If meeting the Lady of Birth marked the inception of his new life, encountering the Lady of Fate bestowed meaning upon it. Having obliterated everyone who bore the Severan name, he found himself with no family to return to, rendering the twenty years of his mortal existence seemingly a futile expenditure of blood, sweat, and tears.

Centuries ago, on a cold winter evening, Lady Nova, the Lady of Birth, declared that it was time for him to meet Lady Fate. After nursing him back to health and strength, she deemed it necessary for him to undergo rigorous transformation of the arduous process of becoming immortal. Severan, still young and bold, willingly consented, harbouring no affinity for mortality or the follies of mortal life.

Raised in The Great Severan: the Raven Clan, whose veins pulsed with magic like all the seven others, Dev was already aware of the existence of the Three Forces. However, it wasn't until he encountered Lady Birth, and later the former Lord of Death that he realised the importance of approaching Lady Fate with caution.

Despite her portrayal as an antagonist, Lady Fate was, in essence, not malevolent, as Devereaux discovered centuries later. She possessed kindness, gentleness, and an understanding nature, displaying a certain degree of genius in her dealings. Although her line of work often cast her as the orchestrator of harsh destinies, Devereaux questioned whether her enjoyment of it truly made her the villain.

Turning a mortal into an immortal was no mere gimmick; it was a complex process that demanded dedication and endurance. The process of transcending mortality was as challenging as being reborn, maintaining perfect vitality, and preserving his soul within his eighteen-year-old body. Although young and bold, Severan willingly gave his consent, eager to shed his mortal limitations.

For five long years, Severan navigated the stages of transformation much like a chrysalis undergoing the intricate metamorphosis that would ultimately unveil a resplendent butterfly. Within the cocoon of time, the very core of his existence underwent a profound and irreversible change. Throughout this transformative journey, Severan faced trials and challenges that tested the limits of his resilience and strength. With every stage completed, he emerged from the crucible of change, not only transformed but imbued with newfound power and vitality.

The once-raven sovereign emerged a thousand times stronger and more powerful. Just, in hindsight though, he was now in debt—indebted to the mysterious forces that had shaped his immortal existence; the 'Ten Thousand Assignments', as Lady Moira preferred to name it.

The first ever assignment came in a gilded envelope carried by a creature akin to a hound covered in snow like ivory fur and a pair of bat wings. It was his first time seeing such a creature but it did not stop him from befriending that thing. After a chit chat with it he had soonly realised the name was Rogue and his kin had been messengers across realms for generations.

His first assignment had been quite simple. He was tasked to Harvest the Echoes of Forgotten Memories. Lady Moira had entrusted Severan with the responsibility of collecting the lingering echoes of memories forgotten by mortals, a task that requires delicate extraction without disrupting the natural order. Exactly a century and a half from reaching mortality he was back at the immortal realm fulfilling his task. It did not take him more than ten full moons for completion.

Not longer than that he got his second assignment. A one that tested his patience and required so much attention that almost made him exhausted. He was tasked as Guardian of the Enchanted Timepiece and was to protect an enchanted sand-dial that controlled the flow of time in the Sahel region. It had also been the birthplace of his messenger buddy, Rogue.

Severan had spent over two decades at Sahel, an ivory coated beast with wings tailing him like a lapdog, till the threat was finally gone preventing any tampering or misuse that could lead to catastrophic temporal consequences. Everything appeared to be in perfect harmony in his life. Despite no longer holding the mantle of a ruler, he revelled in the simple joys of existence. Surrounded by souls who genuinely cared for him, ready to celebrate his successes, offer guidance, and stand by his side in times of need, his immortal life was a tapestry woven with contentment.

Like this one after one he had been delivered with assignments whether it to be Protect the Last Bloom of the Eternal Blossom that was his ninety ninth assignment, Guide a Lost Soul to Rest which was the five hundredth or Retrieve the Stolen Starlight the thousandth he had always managed to fulfil them without a problem. That impressed the beare impressionable Lady Moira resulting him to be assigned as Guardian of the Ephemeral Gateway. That was where he met Lord Gan; the Dagasha Monarch.

Mesmerising emerald eyes, pale skin, silverish curls framing his chiselled face, and a never-wavering smile with a story similar to him, the former Lord of Death was the most frequent to cross the Ephemeral Gateway mystical gateway that allowed passage between different realms, the two became pals in no time. Perhaps it was a bit too early to be labelling a bond, for people were to change over time, but Devereaux was convinced that Gan Gagagore was the first true friend he got—a loyal companion in a life where such bonds were rare for the raven-shapeshifter.

Of being neglected by kin and left to die alone, Devereaux failed to see it was empathy that bound them together.

As the old adage goes, every good thing must come to an end. For Devereaux, the fall of Gan signaled the beginning of his own unraveling, casting a long shadow over the seemingly perfect existence he had so carefully built. Fate, it seemed, had other plans. And as if to twist the knife further, his latest assignment—a milestone marking his ten-thousandth—turned out to be none other than Ada Levessa Romersai. Of course, it would be her, the one complication he had hoped to avoid. Fate, as always, had a flair for the dramatic.

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"My Lord, are you even listening to me?" A soft feminine voice chimed next to Devereaux breaking him out of his drunken haze. He blinked. Once. twice. Till finally the bamboo roof and the multitude of dream catchers hanging from it came into focus.

"Yeah, yeah. What were you saying again?" he shook his head, training his eyes on the goddess of a beauty lying next to him.

In the soft glow of moonlight, her bare skin glistened like pearls adorning the night, each curve a testament to the artistry of nature. She lay upon her side, the gentle contours of her form casting delicate shadows upon the fabric that draped her thighs and concealed her modesty, a swath of luxurious silk that whispered of opulence and decadence.

Her curly black hair cascaded in wild abandon, framing her face with an untamed allure that spoke of passion unrestrained. Charcoal eyes, deep and mysterious, captured the essence of the night sky, their oceanic hues swirling with secrets untold. Bold red lips, plush and inviting, beckoned with promises of sweet surrender, a tantalising invitation to lose oneself in the depths of desire. A single tassel earring adorned her ear, a survivor of the heat of the moment, its presence a silent witness to the passion that had consumed them both.

"You're not even listening. You've been preoccupied the whole damn night." She complained in a whiny voice.

Devereaux, though usually disdainful of whiny women, was too intoxicated to care. "Something's on my mind, and it's troubling me. I'm sorry," he murmured. Mostly to himself, uncertain of who deserved the apology the most.

Given the permission she rolled over to cuddled herself to his bare chest, enjoying the warmth of his mostly bare body. His body heat has risen a tad bit, a little higher than when they have started for the night. Those cold limbs had almost convinced her he was a walking corpse.

"Talk to me. It'll ease your mind. Your preoccupation isn't doing either of us any good," she urged, her slender fingers tracing the contours of his chiselled face with gentle precision. He looked devine. Too perfect to be human. And she wondered how almost all the mages she had met in her life came to be so. She doubted it was their hand in magic.

Devereaux gave it another try to break through the haze in his head. "How do you view love?" he asked, a little slur punctuating his syllables here and there.

"Love?" the beauty chuckled. "You're asking such a tough question from a whore like me who sells her body for some coins pretty much every night."

Her eyes searched for his and for a moment they locked in silence exchange of emotions. Neither of them could understand the other despite the message being delivered loud and clear. The Dark Lord was to break the contact first as his gaze shifted to the flickering candle on the small wooden table placed a little away from the comfortable bed.

"Humans. I can't understand them. It's been so long, yet I still haven't figured it out," he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration.

"What's this?" she teased. "You speak as though you've lived for centuries. One might even mistake you for something other than human."

Devereaux didn't bother to explain. Another word and he'd be risking blowing his cover. She was a minor mage at best, someone whose abilities posed no real threat. A simple, weak spell would have been enough to deal with her, but the Dark Lord wasn't in the mood for confrontation tonight.

Instead, he lay there, eyes fixed on the bamboo ceiling above, as his mind churned. The muffled sounds of the patrons enjoying themselves in the bar below were distant, too faint to silence the chaos within his own head. His thoughts spiraled, louder than any noise outside, and for a moment, he let them. Rest was elusive, just like the answers he sought.

"I need more Snarl," he declared abruptly, his desire for oblivion outweighing his rationality.

"You've already had plenty," she remarked, eyeing the scattered bottles strewn across the floor.

"I still feel too sober for this shit," he grumbled. "Moira is trying to have my head. She enjoys my suffering."

Then he heard the rustle of fabric as the woman next to him rose from the bed, her movements fluid and graceful. She adjusted the silk draped over her bare body, securing some semblance of modesty, and without a word, began to make her way to the door. Devereaux's gaze lingered, following the rhythmic sway of her curvy form as she slipped into the shadows.

He knew she'd return with more alcohol, just as he'd requested. The thought brought no comfort, only a deepening sense of exhaustion. With a weary sigh, he let his heavy eyelids fall shut, surrendering to the darkness, if only for a while, as he waited for her return.

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The piercing scream shattered the tranquillity of Devereaux's slumber, jolting him awake with a start. He sat on the edge of his bed, shaking his head violently in an attempt to grasp the reality of the situation. A sense of foreboding settled over him like a heavy shroud. The bed beside her was still empty. Amarthe had never returned.

The next moment, a cacophony of loud thuds, bangs, crashes, and scatters assaulted his ears, accompanied by more screams and wails that echoed through the corridors. The Dark Lord could no longer passively await guessing the unfolding chaos. He hastily retrieved his pants and customary turtleneck, grateful for the presence of the rings adorning his fingers, spared from being discarded in the heat of the moment. Amidst the sea of clothes, articles, pillows, sheets, and empty bottles strewn across the room, finding them would have been a daunting task indeed.

Once dressed, Devereaux wasted no time in exiting the room, his senses on high alert as he made his way towards the balcony overlooking the bustling bar below. From this vantage point, he could discern the source of the commotion, his keen eyes scanning the chaotic scene unfolding before him.

Near the entrance, a group of men cornered a lone victim. Their eyes gleamed with malice, lips curled into cruel sneers as they encircled him like predators closing in on prey. In the dim light, a blade flashed, cutting through the air with merciless precision. Flesh and tendon parted under the cold steel, and the victim's scream was drowned by the gruesome sound of tearing skin. Blood spattered across the walls in an arc, staining the tavern with yet another layer of crimson, a grim mural of the night's violence.

In the midst of the chaos, two men grappled violently, their faces twisted in primal rage and desperation. With a sickening crunch, one of them plunged a broken bottle into the other's throat, the jagged glass tearing through skin and sinew with terrifying ease. A strangled, gurgling cry escaped the wounded man's lips as blood gushed from the wound, cascading down his chest and pooling on the floor in deep crimson streaks.

Around them, the tavern had descended into pure mayhem, a whirl of fists, splintered wood, and shattered glass. The frenzied brawl continued as bodies collided with brutal force. Tables were overturned, chairs broken into fragments, and the air was filled with the symphony of destruction—grunts, crashes, and the sharp shattering of bottles.

Scanning over the fallen heads and bodies littering the floor, Devereaux's eyes zeroed in on a certain corpse. The woman lay almost bare, her dignity barely preserved by the blood-soaked silk clinging to her form, a shard of porcelain embedded in her neck. The neck of a white porcelain bottle, its bottom missing in action still held securely in her clenched hand. Closing his eyes, Devereaux tuned into the rhythm of her slowing heart. He was expecting her to return with more liquor not to die. 

"Shit," he cursed under his breath.

"My lord," a gnarled voice rasped next to his ear. Opening his eyes, he was met with inky orbs devoid of white.

"Directly from hell, huh?" The Dark Lord smirked.

"Some escorts. Yes," the newcomer answered with a submissive tone.

As if on cue, more figures in ebony cloaks manifested in the bar area below, appearing like mushrooms blooming out of nowhere. They moved with grace and precision amidst the chaos, untouched by the violence surrounding them, their veiled features shrouded in mystery. Silvers, in contrast to the ebonies, seemed to trail from the falling bodies, a haunting reminder of mortality.

"A lot of reaping to do here tonight. Alright, carry on," the Dark Lord commanded with a heavy sigh, gesturing towards the stairs descending to the bar section, allowing his companion with the black eyes to depart.

Making his way back to the room, he retrieved his veil and cloak, his mind heavy with the weight of the night's events. He glanced back at the pouch of coins on the bedside table, the payment he had intended for Amarthe, and sighed.

"I hope someone will find this and buy flowers for your grave," he murmured, the pouch briefly glowing with ethereal light before returning to its mundane state.

With a solemn resolve, the Dark Lord stepped out of the room. That's when the world around him started to spin, in a sudden, disorienting dance. And before he could comprehend what was happening, he found himself transported to the grounds of Crepusculem, his will no longer his own.