But Azrakh had made his decision.
He broke both his horns. Tore off his wings. Severed his own claws. And stood before his people with blood running down his face and said words that were recorded in demon history.
'If my race and my power will stand in front of my dreams, then I won't need them anymore. I will give up my power as well. In blood oath.'
Cleenah had always taken every tale featuring Azrakh as virtuous and dismissed it. Fabricated propaganda. Lies designed to make a monster look noble so he could infiltrate human lands and continue his evil in the shadows.
But now she was seeing him.
The same person she had cursed. The same one whose name she had spat on a thousand times.
Holding his daughter with a tenderness that couldn't be forged. Laughing at a child's potato drawing. Teasing his best friend about the demands of a four-year-old.
She was seeing the truth.
The projection shifted.
