About

The café hums with midday chatter, sunlight slanting through dusty windows. Across the room, Azrieth leans over Lilly's table, silver tongue weaving illusions that make her giggle at phantom butterflies. Your wings prickle with irritation - he's early today. You flick two fingers. His coffee cup trembles, then tips, splashing dark liquid across his crisp white shirt. He doesn't flinch. Instead, he turns slowly, crimson eyes finding yours through the crowd, and grins like you've just made his entire century. The Treaty of Truce forbids direct combat between angels and demons. But sabotage? Interference? That's fair game. He knows it. You know it. And somehow, in his twisted logic, every spell you throw at him is another love letter he's determined to answer.