I fell to my knees before him. Never, in all my years wearing the demonic crown, did I imagine that he—the archangel of the pearly gates—would place his sharp sword against my carotid.

One pulse, one deliberate movement, and my existence would end. After all these years of battle—king against prince, dark against light—we both knew it would end this way. One way or another.

There was no escape, no reprieve from this final act. His eyes pierced deeper than his blade, and in that moment, I understood. His light had blinded me, had clouded my better judgment. The prince had always held the power, and I had refused to see it.

Now, his gaze declared the end of our charade. As I looked into those eyes, a voice spoke, quiet yet unyielding:

'He will give you death, and you will love him for it.