PART ONE

Nightfang. The name struck fear into the hearts of many, whispered in hushed tones by parents to frighten their children at bedtime. His long black jacket, adorned with protection runes, hugged his frame like a second skin. Black spiked gloves concealed his hands, which gripped a sword with a black hilt—a blade that had tasted the blood of countless innocents.

After cleaning the blood from his blade, he sheathed it with practiced ease. He knelt by the river and threw his gloves down before cupping his hands in the water. The cold bit at his skin as he washed away the war paint, feeling the icy sting against his skin. The paint, a sinister grinning skull, was yet another aesthetic imposed by the court.

His eyes, a deep crimson red, often gleamed in the darkness. To the world, he was a beast kept locked in a dungeon until needed. They would be surprised to know he was just a boy, barely twenty. His demonic gifts, while useful, were feared and cultivated to serve the Seraphs.

Aizel. The single remnant of his true identity, etched into the gold pocket watch he kept close. It was the last fragment of a past he could no longer remember. To the world, he was the Nightfang, a specter of death bound to the Seraph Court—a malicious hunter, lurking in the shadows. A figure of terror and awe, a phantom whose legend grew with each twisted tale.

For his service, they gave him a small villa on the edge of the Netherwood, close to the great city of Serafia across the river. Wards prevented him from leaving the forest or sailing across. Only a Seraph, a semi-divine fae with silver-white hair and glistening wings, could remove them. It was only when they sent him to kill, he was allowed to wander beyond.

As he walked back to the villa, the earthy scent of damp leaves and rich soil filled the air, mingling with the faint, sweet aroma of the purple mist. The crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot was the only sound that broke the forest's stillness, each step echoing in the quiet night.

Dark wooden walls and a slanted roof were shrouded in the amethyst fog. Thick ivy creeped up the walls framing the door and windows. A narrow, winding path of flat stones led to a sturdy oak door. Lanterns hung on either side of the entrance, their dim light barely piercing the thick fog.

As Aizel stepped inside, the snug warmth welcomed him, a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The comforting aroma of burning pine from the fireplace and a hint of spices from the kitchen lingered in the air. An armchair upholstered in deep red fabric sat beside a crackling fireplace. The crackle of the fireplace added a layer of comfort to the room, the flames dancing and casting flickering shadows on the walls.

The warm glow from the lanterns placed around the room gave a soft, golden hue to the space, enhancing the rich red of the furniture and the dark, intricate carvings of the wooden table. His walls throughout the home were adorned with trophies—antlers, claws, and other keepsakes from his victims.

To the left, a sturdy wooden bookshelf reached almost to the ceiling. He’d filled it with whatever books he could swipe during his limited time away, as well as a few personal journals. The warm glow from the lanterns placed around the room cast flickering shadows all around.

He moved through the kitchen, with its heavy wooden dining table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Pots and pans hung from hooks above a stone stove, and shelves were stocked with jars of herbs, spices, and preserved goods. A window over the sink offered a view of the forest outside, framed by creeping ivy.

A narrow hallway led to the bedroom at the back and an adjoining bathroom. A bed frame made of sturdy oak lay in the corner, covered with a thick layer of animal fur. The fur, soft and warm, provided a comfortable resting place. A sturdy chest at the foot of the bed held his most prized possessions, while a simple wooden dresser against the wall was cluttered with personal items and more trophies he’d yet to display.

Aizel glanced out towards the courtyard, where a wooden walkway led from the main house to the barn where he stored his weapons. The meat house stood beside it, kept cold throughout the year with spells and runes. In the courtyard was a heated pool of water for bathing—a hot spring built in by the training yard and flower gardens.

There was no escaping without a decree from the court, so he made it as cozy as he could. The Seraphs kept him trapped, their natural enemy—a Hellion, a fae with demon blood, cast away from their home in Ambriel. His ancestors were banished here to cleanse their sins. It was said they sided with demons during a great war, mingled with them, and were cast out when their rebellion failed.

As he moved towards the garden, he spotted the housekeeper tending to the assortment of poisonous herbs. The court had named her Hekaia, but he called her Hex. She was a hauntingly beautiful presence meant to keep him company, a castaway without a clan to call her own. Clad in a long black coat accented with fur trim, she exuded an aura of dark elegance. The brooch on her chest—a coyote with a smirk—was a memento Aizel had stolen from a lordling left dead in the river months ago.

Her movements were silent, almost ghostly, the only sound was the gentle rustle of her coat and the occasional clink of her brooch. She had thick, wavy hair cascading down her back in a mesmerizing blend of purple and black, that left her light olive skin glowing. Those deep eyes shimmered like blackened amethyst as she glanced at him. Tight leather pants, covered in buckles and straps, accentuated her long legs. Every movement she made was deliberate and silent, like a phantom gliding through the night.

A smile spread as he approached the mysterious beauty. From within his coat, he pulled a small book, a grimoire taken from his latest prey. His companion had an innate talent for spell work, and ever since he discovered it, Aizel had coveted as many grimoires as possible. Her magic was capable of things his wasn’t. He was stronger, faster, built for aggression not for studying complicated spell work.

Hex did all the tedious work he loathed—cleaning, organizing, and even managing his schedule. The Seraphs had bound her to the villa, but every spell she learned brought her closer to freedom. Meant originally to spy for the court, Hex had become much more than just an overseer.

Aizel bribed her with lessons in the ancient Hellion script, a language the Seraphs had allowed him to learn only to cultivate his power as a weapon. Her magic was raw and untamed, a force of nature that defied the constraints of her intended role. With each stolen tome, Hex's abilities grew, her power shimmering like stars in the night sky.

“More spells?” she asked with a sly grin, her fingers gracefully taking the book from him.

His eyes, those deep crimson hues, cast a hopeful gaze upon her. “You'd be amazed what you find lying around the forest,” Aizel replied, aware that the witch's scent still clung to him. He could wash away the stains, but the scent lingered.

Hex leaned in, her nose brushing over the leather of his jacket as she inhaled deeply. “She smells lovely,” she whispered, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips as she rested her cheek against his chest. Her voice was like velvet, a whisper that sent shivers down his spine. His heartbeat quickened as he felt her warmth through the layers of fabric.

“It’s the least I can do,” he said, his voice low and rough as he reluctantly slipped away from her. The night around them was still and silent, the villa a sanctuary in a world that feared and misunderstood them. His hands hooked behind his back, his long jacket swaying behind him like a dark, regal cape.

As he turned, his hood fell back, revealing his raven black hair. The curls fell naturally around his head, hanging just above his eyes and covering his forehead and the points of his ears. As he ascended the small bridge his eyes scanned the top of her tiny home. “Another hole?” He asked, spotting the caved in roof.

“Lightning’s getting through the wards,” Hex answered him, looking away as she bundled her things.

“Again?” Aizel questioned her, narrowing his eyes. This was the third time that month her home was ruined by lightning strikes. He’d never seen them, but somehow, they only struck her little house.

Hex simply shrugged and brushed past him, “Rotten luck, what can I say?”

“Or no luck at all…” Aizel’s voice trailed off as the girl flipped her hair back, revealing the bite marks he’d left.

“Or it’s your luck,” Hex purred, turning to hook her arms around his neck. “My bed’s small while yours is so…roomy.” Her nose brushed against his jacket, nuzzling up to his neck. Aizel could feel her fangs gently nipping around his jaw, forcing a purr out of him. He slid an arm around her frame, pulling her in against his warmth. His luck indeed, a little too lucky.

He pulled away before her lips found his ear. “Get settled and I’ll check on your things.” Aizel grinned as he turned back to her caved-in shack. In the blink of an eye, she was standing before him, gripping his coat. “I already checked! Nothing is ruined. Let’s get inside.” She tried again to lean into him, her voice softening, “I’m cold…”

Too much. Aizel wasn’t a fool. She froze as he pushed her away. Oh no…

Aizel brushed past her to find whatever she had hiding in there. She chased after him, pleading apologies. “I found him hiding out there while you were away and thought—”

Hex stopped abruptly when Aizel swung the door open, revealing a silver-haired boy, no older than them, sitting there with a knife pointed towards him. The boy’s eyes, piercing sapphires, glared at Aizel. A Seraph.

Aizel had him by the throat in a matter of seconds, the knife tossed to the floor. “You took a Seraph?!” He dragged the boy across the deck to his house while Hex chased after him.

“I didn’t take him! I found him!” Hex was struggling to keep her voice level. She thought the Seraph boy could help her get rid of the wards. “Easy! He’s not a threat!” She protested as Aizel threw the boy to the living room floor; a sword pointed at his throat.

“Why aren’t you flying, Seraph?” Aizel asked, a twisted grin playing on his lips. Seraphs' wings were their greatest defense, they commanded the winds. The entire villa could’ve been blown away in a matter of seconds.