In the hushed embrace of the night, Devereaux stood like a silent sentinel, watching over Ada as she surrendered to the peaceful realm of dreams. The room, adorned in the muted hues of black and grey, exuded an ethereal serenity. The flickering flames in the fireplace cast dancing shadows, painting a canvas of tranquillity.

The walls, adorned with intricate vine decorations, boasted a rough but vibrant green hue added a touch of nature to the otherwise dark aesthetic.

The centrepiece of the room was a stately bed, draped in soft grey beddings, perched on a platform of black oak. The grey seamlessly blended with the walls, creating a sense of cohesion.

The flickering candle lights scattered across the chamber cast dancing shadows, adding an ethereal glow to the space

Ada lay nestled in this bed, her features softened by the gentle glow. The lines of worry etched upon her face during waking hours seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a portrait of innocence.
Her deep brown locks spilled across the pillow like cascading silk, an unruly testament to the untamed spirit that resided within her.

Her breathing, a rhythmic melody, intertwined with the gentle crackling of the fire, creating a symphony of peace in the dim-lit chamber.

Devereaux, observed her with a gaze that bespoke volumes of admiration. In this vulnerable state, she seemed a paradox–a fragile mortal whose spirit radiated a luminosity that rivalled the stars. His fingers, calloused yet tender, traced an invisible line along her cheek, marvelling at the warmth that emanated from her.

She breathed in the quiet cadence of sleep, her lips forming a serene curve, imparting a subtle grace to her slumbering countenance. The flickering firelight played upon her features, revealing the faintest flush on her cheeks from the Devil's Snarl and highlighting the delicate arch of her brows and the curve of her lips like a portrait of resilience that was painted on a canvas, a testament to the life coursing through her veins.

He lingered on the scar near her brow, a faint smile gracing his lips. He remembered hearing the backstory of that particular scar long years back. The young heiress had earned during a mock battle with her brother, training the sword. He remembered her recalling how worried the kid was after accidentally hurting his beloved sister.

The weight of empathy settled in his chest as he considered the extent Auden must have felt, the loneliness that drove him to summon a demon for his rescue. Romersai were born with the duty of combating darkness, not to cradle into it. The path Auden chose seemed a departure from that duty—a plunge into the very shadows they were meant to resist. Devereaux couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow for the young man, entangled in a web of despair that led him to desperate measures.

Beneath the empathy simmered a fierce anger, an inferno directed at the vicious snake, Gan Gagagore. The creature had shattered Ada, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. It had dismantled everything that was precious to her, and Devereaux harboured no intention of forgiving that malevolent being easily.

Countless times, he had watched Ada navigate the trials of life from the shadows. Her indomitable spirit, her unwavering determination—it was a testament to the strength that resided within her. Yet, he had maintained a careful distance, a silent observer reluctant to intervene directly. Instead, he had dispatched his trusty elf and other denizens, each tasked with safeguarding her in their own way.

The elf often regaled him with tales of Ada's adventures. Stories of her wrath, provoked by the playful misbehaviors of the very elf, echoed in the wind as they sat on a random rooftop under the dark canvas of late night sky.

Devereaux would laugh his heart hearing how Ada would turn red in anger like a ripe cherry whenever the elf messed with her food, made a mess out of her neatly arranged kitchen or gave her a jump scare, popping out of nowhere. She was not a force to be reckoned with, though the elf paid no heed to her fiery spirit.

There were nights when, unbeknownst to her, he would watch her from a rooftop in the mortal realm. The cityscape served as a backdrop to his solitary observations, only accompanying the moon that watched over his children down below. In those stolen glimpses, he saw not just a person who he used to adore, but a little girl grown to a resilient soul navigating the complexities of her existence.

In the hushed sanctuary of his bedchamber, Devereaux allowed himself a moment he had denied for far too long. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her forehead, a feather-light caress that spoke volumes of the unspoken emotions he harboured. His touch lingered as his fingers trailed through her soft locks. The strands felt as luxurious as threads of silk beneath his fingertips, and he marvelled at the delicate intricacies of her humanity, an indulgence he had denied himself for too long.

Every curve, every contour of her face held a story—a narrative of courage, love, and the unyielding spirit that refused to be extinguished. Devereaux found himself captivated by the beauty that transcended the physical. It was the beauty of a soul unyielding, a heart undaunted, and a resilience that dared to defy the encroaching shadows.

Ada stirred, awakening by his touch, her eyes slowly opening to meet his gaze. The initial surprise gave way to a realisation that painted her features with a soft warmth. Adoration blossomed in her eyes as she looked up at the Dark Lord, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection that bound them, that times apart had failed to severe.

"So it's you. You're real." Ada's voice was barely above a whisper, her fingers lightly tracing the contours of his cheekbones and the outline of his lips. The touch caught the Dark Lord off guard, but he didn't flinch. Instead, a soft smile curved his lips as he met her gaze, letting her explore the reality of him with her touch.

The soft crackle of the fireplace cast a golden glow across the room, accentuating the quiet moment that was being shared between the two lost souls, enveloped them in its pleasant warmth. The air was thick with the fragrance of aged oak and the subtle scent of vanilla, creating an ambiance that spoke of comfort and solace.

"I thought you were just a fragment of my imagination."

"I thought you believed I was real," Devereaux replied, his voice gentle as he took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a tender kiss.

"You do feel real," she remarked, her words slurred just enough to make Devereaux suppress a chuckle. Of course she'd still be a little tipsy. She had indulged in more Snarl than any human could handle.

He watched her gaze sweep across the room, realising dawn on her how she had herself enveloped in an embrace of subtle elegance and muted allure. The bedchamber, adorned in a symphony of greys and blacks, carried an aesthetic that was both enigmatic and comforting. The interplay of shadows and dim light created an atmosphere that whispered of secrets and hinted at untold stories.

"Feeling better now?"

"Mm, a lot better. The wine here tastes goooood," she slurred, her voice trailing off.

Despite his efforts, a snort of laughter escaped the Dark Lord. He quickly masked by a cough, "Yeah, you drank a lot. You're not even good with your alcohol," he teased.

Ada narrowed her eyes at him, her curiosity piqued. "You seem to know me so well."

"I'm not a stalker," Devereaux was quick to clarify, almost defensively.

"I didn't say you were." Her eyes narrowed further, as if trying to see through him. "Have we met before? I mean, not counting that time in the alley when a Nightwalker attacked me, or when you saved me from that gang—or the time I cried on your shoulder... Ugh, that was embarrassing. But I'm yet to clean ash out of my living room. You made quite a mess."

"I'm sorry. I just–I didn't expect you to remember me like that," Devereaux replied, his voice softening.

"But you sound eager for me to remember."

He was. More eager than he cared to admit, even to himself. "I've heard stories about you."

"Really? From whom?"

"An owl told me," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Ada chuckled, the sound rich and soothing, like honey poured into Devereaux's soul. "Owls tell stories to you, eh?"

"They do," he replied, his smile deepening as he caressed her hand. "Especially the ones that carry tales of you."

Ada's gaze drifted down to their intertwined hands, noticing the subtle movements of his fingers as they traced gentle patterns on her skin. The sensation was comforting, familiar even, but something else captured her attention.

It was a faint glint of light reflecting off the soft shine polished stones adorning his fingers. Every finger bore a ring, each one unique, yet all sharing a dark, mysterious beauty. The stones—no, not stones, something far more enigmatic—were a deep, glossy black, some set in ebony metal frames, others shaped from the same inky material.

She had never seen anything like them, not in all her studies of gems, rocks, volcanic sand, and the other earthly elements of magic during her school days. These...artefacts felt otherworldly, like fragments of night itself, crafted into tangible form. She admired how they graced his long, strong fingers, each ring a testament to something unknown yet deeply personal.

Without thinking much, she took his hands in hers, her fingers brushing over the cool metal, tracing the intricate designs etched into the rings. The weight of them, the way they fit perfectly against his skin, made her wonder about the stories they held.

"Like what you see?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"They're beautiful," she replied, her gaze lifting to meet his. "But they're not just statement pieces, are they?"

Devereaux shook his head slowly. "They are my testament of redemption."

"Testament of redemption?" she echoed, the words rolling off her tongue as if tasting their meaning. "What does that mean?"

A flicker of memory crossed Dev's eyes, a moment from long ago when a younger Ada had asked him the same question. It both pained him to realise she had no memory of it and comforted him to see that she hadn't changed. Her curiosity, her keen attention to the smallest details of the world around her, remained as vibrant as ever.

"Yes," he said, his voice tinged with something deeper. "I earn a gem each time I redeem one of my sins."

"The sins that brought you to hell?" she asked, her voice softening.

"The sins that made me who I am today," he replied, his gaze steady, the weight of his words hanging between them like a truth too heavy to lift.

"The Death?"

Devereaux nodded. "The Death." He echoed. 

Her finger traced along the gems, counting. There were too many to count, too many transgressions etched into the dark stones. It rattled her heart, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Everyone who had walked in darkness carried their own regrets, their own burdens. She knew this well, and empathy softened her judgement.

As her finger continued its path, she felt a sudden dip, a gap where a stone should have been. Her eyes dropped to the empty space, unfilled, and she looked back up at him with a quizzical gaze.

"It's my last redemption," he said softly, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve. "The last merit I have to commit to redeem."

She searched his eyes, and what she found oddly soothed her. The once-fiery flames that had burned with such intensity had been tamed, replaced by a tranquil surrender. Where there had been an inferno, now there was only a gentle, pale amber glow, radiating a warmth that felt like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night. His eyes, once windows to a storm, now seemed to hold the essence of peace itself.

"I asked you this before too, didn't I?" she murmured, her eyes locked onto his. For a moment, the Dark Lord felt his heart stumble, caught off guard by the recognition in her voice.

"You... you remember?" His voice was laced with surprise, disbelief even. He had been convinced she didn't. But here she was, the glimmer of something familiar in her gaze.

"Not really, no. But it feels like I have. Like a distant memory or a dream. It's as if this isn't the first time I've traced those lines, felt them under my fingers..." Her voice trailed off, her thoughts swimming in the depths of recollection.

Devereaux didn't know how to process the mix of emotions that stirred within him. It was bittersweet, a rush of hope tinged with the melancholy of lost time. Her words struck a chord, reverberating through the chambers of his heart where the past and present blurred together.

There was a longing in him—a deep, aching need to be remembered, to be more than just a shadow in her dreams. And yet, there was also a fear, a dread of what those memories might bring if they were ever fully recovered.

"It's like déjà vu," she added, her voice a whisper of realisation. "I'm sorry. I know you want me to remember."

"It's okay," Devereaux was quick to respond, but the words felt heavy on his tongue. "What matters the most is that you're safe. Me being in your life or memory isn't that important."

He could feel his heart splinter, each word fracturing it a little more. The effort to keep his voice steady cost him dearly. His eyes, usually so controlled and guarded, now threatened to betray him, shimmering with emotions he had buried deep within. Emotions he had never dared to show to the world—or to her. She was his world, and yet, he was a stranger in hers.

"This missing stone..." Her voice sliced through his internal torment, pulling him sharply back into the present.

"Sorry, what was that?" he echoed, still dazed from the emotional whirlwind she had unwittingly stirred within him.

"I mean this stone—your last merit of redemption—does that have something to do with me?" Her question was soft but pointed, carrying an undertone of certainty, as if she was already aware of the answer but needed him to confirm it.

Devereaux didn't respond immediately. He just looked at her, his eyes heavy with a longing that had been smothered for so long it had become second nature. He wrestled with the words, debating how much of the truth she was ready to hear, how much he could bear to reveal.

"Yes," he finally murmured, the word slipping out with the weight of years behind it.

"Like what?" she pressed, her curiosity now fully ignited.

"Whatever you want, I have to grant it," he said, his voice laced with the gravity of the vow that bound him.

"That's your last redemption?" Her eyes held his, refusing to let go, as if she could unravel the mystery if she stared hard enough.

"Hm," he nodded, the acknowledgment heavy with layers of unspoken truths.

"Do they have to be meritorious? What if my wish is something... bad?" she asked, the edge of her voice betraying the concern lurking beneath her question.

"It doesn't matter," he replied, meeting her gaze with a steadiness that spoke volumes. "The redemption lies in the promise I made—to someone who valued you more than anything. And I have to keep it."

"Oh," she whispered, her mind working to piece together the puzzle. "So it's not about me, then." There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, a hint of defiance. "Whoever it was, they used me for their gains."

"It's not like that!" Devereaux's voice rose slightly, charged with an urgency to set things right. "She loves you," he insisted, his tone softer now but firm. "I made a promise to your grandmother. To make your wish come true, whatever that might be."

"Oh," Her expression shifted as she absorbed this revelation, her gaze dropping from his to the fire that flickered warmly in the hearth. "I remember now. You mentioned about it before." When she let go of his hand, the sudden loss of contact cut deeper than the Dark Lord had expected.

"My Gran knew a lot of magical beings from the Dark Side," she mused, her voice distant as if recalling memories long buried. "Of course, she was one of the best mages Crepusculum ever had..." Her sentence trailed off as she stared into the fire.

Devereaux's heart ached at the sight, the physical distance between them now mirroring the emotional chasm he feared would never close. 'You knew me better. Better than your talented Gran,' he wanted to shout, but the words caught in his throat, a cry he could never voice.

"But the point is, there was only one she held on dearly to—" Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "He was for all of us." A faint smile flickered across her lips, gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving Devereaux wondering if he had imagined it.

Memories tugged at the edges of his consciousness, teasing him with fleeting images of another time, another conversation, where they had stood just like this, their lives intertwined by forces beyond their understanding. The memory was elusive, but the emotions it evoked were not. It was a feeling of something unfinished, a story with a missing ending, and he wondered if she felt it too—if she could ever feel it as he did. But she beat him to it.

"I don't really remember him anymore. I don't know why. I know he was there. But then suddenly, he wasn't. It feels like he vanished, taking all the memories we cherished with him."

Devereaux could feel his heart shatter, piece by piece falling into his gut. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, to try and make her remember. But before he could find the words, she spoke again, her voice laced with weariness.

"I'm tired," she confessed, collapsing back onto the bed, her eyes fixed on the empty ceiling above. "This race of life is exhausting."

Devereaux watched her, his heart tightening at the sight of her weariness. He wanted to take that burden from her, to shield her from the exhaustion she bore, but all he could do was stand there, helpless in the face of her fatigue.

He wanted to reach out, to hold her, to bridge the gap that her lost memories had created between them. But he knew he couldn't force her to remember, couldn't force a past she no longer recalled. All he could do was protect her, even if it meant staying in the shadows, even if it meant being forgotten. She had unknowingly become his every thought, every breath, he realised how much it hurt. The pain of loving someone who couldn't fully love him back

"I'm sorry that I haven't been there for you. I'm really sorry."

He regretted the moments he hadn't allowed himself to be present, to feel the warmth of her presence, and to revel in the shared heartbeat of the night. With each soft caress, he vowed to be a source of solace in her tumultuous journey, a guardian in the shadows no more.

"It's not your fault. I just—maybe I just need a rest," Ada replied, a soft smile playing on her lips as she held her face in her hands.

"Rest all you want. You're safe here. With me."

The warm glow of candles, scattered strategically throughout the room, danced with flickering grace, casting gentle, undulating patterns on the walls. Their flames, like delicate dancers in the night, added a soft luminescence that contrasted the otherwise deep shadows. The room seemed to cradle the fire's warmth, embracing it like an old friend.

"Can I ask for that favour—like right now?"

Outside the window, the world had dissolved into an inky abyss. A profound darkness reigned, untouched by the gentle glow of moonlight or the twinkle of stars. The sky was a deep, oppressive black, mirroring the void that seemed to echo within Ada. The absence of celestial bodies outside seemed to mirror the emptiness that echoed within Ada. It was as if the very fabric of the universe had aligned with her desolation, amplifying the weight of her words.

"You can," Devereaux replied cautiously, his voice measured. "But I suggest you think again—whatever it is you might be asking."

"Oh, no worries. I've thought and rethought it so many times now that it's the only thing I have inside this skull. It burdens me."

For a long moment, he was silent, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. He studied her with a mixture of keenness and anxiety, searching her face for any sign of hesitation. He saw the weariness in her eyes, the exhaustion that had etched itself into every line of her face. It was as if the very essence of her had been drained, leaving only the hollow shell of a person who had carried too many burdens for too long.

"Alright then, let's hear it." Finally he acquiesced.

"Reap my soul," Ada whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the profound silence. "Let me end this tiresome journey here."