I am Seraphine.
Among devils, we did not use names the way other races did.
We called each other through telepathy — emotions carried meaning better than words ever could.
The name "Seraphine" was not given by my father.
It was given by my brother.
He used to smile and say,
"You are an angel. A name like Seraphine should be honored to have you."
When I was born, my father was not present.
He was a warlord — one of the strongest devils in the entire clan.
War was his language. Absence was his habit.
My mother had already died at my birth.
So it was my brother — only nine years old — who held me first.
Devil blood matures faster than other races.
At nine, he already carried himself like a young knight.
He fed me.
He dressed me.
He stayed beside me when the nights were too quiet.
Our village was not like the horror stories others tell about devils.
It was built from black stone and dark timber strong enough to withstand tornadoes and floods.
Blood candles lit the streets — conjured artifacts that required only a drop of blood to awaken and would burn endlessly after.
They did not consume blood.
They remembered it.
Our village stood on a dusty plain where desert met greenery.
In the center rose a modest castle — built not for power, but for gratitude.
The villagers had constructed it for my father.
He was not their ruler.
He was their shield.
For years, I believed we were peaceful.
I was wrong.
They were not peaceful devils.
They were retired soldiers.
Devils who had survived wars too cruel to speak of.
Devils who had committed acts they could never apologize for — because their enemies were already dead.
My father gave them refuge.
And in that refuge, they tried to become something softer.
But they never forgot what they were.
I remember the day clearly.
I was sitting by the small window in my room — the one with the cushioned seat where I could see the entire village below.
My room was simple.
A single bed with royal curtains.
A dressing table shaped like something from an elven queen's chamber.
A wardrobe beside the wall.
A chandelier above.
I did not use blood candles in my room.
I preferred ordinary light.
My brother entered quietly.
"What are you doing, Seraphine?"
His voice was always calm. Respectful. Warm.
He wore light armor — flexible, elegant.
Red fabric beneath a dark coat.
Black buttons aligned with precision.
His long hair brushed his neck.
A scar marked his left eye — but it made him look majestic, not broken.
"Just watching the village," I replied.
He smiled faintly.
"Father won't return today. He's training new recruits."
I tried not to sound sad.
"It's okay… but he shouldn't break promises."
Then I saw them.
Dragons.
A horde of them.
Shadows crossing the sky.
My brother froze.
"…What?"
He rushed to the window.
His expression changed.
Father wasn't there.
He grabbed me and placed me inside the wardrobe.
"No matter what happens, do not come out."
Then he ran.
The dragons descended like judgment.
Stone and wood — structures meant to withstand storms — shattered as if made of sand.
Purple flames erupted across rooftops.
Not ordinary fire.
Shadowed fire.
It swallowed wood, stone, flesh — everything.
The blood candles melted.
Screams echoed — not only in the air, but inside my mind.
Devil telepathy does not fade easily.
Even in death, emotion lingers.
I heard them.
Not begging for life.
Accepting death.
Some voices cried:
"Kill us — not the women and children."
"We fought you. Not them."
It was haunting.
More haunting because they were not surprised.
They always knew this day would come.
They simply never prepared for it.
My Brother's Last Stand
He fought five dragons alone.
He killed four.
By the time he faced the last one, he was barely standing.
Blood covered him.
But he did not retreat.
He cast his final spell.
Flame of Glory.
A forbidden technique.
It burned more than mana.
It burned emotion.
Memory.
Essence.
It absorbed everything — until nothing remained.
The final dragon died.
He returned to my room.
Bleeding.
Smiling.
"I stopped you from coming out… didn't I, Seraphine?"
I had disobeyed.
I had watched from the window.
He patted my head with bloodstained hands.
"Leave this village someday. Never enter a battlefield like this."
Then he fell.
He never rose again.
When my father returned and saw the destruction, he did not scream.
He did not cry.
He looked at my brother's body.
Then at me.
And in his eyes, I saw it.
It should have been me.
Not him.
He never said it.
He didn't have to.
From that day forward, he never looked at me the same way again.
Now, shadow slave
he stands frozen inside Mira's Domain.
The Devil's Eyes had awakened.
My blood runs through him.
And even now… even frozen… I can still feel the echo of his emotions inside that moment.
He was terrified.
Not of me.
Of something else.
Of them.
The devils of my village.
But how?
They have been dead for more than ten years.
Who could he have met?
Why did his fear feel like recognition?
As if he had seen them before.
As if he knew them.
That makes no sense.
And yet…
There was something else I cannot ignore.
When he looked at them — at the image of my people —
It was not hatred I felt from him.
It was shock.
And something close to grief.
Why did it look like my brother?
Not my home.
Not the castle.
Not the flames.
My brother.
Why did that image linger the strongest inside him?
Why, even after what he did — drawing my blood without hesitation — did I still sense warmth from him?
Protection.
The same quiet steadiness my brother once carried.
It should disgust me.
It should anger me.
And yet…
It does not.
Instead, it unsettles me.
Have I misunderstood him from the beginning?
Was that act cruelty?
Or desperation?
What kind of person fears dead devils?
And why did that fear feel… protective?
I do not understand him anymore.
And that frightens me more than the dragons ever did.