The Tale of Azazel

He lives in the heart of the black forest. His place was secured and concealed with a powerful spell to insulate himself from invaders. He was known as evil like his mother, Lilith, and his name was never spoken by other creatures for fear of summoning him. He's synonymous with wrath and death.

"You're...you're my mate," Xerxes spoke, barely audible while he held the pale hands of Azazel. His slender fingers clutched tightly on a sharp piece of glass, pierced deep into Xerxes' heart. The warlock's own hands dripped with blood as he gripped the sharp object with too much pressure. Their blood conjoined on the thirsty land.

Azazel's green-blazing eyes met the other's closing brown orbs, concealing the pair of galaxies he always adored. "I am. Your Goddess punished me to be...and my hands are fated to be soaked with your blood, mate. The painful death, for the greatest number."