The garden in Darkhelm was nothing like Michael had expected from a place ruled by demons.
There was no brimstone. No shrieking or cursed soil.
No sky full of wrath.
Instead, there were trees with bark the color of obsidian, soft glowing fruit that shimmered like dusk, and lilies that bloomed only under the silver moonlight.
The air was always cool, and time felt slower here.
This garden's name was Persephone.
It had started with simple walks.
Pandora would bring him here, day after day, speaking in that light, almost teasing tone of hers, half childish, half mischievous—yet never cruel.
She'd pluck dark roses and place them behind his ear when he wasn't paying attention, or float upside down beside him while talking about her dreams of peace between their races.
At first, Michael ignored her.
He was still a prisoner then, free only in this small patch of paradise she created.
He had tried to kill her, of course.
