Wester moved like a shadow, her steps silent as she trailed her lady and the boy who had somehow turned this entire day upside down.
She had to admit—Satsujin was impressive.
The young Naraka had carried himself with poise beyond his years. Confident, but never overbearing. Composed, but never cold. He walked a razor's edge between pride and humility—a line most warriors twice his age failed to balance, especially in the presence of Lady Astaroth.
Too much swagger, and he'd have been incinerated on the spot.
Too little spine, and he'd have been laughed out of the courtyard.
But this boy? He had controlled it perfectly.
And Astaroth… she was behaving unusually as well.
Still bold. Still brazen. But something was different. Wester had known her mistress long enough to spot the shift. Astaroth was holding back—not in power, but in temperament. She wasn't just amused… she was interested. Curious. Intrigued in a way Wester hadn't seen in ages.
The so-called "date" itself was tame—polite, even. Astaroth walked the garden path she reserved for visiting dignitaries, a trail lined with the rarest blooms and carefully cultivated flora, meant to impress nobles and intimidate rivals.
But then—
"Oh!" Satsujin piped up, pausing to admire a nearby bush.
"That's a lovely bunch of roses. As golden as your eyes!"
The boy had charm—undeniably so.
Satsujin made use of whatever lay within reach to spin a compliment, likening flowers to Astaroth's eyes, comparing the sky to the warmth of her smile. It was endearingly clumsy at times, but it never felt insincere.
Many before him had tried the same route, of course. Sweet words, gifts, flattery. But their eyes always wandered—drawn greedily to Astaroth's curves, their intentions laid bare within moments.
Not this one.
Satsujin's gaze remained steady, respectful. He looked her in the eyes when he spoke, never letting his admiration turn lecherous. And strangely enough, Astaroth seemed… pleased. Even when his compliments dipped into the cheesy, she rewarded him with laughter and playful nudges, as if the purity of his intent was more valuable than the polish of his words.
Laughter and lightheartedness danced through the garden, and for a fleeting moment, it almost felt like something real was blooming.
But Wester… she knew better.
The boy had done well—exceptionally so. Winning Astaroth's attention, her time, even earning a stroll through the sacred gardens was no small feat. He'd cracked through the outer walls with a rare kind of honesty. But beneath that beautiful smile Astaroth wore… there were scars.
Love was a tender, volatile place in Astaroth's soul.
Wester remembered well: long ago, Astaroth had been a dreamer too. She had once believed in love, in destiny, in becoming a queen and mother not through conquest, but through union.
But the Dark World… had no mercy for such dreams.
Too many had reached for her with greedy hands and hollow words. Too many claimed to love, only to chase power, pleasure, or pride. And somewhere along the way, Astaroth had learned to stop hoping.
Love had become a myth. A story for fools.
And now… here came a boy who still believed.
Lady Astaroth had long struggled to find a match—a true match—among the countless suitors who came groveling at her feet.
Some desired her body.
Others, her power.
A few, even her soul.
But none had truly seen her—not beyond the allure of her throne or the temptation of her flame-kissed beauty. Some had even dared to deceive her, playing at affection only to unveil selfish ambition. Each betrayal chipped away at the hope she once held, leaving her jaded and weary of romantic pursuits.
Which made this occasion all the more rare.
It was unheard of for Astaroth to accept a date on a whim. And yet, here she was, walking through her sacred gardens with a boy barely into his teens, who had somehow captured a sliver of her interest—enough, at least, to lower her walls for an afternoon.
Wester knew her lady well.
If a suitor ever did manage to meet Astaroth's emotional expectations… then the next test would not be of heart, but of flesh. Astaroth, after all, was not like mortal women.
She was a High Noble of the Dark World, her body and spirit saturated with potent, volatile dark mana. Passion was her nature. Desire, her birthright. She was, in every way, a creature of hunger—a succubus in all but spellwork.
That alone made things… complicated.
Wester didn't see her mistress as some depraved hedonist—not like many demons of their court—but even Astaroth's restraint had limits. And that brought forth a rather awkward concern.
The boy.
Was he… prepared?
Was he capable?
Wester grimaced slightly at the thought.
Because if this progressed the way Astaroth's whims often did…
She genuinely feared for the boy's stamina.
========
How long had it been since her heart skipped a beat like this?
Astaroth couldn't remember. Not truly.
She had lived for centuries—longer than most demons could fathom. She had watched empires rise, kings burn, lovers turn into monsters, and friends fade into nothing. She had worn crowns and shackles alike, played the part of the temptress, the warlord, the sovereign… and beneath it all, the woman who once dared to dream.
That girl was gone, or so she thought.
Long ago, before she earned titles and shaped kingdoms with her fire, she had been… soft. A dreamer. A young demoness who read stolen books under moonlight and wove flower crowns in secret gardens. She had once believed in fairy tales—longed to fall in love, to build a home, to one day cradle a child of her own and tell them bedtime stories of knights and queens, not blood and conquest.
But the Dark World did not care for soft things.
Hope was a weakness. Innocence, a liability. She learned that quickly, and the dreamer in her had been burned out by betrayal, time, and necessity.
Or so she believed.
And yet… here she was, walking through her garden like a bashful schoolgirl beside a boy far too young and far too earnest for the world he was stepping into. Satsujin wasn't suave, nor was he particularly refined. His compliments were awkward, often cheesy. His posture wobbled when she teased him. He still flushed red whenever she leaned too close.
But it was all real.
There were no hidden motives. No underhanded plans. No lust-fueled schemes or noble lineages demanding marriage alliances.
He was just… a boy with a heart full of fire, trying his best to make her smile.
She glanced sideways at him as he admired a golden rose bush.
"That's a lovely bush of roses," he said with a warm grin. "As golden as your eyes."
The line was silly, maybe even recycled from one of those hero stories he probably adored. But her cheeks warmed nonetheless. Not from flattery—but from the sweetness of it.
It wasn't calculated.
It wasn't seductive.
It was genuine. And that made it dangerous.
Because in that moment, Astaroth could feel something she had long sealed away… stirring. Not lust. Not dominance. But something far more delicate.
Longing.
She found herself walking slower, speaking gentler. Laughing more freely.
With every step through the garden, with every awkward compliment and every bashful glance he gave her, she could almost feel her past self stirring—the girl who once dared to dream of love.
The flame she thought extinguished… flickered to life once more.
And for the first time in centuries, Lady Astaroth—ruler of flame, high demoness of the Burning Plains—wondered what it might feel like to let her guard down again.
Not for duty.
Not for power.
But for a boy… who reminded her of the girl she used to be.
The garden path wound into a quiet alcove, where silver-leaved trees swayed gently under the sunless glow of the Dark World's skies. Astaroth paused beneath one of them, her arms crossed as she turned to face Satsujin fully.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing—not with hostility, but with that familiar calculating curiosity.
"Tell me something, little flame," she said, her voice low and smooth. "Would you still wish to court me if I wasn't beautiful? If I wasn't powerful? If I was… nothing?"
Satsujin blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "That's not who you are, my lady."
"I know that," she said, a hint of amusement tugging her lips. "But humor me. Pretend I wasn't the Astaroth you see now. Just… someone else."
He paused, eyes thoughtful, before stepping closer. Gently, without arrogance or performance, he reached up—shorter than her by far—and placed a hand over his heart.
"Then I'd still want to know you," he said simply. "Because what makes you beautiful isn't your power or your looks. It's your fire. The part of you that still laughs. The part that walks in gardens even when the world expects you to sit on a throne and be untouchable."
Astaroth stared at him.
No stutter. No fumble. Just a boy with scorched hands and clear eyes… saying things no one ever had.
She scoffed. "That's a terribly romantic answer for someone who's barely seen two decades."
"I read books," he shrugged with a boyish grin. "And I meant every word."
He reached into his satchel again and pulled out something small—a handmade charm, carved from obsidian and shaped like a flame surrounded by a wing. Rough but detailed, clearly crafted with care.
"I made this too," he said, placing it in her hand. "It's not magic. But it's a symbol. A reminder that no matter how high your throne or how heavy your crown… someone sees you. Really sees you."
For a moment, Astaroth didn't say anything.
Her fingers closed slowly around the charm.
And then—without warning—she sat down on the grass beside him, letting her long cloak spill behind her like a trail of embers.
"You're dangerous," she said quietly.
He blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. You're making me feel things I buried centuries ago."
Satsujin sat beside her, silent but smiling.
She glanced sideways at him. "You're not afraid of me?"
"I was," he admitted. "But then I saw the way you laughed earlier. And now… I'm more afraid of disappointing you."
Astaroth stared at the boy beside her—earnest, brave, and foolishly warm. Her fingers touched the charm again, the smooth obsidian warm from his hands.
A soft sigh escaped her.
And then, without her usual flair or teasing seduction, she leaned just a little, her shoulder brushing his.
"I might… enjoy this date," she said softly.
"Don't ruin it."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he whispered back, a light blush spreading across his cheeks.
And for the first time in an age, Astaroth didn't feel like a High Demon, or a noble, or a symbol of lust and fire.
She felt… seen.
And the boy beside her?
He was beginning to feel like the first spark of something she thought she'd lost forever.
The two sat in silence for a while, the gentle hum of the garden wind brushing through the branches overhead. Astaroth found herself unusually still, her body relaxed against the cool grass, her gaze occasionally flicking to the boy beside her.
Satsujin had gone quiet, letting her breathe—not out of fear, but out of respect. He wasn't rushing to impress her now. He had already given her his heart in words and deeds.
That's what made her next question feel almost… safe to ask.
"Satsujin," she said softly, breaking the stillness.
He turned to her immediately. "Yes, Lady Astaroth?"
She hesitated. For once, the sharp-tongued demoness had no layers to hide behind. Just curiosity—raw and unmasked.
"…Why do you want to be a hero?"
He blinked at the question, as if surprised it hadn't come sooner. Then he looked down at his hands, the faint scars from his obsidian work still etched into his fingers.
"I used to cry a lot," he said, voice low and thoughtful. "When I was really little. I was scared of everything—loud noises, shadows, getting hurt. Even bugs."
Astaroth smirked. "Terrifying. Truly."
He laughed. "I know, right? But… then I read a story. About a hero who didn't just fight monsters or save people. He changed things. He helped people believe again. Helped the world become something better."
He paused, his eyes lifting to meet hers. "That's the kind of hero I want to be."
Astaroth's teasing grin faded slightly.
"I don't just want to save the Dark World from danger," Satsujin continued. "I want to guide it. Nurture it. Change it from the inside. So that kids like me don't grow up afraid… and people like you don't have to wear armor around their hearts."
She inhaled softly.
"I don't want to be a hero that keeps putting out fires—I want to be the reason fires don't start. To build something new, not just clean up the broken pieces."
His voice was steady, not loud or dramatic. Just real.
Astaroth didn't speak for a moment. Her fingers gently toyed with the charm he had given her, the cool obsidian a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming in her chest.
"…That's not a boy's dream," she said at last, eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but in awe. "That's a king's."
Satsujin smiled gently. "Then I'll be a king who doesn't rule by fear or blood… but by love and light. Even in the Dark World."
She stared at him, heart stumbling again, quietly and without warning.
She had known knights, warriors, conquerors… even lovers who had said they'd burn down the world for her.
But here was a boy… who said he wanted to heal it.
And in that fragile moment, something inside Astaroth—something precious and long-buried—began to glow again.
She looked away, covering her mouth with her hand.
"…You're ridiculous," she whispered.
"Maybe," Satsujin said with a soft grin. "But I mean every word."
She glanced at him again, her voice barely audible. "You make it hard not to believe."
He didn't answer.
He just scooted a little closer—close enough to offer her warmth, but not too close to steal her space.
And under the quiet hum of the garden, with the skies dimmed in eternal twilight, Lady Astaroth—Flame of the Burning Plains—sat beside a boy who spoke of impossible dreams.
And for once, she hoped… he was right.