Chains hung from above. Gold and red.
Some ornamental. Some not.
And there, seated on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed and a cup of fresh tea balanced on one knee, was Asmodra.
She was still mostly dressed in the scorched remains of her crimson silk—though now her skin glowed faintly with restored power, her hair perfectly groomed, her eyes watching him with unsettling calm.
"Good morning, my flame," she said, sipping elegantly. "You snore."
Rein stared at her.
"I—why am I naked?"
She tilted her head, genuinely confused. "You were overheated. I adjusted your layers. You're welcome."
"I'm not your pillow toy!"
"Not yet," she said pleasantly. "But I remain hopeful."
Rein scrambled off the bed, searching for clothes that weren't there. "You can't just strip people and trap them in—what even is this place?!"
She set her teacup down on a floating shelf that appeared out of nowhere and gestured grandly.
"Welcome to your personal sanctum," she said. "Woven from my mana. Grown from my thorns. Guarded by my wrath. No light touches it without my permission."
Rein looked at the walls.
They did look alive.
And the fact that he couldn't see any exits was now becoming deeply concerning.
"I want out."
"You'll change your mind."
"I won't!"
She stood slowly, bare feet silent on the pulsing floor.
"Rein," she said softly, stepping close.
"I gave you my name. I shared my essence. I burned a piece of my soul to form this sanctuary. That tea you brewed? It connected us. You don't know what you did."
He swallowed. "Then tell me."
She smiled. It was devastating.
"You made a Demon Lord feel loved."
Asmodra raised a hand.
At her command, the walls shifted. A panel peeled open, revealing a tall mirror ringed in rose-thorn carvings.
But this wasn't a reflection.
It was a window.
And in it, Rein saw his village.
Or what was left of it.
Ash. Cinders. Black soil curling in slow spirals as red petals floated where people used to live. His field was gone. His roof. His bed. His herb racks, the old birch tree he carved initials into when he was nine—all of it—wiped from the face of the world.
"No," he whispered.
He stepped toward it.
Hands trembling.
The image didn't change.
His voice rose. "No. No no no—this isn't real. This is a trick."
"I removed distractions," Asmodra said softly.
"You—" He turned, his voice cracking. "You burned it?! My house—my home—those people!"
"Unnecessary. They would've interfered."
"They were my neighbors!"
"They didn't protect you," she said. "They didn't worship you. They used you, feared you, ignored you. I watched from afar. You were alone. Until me."
He stared at her, color draining from his face. "You murdered everyone."
"I freed you."
"You think that's the same thing?"
He looked at her now not with confusion—but with raw, shaking anger.
"I should have left you to die in my field."
Asmodra's expression didn't change. But her voice lowered.
"You're hurt. That's expected."
"Expected?" he hissed. "You burned everything I've ever known!"
Her hand reached toward him. He slapped it away.
"Don't touch me."
The vines in the walls tensed.
Asmodra blinked. Slowly.
"You'll forgive me," she said calmly. "Eventually."
"I won't."
"You will."
He turned from her, pacing—wild, trapped. His body shivered, not from cold, but from the grief pressing under his ribs like stone.
"I had a life," he said, teeth clenched. "A quiet one. You didn't ask. You just took."
Asmodra stepped forward again, slower this time. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I am a Demon Lord," she said. "I do not ask."
She reached out again, slower. Brushed his cheek.
"One day, you'll look at me… and call me yours."
His heart thundered. His throat was dry.
And despite everything—grief, fury, fear—
Something inside him still reacted to her touch.
And that terrified him more than anything else.