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Chapter 2 - Prologue: Stolen Opportunities-I

Year 1470 —

The Seraphs were creatures above all others. With wings like carved marble and faces too beautiful to belong to mortals, they strode through the world as if it were theirs by divine right. In Salestas, the kingdom that worshipped them, wings meant power, and the wingless were little more than dust. Only humans of noble birth scraped together a semblance of dignity; the rest starved in gutters or bent their backs beneath Seraph oppression.

And on that blackened night in Salestas, fire had devoured a human village. Flames rose like a funeral pyre, staining the sky red and drowning the streets in ash and screams. Cries for mercy cut through the crackle of burning wood, desperate, raw, and hopeless.

And yet, he only watched.

The man stood before the inferno with an expression as cold as the winter sea. The light of the blaze washed over his pale features, gilding his lashes with blood red fire. His icy gaze did not waver as he stared into the carnage, as though the suffering were nothing more than a reflection in glass.

But then his gaze narrowed, as if a thought, an unwelcome one, had crept into his mind. A flicker of something unspoken crossed his face. Not pity, never pity. Something sharper. Something that was akin to annoyance.

"Milord, forgive my forwardness," a voice of a man echoed from his back, a knight dressed in the silver armor had knelt on one knee as he spoke to the man, "You are far behind the appointed time to see His Highness."

"I know. I don't plan to see him," answered the Lord of the hundred men behind him, all dressed with weapons that could viciously kill in contrast to his otherwordly beauty that almost compare to angels. "A mere prince wish to have me at the beck and call to abide by his orders. He must have forgot who I am."

The knight also agreed with the thought. The man who had called for his master's presence was the newly appointed crown prince who rose after the death of his half brother a month before. Since then, as if to exercise his authority or perhaps to fulfill his own vanity, the newly appointed crown prince demanded his master to the palace whenever he wishes, forgetting the fact that he was not a man that anyone could simply lead by words.

"He won't be pleased," the knight lamented only to hear the crawl of deep chuckle coming from the man whose purple eyes had narrowed upon the fire.

"Apollo, it seems you have forgotten something," sang the Lord with a grin that pulled the sides of his red lips. When he turned around the black wings that had been covered by his cloak shifted, letting the moonlight above him to cast a silver glow that shone over his luscious inky feathers.

Just like his beautiful midnight feather was a fave that was carved by the Gods themselves, an ethereal handsome face that cast over with an icy smile, like an angel whose purpose was to take lives, an angel of death.

"You should never worry whether someone is pleased by my actions," he said, voice smooth, almost lazy, yet carrying the weight of inevitability. "Only worry when I am displeased by theirs. There is no one in this world whose favor I need but my own. Understood, Apollo?"

His words rolled out with a casual elegance, as though he had just been observing a village burn to ash and the screams of its people were nothing more than background music.

"Let us see what that foolish crown prince does next," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his crimson lips. "I cannot wait to watch him humiliate himself further. Now, we leave."

He turned toward the carriage nestled beneath the oak tree. The rest of his men rose in unison, saluting as it drove off. "Have a safe journey, Milord!" they called, their voices united and disciplined.

Far from the burning village, on the opposite side of Salestas, a young winged man paced restlessly in one of the palace drawing rooms. His silver-blue wings twitched with irritation. He bit down on his lower lip until blood welled out, stealing a furious glance at the clock before stomping the floor in frustration. His anger boiled over; he smashed the crystal drink on the table, shattering plates and sending shards clattering across the marble.

A startled maid rushed forward to clean up the mess, only to have the prince step on her hand in his fury, crushing her fingers beneath his sole. He snapped at the butler, who stood rigidly, expression blank, unmoved even as the prince's temper raged.

"Where is he? Where is Lord Hades?!" the prince demanded, blue eyes flashing like ice. "Didn't you send the decree? Didn't you summon him to the palace to see me?"

The elderly butler, though wise and loyal, could only shake his head. He knew the crown prince's obsession: to control Lord Hades, one of the seven lords of Salestas. Hades, the only black winged Seraph whose very presence forced the kingdom to its knees, whose authority was so absolute that even the King himself dared not command him as he will.

After all, it was known that when someone dare to press Hades's buttons what they receive was their own demise. The late King had learned about this but this newly appointed Crown Prince, still green and wet behind the ears wouldn't know how his arrogant act as though though the realm's most fearsome being could be commanded like a servant was going to only serve him as a death sentence.

"I had summoned the Lord, Your Highness, and I had made sure that the decree has been accepted," the butler answered, "But as you have been aware, Lord Hades isn't someone who fits to the molds and follow the rules."

"Yet he came to see my late brother whenever he wished. What is it that Eamonn could do that I could not?!" The Crown Prince gripped his hands tighter to the glass on his hand before throwing it across the ground until it had hit the quivering human who was on the corner of the room with a collar around her neck.

The glass that had hit break and shattered when it reached the floor but despite bleeding from the cut, the girl who was collared uttered not even a single word, suppressing the sound of pain that was about to escape from her mouth with her flustered hands.

"Your Highness, quell your anger," the butler pleaded as he knelt to the ground.

"How can I quell my anger when that Hades dares to look down on me?!"

The Crown Prince raked his fingers through his golden hair, wings trembling violently behind him. The brilliance of his long white feathers seemed to hiss with his fury, a living echo of his rage.

Since ascending to the throne's shadow, Cyril had known respect was not granted freely—it had to be seized, forged by bending the great Lords of Salestas to his will. It had been no simple task. Each of the seven Lords was proud, haughty, immovable in their own right. And yet, through unrelenting effort, Cyril had brought more than half to his side. Their allegiance had proven intoxicating; their eagerness to bend, proof that his path to power was certain.

But one obstacle remained.

Hades Valentine.

Lord of the Northern Salestas. A man set apart not only by his immense power but by the shadow of his wings— black where all others shone white. For years he had been shunned, whispered about as cursed, defective. Cyril, like many, had dismissed him at first. Surely such a stain among seraphs would submit when the majority stood united. Surely even he would bow.

But Hades had not bowed. He had not even wavered. He had simply stood apart, unyielding, regarding Cyril with the faintest trace of disdain, as though he never once existed in Hade's line of sight.

And that— Cyril could not forgive.

"That defective, cursed wretch dares to defy me?!" His voice cracked like lightning, raw and venomous. "How dare he! He is nothing but a black-winged shadow, a servant by blood and by law. He exists to obey me!"

Cyril's lips split under the force of his teeth, blood beading at the corner of his mouth. His chest rose and fell in harsh bursts, fury consuming him until every breath felt like fire.

No matter the cost, he vowed, Hades would break. He would bow. And he would never again look down on the Crown Prince of Salestas.

"Your Highness—!" The butler stumbled forward, fear etched across his face as he reached toward the trembling seraph when he saw the blood from Cyril's lips. 

"He isn't perfect, is he?" Cyril's lips stretched into a grin, wide and gleaming, madness flickering in his eyes. "There is one flaw, one weakness he cannot hide. He still lacks a soulmate."

"Your Highness...?" The butler stiffened, unease bleeding into his voice. "A soulmate binds a seraph's very soul. It is no trivial matter."

"Exactly." Cyril's laughter was low, simmering with venom. His blue eyes darkened into steel, sharp with malice. "That is why no one can touch him. That is why no one can control him. But once he has a soulmate—once that bond becomes his chain—he will learn what it means to be weak. And if I hold that chain..." He bared his teeth in something that was not quite a smile. "Then even Hades will kneel. He will be nothing more than an obedient mutt at my heel."

The butler's stomach turned cold. He bowed his head to mask the terror in his face, though his thoughts ran wild. To shackle Hades Valentine was no triumph— it was suicide. A creature forged in scorn and hatred, Hades had risen higher than any dared imagine. His black wings were proof of defiance, proof that even the laws of their kind could not cage him. Not even the King himself could bend him.

And Cyril—the foolish, arrogant Cyril—believed he could succeed where heaven and hell alike had failed?

The butler said nothing. He was old enough to know that words would not turn a Crown Prince from ruin. Instead, he lowered his gaze and prayed silently. For Salestas. For the realm. For whatever poor soul would be cast as Hades's "weakness."

For what kind of soulmate could ever charm the lord of black wings?

No— this scheme was no chain for Hades. It was the tinder that would instead set the Crown Prince ablaze.

And in the butler's heart, he knew Cyril's reign would not last long. Unlike the late prince, wise enough to never cross the shadow of the North, Cyril was leaping headfirst into the maw of Hell itself.

"I have an order—" Cyril declared, his grin splitting wider with each word. "A ball. Yes. A grand ball! Summon every maiden of Salestas— humans, seraphs, noble or common, so long as they are unmarried. We are about to fasten a shackle around that cursed black winged seraph, and I will have it done in splendor. Make it the most dazzling ball of the century!"

One week later, dawn stretched pale light over a quiet human town. Frost clung to fences and rooftops, and the streets still dozed in silence. At a modest cottage, the clang of the mailbox startled the hush.

A young girl shuffled out with a sleepy yawn, brushing strands of hair from her face. She reached into the iron box, tugging free the morning paper, then froze at the glint of cream white parchment beneath it.

Her eyes widened. "Mama! Mama!" she cried, clutching the envelope to her chest as if it were spun from gold. "Oh dear heavens— it's from the castle! A royal invitation!"

The seal of Salestas gleamed red against the ivory fold. To her, it was a dream, a promise of gowns and music, of a chance to step into a world of glittering seraphs.

But the envelope was more than lace and promise. It was a snare, a silent thread in a scheme woven from obsession and envy. And though the girl could not know it yet, every maiden who received that seal had just been swept into the storm brewing around Lord Hades.

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