The halls of the western wing were silent, except for the heavy echo of boots against stone. Guards stood at every pillar—immense creatures in obsidian armor, faces hidden behind demonic masks, spears glowing faintly with runes that pulsed like breathing fire. No one spoke in these parts of the palace unless spoken to. And no one entered the throne chamber unless summoned.
A trembling servant knelt in the center of the scorched black marble, hands flat to the floor, his breath ragged. Behind him, two guards stood still as statues.
Then the air shifted.
Not a breeze. Not a sound.
But everything changed.
The heat came first—dry and sharp like desert winds. The red flames in the braziers curled inward, as though bowing to something older than fire itself. The massive door creaked open without a hand touching it.
And then he appeared.
The Demon God.
He did not walk. He arrived.
One moment there was nothing.
The next, he was seated on his throne of stone and flame, carved from black obsidian, pulsing red veins glowing beneath its surface like magma. His robe flowed around him like living shadow, every edge tipped in deep crimson. His skin was smooth and pale, ethereal, yet terrifying. His face was beautiful—too beautiful. Unnaturally perfect. Sharp jawline, smooth mouth, burning gold eyes that saw everything.
He was terrifying in his stillness.
Beautiful in a way that felt... wrong.
He said nothing at first. Just looked down at the servant kneeling before him.
The silence stretched.
The servant trembled harder.
Then, in a voice that seemed to echo from the walls themselves, the Demon God spoke.
"You let her cry out."
The man gasped, raising his head just slightly. "M-my Lord, I—"
"Did I ask for your voice?" The words were soft.
Too soft.
The servant froze.
The Demon God lifted one finger lazily, and flames roared up around the man in an instant—swirling, dancing, crackling as they surrounded him in a ring.
The guards didn't flinch.
The man screamed, just once, before the fire sealed his mouth.
"No one hears what is mine," the Demon God said quietly. "No one."
With another flick of his fingers, the flames vanished. Only ash remained.
The two guards bowed silently and dragged the blackened remains away without a word.
He didn't even look at them.
"Summon the generals," he said instead, his voice now cold and deep like steel.
A black shadow peeled from the wall, bowing low—a robed figure, faceless, before disappearing through the stone.
Within moments, the doors opened again—and four beings entered, each dressed in ornate armor, each powerful in their own right. They were demons, yes—but lesser than him. All bowed low before speaking.
"My Lord."
He didn't gesture for them to rise. He only stared at them, his gold eyes glowing.
General Malren, a towering beast of a man with horns like a ram, stepped forward first. His voice was gravel and flame. "The eastern borders are secured. The rebels have been scattered."
"Not scattered," the Demon God murmured. "Slaughtered. Or do you need a reminder of the difference?"
Malren swallowed hard. "Yes, my Lord. It will be corrected."
Another general, this one a woman with scaled skin and emerald eyes, stepped forward. Her name was Kaelith. "We found another gate. Hidden beneath the ruins of Uram."
That made the Demon God's lips curve. Barely.
"And did it sing for me?"
Kaelith nodded. "It did. The blood seal cracked the moment your name was spoken."
"Good," he said simply. Then turned to the third general.
This one was quiet. Tall, pale-skinned, black tattoos covering his neck.
He didn't speak. Only bowed deeper.
The Demon God narrowed his eyes.
"You've lost control of your unit."
The general flinched.
"You allowed a traitor to breathe among my soldiers."
A silence.
Then—
The man's body lifted into the air—no hand raised him, no rope held him. He began to choke, clawing at nothing as his armor tightened around his chest.
"You serve me," the Demon God whispered. "Not yourself."
The general's armor cracked—and with a wave of his hand, the Demon God let the body drop, lifeless and limp.
"You," he said to the fourth general, a red-eyed woman draped in torn silks and blade chains. "Take his place. Burn the traitors. Show no mercy."
She bowed low, her smile cruel. "Yes, my Lord."
For a moment, the chamber pulsed with tension. The Demon God reclined slightly, the shadows curling tighter around his throne. His gaze lifted slightly, staring not at the generals, but through the stone above—as if sensing something far away.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then softly, more to himself than to them:
"She's quiet today."
The generals froze.
None of them asked who. They knew.
The girl in the northern chamber.
The one given black silk and silver combs.
The one no one dared to name in his presence.
"Dismissed," he said at last.
The generals bowed deeply and left without a word.
Once the chamber was empty again, the Demon God leaned back. His robes shifted like smoke, his hands drumming softly on the throne.
He was still.
Still—but not calm.
A whispering wind curled through the flames. The throne cracked faintly beneath his palm.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slow.
Somewhere in the palace, a girl was breathing. Eating. Living.
And his name had not left her lips.
He smiled faintly.
He would change that.