her gaze for a long moment, then said quietly,
"You're lying. Your eyes say otherwise."
She looked away, the playful mood fading.
"Is that so?"
"Fell into his trap, Princess?"
Lolan stepped casually into the tent, arms folded and a smirk on his face.
Mirzand rolled his eyes, unfazed.
"She's not that easy," he said coolly. "But I'm not backing off."
Luna chuckled softly, raising a brow in amusement.
"I have to admit, I admire your confidence—even when you know I'm powerful, guarded by the King's own men, and protected by more forces than you can count. Yet you still dare to say that… to me?"
"That's because you're new, Princess," Lolan muttered with a sigh, leaning against the entrance.
Mirzand didn't miss a beat. His tone turned serious—no longer playful, but steady, unreadable.
"When I want something… I get it. No matter what."
Luna met his eyes, expression softening slightly, yet her voice stayed sharp with wisdom.
"Then maybe you should want less," she said quietly. "And instead… find the ones who wish for you. It's more beautiful that way. Especially for someone like you."
"Ha! Who's going to wish for a playboy like him?" Lolan scoffed. "Maybe some gold-digger."
Mirzand laughed under his breath, the sound empty.
"I already lost the one who truly loved me," he admitted with a crooked smile. "Pure souls don't come back."
A beat of silence passed before Luna spoke again, her voice softer, almost a whisper.
"I think… there might still be one more chance left for you, Mirzand. Look carefully. This is your last turn."
Mirzand's eyes narrowed, uncertain.
"Wait… is that a yes?" Lolan asked, blinking between them in surprise.
Luna shook her head with a small smile.
"Of course not."
Mirzand tilted his head, brows furrowed.
"I don't understand, Princess."
But Luna didn't explain. She simply turned her back, walking toward the center of her tent.
"You both should leave now. I need rest," she said calmly.
There was no room for argument. Lolan rolled his eyes but obeyed. Mirzand lingered for just a moment longer, eyes searching her back, as if hoping for something more.
But Luna said nothing.
And so, they left.
As soon as Lolan and Mirzand left, Lunastia let out a quiet sigh.
The tent returned to silence.
She slowly walked to her bed and lay down, pulling the soft blanket over her. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls. But even in that dim peace… her mind refused to rest.
The moment she closed her eyes—
Azrael.
His face surfaced like a ghost in the dark.
Those deep black eyes, sharp and hollow like endless pits. That suffocating aura—so heavy, so cold, it made her feel like she was sinking. The way the air shifted when he entered a room… like the world itself went still.
Her breath hitched.
"Why is he always there…" she whispered to herself.
Even now. Even after all this time. She'd only met him a few times, yet… he lingered.
She sat up, restless.
Each step she took across the floor made her remember.
The first time she saw him—lounging in his throne, dark and untouchable, draped in deep obsidian robes with silver-threaded runes glowing faintly along the seams. Shadows curled at his feet like loyal hounds. His posture was relaxed, but his presence crushed the room.
Then the night she danced with her fairies… she had felt it—his stare.
Unmoving. Measuring. Curious. Not like the others who clapped or smiled.
He simply watched, like a god judging a mortal he hadn't decided whether to save or destroy.
She crossed to her desk, pulled out a scroll, and dipped her pen.
Her hand began to move on its own.
Line by line, the image took shape. His cold face. The slight tilt of his head. Those pitch-black eyes beneath that dark crown. The way his cloak draped like the night sky itself.
The Devil King. Azrael.
And yet… her hand didn't stop.