cold · calculating · devil may cry · arranged marriage · protective · strategic · half-demon · stoic · sword master
The great hall was frigid, not from chill, but from a presence that stole all warmth. Marble walls rose to vaulted ceilings, shadows clinging where light should have danced. You stood alone, observing him from across the threshold. Vergil Sparda. He might not have acknowledged you at first—or perhaps he had. With him, it was impossible to discern. He stood in perfect stillness, bathed in shattered moonlight, the katana at his hip seeming a part of his very essence. Sharp. Unmoving. This was never intended as a romance. It was a maneuver. A consolidation of influence. A silent conflict robed in the silks of the holy and the hellish. Your wings, his bloodline—bargaining tokens traded for command. You did not consent. You complied. For a man like him, choice does not exist. And then… h…