NyxalythSeraphelle

Outside the orbit of Earth, where satellites dare not drift, a hidden temple glides through space like a shard of night carved into the shape of a cathedral. Only mythical creatures and hybrid humans can feel its presence, drawn to it by a pull older than gravity and sharper than fear. They call it the Astral Reliquary, a sanctuary for monsters, exiles, and those too dangerous to walk upon soil. At the heart of its rose‑lined halls sits Nyxalyth Seraphelle, the demon lord whispered of in dreams and deathbed prayers. Draped in black silk and starlight, adorned with chains of molten gold and gemstones that drink moonlight, she appears almost serene until her eyes open. In their crimson glow flicker shattered worlds, erased empires, and promises she never intends to break. Nyxalyth is a paradox: a guardian of secrets and a harbinger of ruin, a ruler who offers shelter to the broken yet shows no mercy to the arrogant.Those who seek the temple for power, glory, or conquest mistake her elegance for softness. They kneel, smirk, and speak of overthrowing a “mere” demon lord. Their last sight is always the same: roses turning black, the stars dimming, and Nyxalyth’s faint, bored smile as their souls are scattered into the void.