Celeste.
Her name was simple, yet it carried a weight that time itself could not erase. She was eighteen when her life ended, young by human measure, and even younger when compared to the lifespan of demons. Yet in those short years, she left behind a mark deep enough to shape a dungeon, a legend, and a king feared by the world.
Celeste was born in a small, secluded human village that lay on the far edge of the great forest. The village was modest, isolated from major trade routes, and untouched by the constant wars between races. Life there was quiet, shaped by routine and survival rather than ambition. People farmed, gathered herbs, raised families, and feared what lay beyond their borders.
From a young age, Celeste stood apart.
She was kind in a way that felt natural, not forced. She listened more than she spoke, observed more than she judged. While others in the village spoke of demons with fear and hatred, creatures painted as monsters in old tales. Celeste never fully accepted those stories. She understood the history, the bloodshed, the tension between races, but she believed that hatred aimed at an entire race was shallow and dangerous.
She believed individuals mattered more than labels.
Celeste often wandered the outskirts of the forest, gathering herbs and plants used for medicine. The villagers warned her constantly, reminding her that demons and beasts roamed those woods. Yet she never felt fear the way others described it. To her, the forest felt old, quiet, and alive, watching, but not hostile.
It was during one of these trips that she met Zortheus.
The encounter was not planned. There was no grand fate, no dramatic clash. She had simply strayed deeper than usual while following a rare plant. When she sensed another presence, fear did rise within her, but only briefly.
What she saw confused her.
Zortheus did not resemble the demons of village stories. He was powerful, yes, but there was an innocence to him, a lack of malice. He was cautious, uncertain, almost lost. Celeste saw confusion in his posture, curiosity rather than hunger. Instead of running, she stayed.
That single choice changed everything.
Their meetings became frequent, though unspoken and hidden. Celeste would return to the forest, and Zortheus would appear, always watching first, always careful. Slowly, trust formed. They did not speak at first, but presence itself became enough. Over time, they shared silence, then gestures, then understanding.
Celeste taught Zortheus things he had never known.
She spoke of human emotions, of kindness, grief, joy, and fear, not as weaknesses, but as truths that shaped people. She told him stories of the world beyond the forest, of villages, of ordinary lives lived without war. Through her, Zortheus learned that strength did not always come from combat.
In return, Zortheus shared his own existence. He spoke of being a demon, of his natural draw toward battle, of power that had no purpose. He spoke of a desire for peace he did not understand, a feeling that something was missing from his life.
Between them, a bond formed, quiet, deep, and dangerous.
Celeste knew the risk.
She knew the village would never accept her connection to a demon. She hid the truth, not out of shame, but out of fear for what the villagers might do if they knew. Fear, after all, often turned quickly into violence.
That fear became reality.
One day, a villager saw them together.
Jealousy, suspicion, and terror spread like wildfire. The image of a human girl standing beside a demon shattered the fragile peace of the village. Whispers turned into accusations. Accusations turned into rage.
Celeste was labeled a traitor.
The villagers did not listen when she tried to explain. They did not want truth. They wanted justification for their hatred. In their eyes, she had betrayed humanity itself.
What followed was cruelty without restraint.
Her family was the first to suffer. Their home was burned to the ground, flames consuming memories, shelter, and safety in moments. They were dragged into the open, bound, tortured, and executed while the village watched. Celeste was forced to witness every moment, powerless, her screams drowned out by the roar of hatred.
The village convinced itself that this was justice.
They believed fear gave them the right to destroy.
Celeste's own end came soon after.
She was publicly executed in the center of the village, her death meant as a warning. A message carved in blood: sympathy for demons would not be tolerated. As her life faded, the villagers believed they were protecting themselves.
They never realized what they had awakened.
The bond they shared did not end with distance. When Celeste's life was taken, something inside him shattered completely. The warmth she had shown him, the world she had opened, was ripped away in a single act of hatred.
And soon everything was about to change, history was about to be forged.