The night Elara died, it was raining.
Not the soft kind of rain that makes the world romantic.
Not the gentle drizzle lovers kiss under.
It was violent.
The kind that blurred headlights into bleeding streaks of red and white.
The kind that drowned out thoughts.
She shouldn't have been driving that late.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as thunder split the sky. The road ahead shimmered like liquid glass.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
Unknown Number.
She ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
"Persistent," she muttered.
Lightning flashed — for a split second, the world turned white.
Her screen lit up.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
Something inside her chest tightened.
A strange feeling.
Like someone was watching.
She shouldn't have looked down.
But she did.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
When she looked up—
A truck.
Too close.
Too fast.
Wrong lane.
Her breath stopped.
There was no time to scream.
Only the deafening crunch of metal.
The world spun.
Glass shattered.
Pain exploded through her body like fire under her skin.
Then silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Darkness swallowed her.
There was no hospital.
No white lights.
No beeping machines.
No voices crying her name.
There was only—
Void.
Endless black space.
Elara tried to breathe.
She couldn't feel her body.
Am I dead?
The thought was strangely calm.
She expected panic.
She expected regret.
Instead, there was only a cold, distant awareness.
Then—
A voice.
Mechanical.
Emotionless.
"System initializing."
Her mind jolted.
"What?"
Her voice echoed strangely — like it wasn't coming from lungs.
"Soul confirmed. Compatibility: 98%."
"Excuse me?!"
"Transmigration protocol activated."
A sharp pressure stabbed through her skull.
Memories that weren't hers flooded her mind.
Fire.
A throne.
Crimson eyes.
A castle built from black stone.
Screams.
And a man sitting on a throne carved from bones.
Her heart — or whatever replaced it — pounded.
"No. No, no, no."
"Mission assigned."
A glowing screen appeared before her in the darkness.
Mission: Marry the Demon Lord.
Objective: Make him fall in love.
Failure Condition: Permanent soul destruction.
She stared at it.
This had to be a hallucination.
A dying brain's final fantasy.
"This isn't funny."
"Transport commencing."
The void shattered.
Cold.
That was the first thing she felt.
Cold air brushing against her skin.
The smell of smoke.
Iron.
Blood.
She gasped.
Real air filled her lungs — too sharp, too heavy.
She was kneeling.
Her hands pressed against stone.
Rough. Cold. Real.
Voices surrounded her.
Deep.
Growling.
Inhuman.
"She's awake."
"Another human sacrifice."
"Won't last until dawn."
Her head snapped up.
Torches lined massive black pillars.
A grand hall stretched endlessly upward.
And towering above her—
Creatures.
Humanoid.
But wrong.
Horns.
Clawed hands.
Eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Demons.
Her breath trembled.
This isn't real. This isn't real.
Her body felt different.
Lighter.
Stronger.
She looked down.
She wasn't wearing jeans anymore.
She wore a long white ceremonial gown.
Her wrists were chained.
Cold metal bit into her skin.
Memory flooded her mind again.
This body.
This world.
She had entered a novel.
A tragic fantasy novel she had read months ago.
And she wasn't the heroine.
She was—
The disposable bride.
The one offered to the Demon Lord every year as part of a false "peace treaty."
The one who died before sunrise.
Her pulse spiked.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Okay. Think."
The demons parted.
Silence fell like a blade.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall.
Slow.
Measured.
Each step made the air tighten.
She didn't want to look.
She had to look.
Her gaze lifted.
And she saw him.
Black armor that seemed to drink the torchlight.
Long dark hair falling over broad shoulders.
Pale skin.
Crimson eyes that glowed faintly — not bright, not dramatic.
Just cold.
Like embers that never died.
He didn't look monstrous.
He looked—
Beautiful.
Terrifyingly so.
The Demon Lord.
Kaelthar Veyrion.
He descended the steps of his throne with unhurried grace.
The hall was silent enough to hear her own heartbeat.
He stopped in front of her.
She refused to lower her eyes.
His gaze met hers.
It felt like being dissected.
Measured.
Judged.
No emotion.
No curiosity.
Just quiet calculation.
"So," his voice echoed — deep, smooth, lethal.
"Another offering."
Her throat felt dry.
This was the part in the novel where he killed her without speaking further.
Quick.
Clean.
Merciless.
She swallowed.
If she panicked, she would die.
If she begged, she would die.
If she insulted him, she would definitely die.
Think, Elara.
His fingers lifted slightly.
A subtle gesture.
Her chains snapped open.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.
Close enough to see faint scars across his collarbone beneath the armor.
"You are not trembling," he observed.
Her voice surprised even her.
"I don't think it would help."
A murmur spread among the demons.
His red eyes narrowed slightly.
"Most cry."
"I don't like wasting my last moments."
A dangerous silence.
He tilted his head.
Studying her.
Something unreadable flickered in his gaze.
Amusement?
Curiosity?
Or was she imagining it?
He raised one hand.
Dark energy gathered around his fingers.
This is it.
Her mind raced.
If she dies now, the mission fails.
Permanent soul destruction.
She didn't even know what that meant — but it sounded final.
She blurted the first thing that came to her mind.
"If you're going to kill me—"
The energy paused.
"—can I eat first?"
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Several demons stared at her like she had grown wings.
Kaelthar's expression didn't change.
But the energy faded from his hand.
"Explain."
Her heart was slamming violently now.
"If I'm dying anyway… I'd rather not be hungry."
A reckless smile touched her lips.
"Dying with an empty stomach feels unfair."
Another long silence.
Then—
Something unexpected happened.
A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth.
Not a smile.
Not fully.
But enough.
The entire hall seemed to freeze.
The Demon Lord turned slightly.
"Prepare food."
The demons erupted into whispers.
"She lives until dawn."
He looked back at her.
"You may eat."
Her breath caught.
She wasn't dead.
Not yet.
The system voice echoed faintly in her mind.
"Unexpected variable detected."
Kaelthar leaned closer.
His shadow engulfed her.
"If you attempt to flee," he said softly,
"I will tear your soul apart."
It wasn't said in anger.
It was a simple fact.
She believed him.
"I won't run," she replied.
Because she couldn't.
Because she had nowhere to go.
Because survival meant something far more dangerous now.
Making the Demon Lord fall in love.
His crimson eyes lingered on her face for a second longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
"Let us see," he murmured quietly, almost to himself,
"how long you survive."
As he ascended back toward the throne, Elara exhaled slowly.
Her legs trembled now that he was gone.
But she didn't collapse.
She lifted her chin.
Fine.
If this world wanted her to survive a monster—
Then she would survive him.
And if she had to make a demon fall in love…
She would start by living past sunrise.
The torches flickered.
The castle breathed like a living thing.
And somewhere above the throne—
Crimson eyes watched her.
Not with hunger.
Not yet.
But with something far more dangerous.
Interest.