The underworld looked different to everyone who saw it. For some, it was fire and brimstone, endless torment and screaming souls. For others, it was simply nothing—an vast emptiness that stretched beyond comprehension.
For Valerius, it had always been a library.
Not the grand, soaring libraries of his mortal life, with their marble columns and gilded shelves. This was something sadder, more personal—endless corridors lined with books that no one would ever read again, their spines faded and their pages yellowed with age. The air smelled of old paper and forgotten dreams, and the only sound was the whisper of his own footsteps echoing in spaces that went on forever.
He'd been here for six hundred and twelve years, eight months, and eleven days. Not that time meant much in a realm where the sun never rose and never set, where the light came from nowhere and cast no shadows, and where each moment stretched like honey dripping from a spoon. Time moved differently here—slower, more deliberate, as if the underworld itself was reluctant to let even seconds escape. But Valerius had always been good with numbers, even when he was alive, even when counting still mattered.
Especially when counting was all he had left.
He pulled another book from the shelf—something about 15th century poetry, written in a language that had been dead for longer than he'd been damned. The pages fell open in his hands, revealing words that blurred together into meaninglessness. He'd read this one before. He'd read them all before. Multiple times.
There was nothing new in hell. Even being a crossroads demon meant nothing anymore—people barely asked for anything these days, too spoiled and selfish to understand the weight of a true bargain. They stole what they wanted, took what they pleased, and killed like it was a sport rather than a sin that once carried meaning. The desperation that used to call demons forth had been replaced by casual cruelty and empty greed.
Valerius closed the book and let it fall to the floor, where it landed with a sound like a sigh. Around him, the library stretched on in all directions, offering infinite knowledge and infinite solitude. Every word ever written or printed eventually found its way here—love letters that were never sent, novels that changed the world, suicide notes scrawled in desperate moments, final confessions whispered to empty rooms. All of it catalogued in endless shelves, all of it carrying the weight of human existence but offering him no connection to the lives that created it. The perfect punishment for someone who had once loved learning, who had once believed that books could save him from the suffocating expectations of his family's name.
Lord Valerius Ashford, he'd been then. Third son of one of England's most powerful families, heir to a fortune built on land and influence and the kind of old magic that most people pretended didn't exist. His father had groomed him for politics, his mother for society, and both had expected him to marry well and produce the next generation of Ashford heirs.
None of them had expected him to fall in love with the stable master's son.
The memory came with the familiar ache of old wounds that never quite healed. Thomas, with his calloused hands and gentle eyes, who had loved poetry as much as Valerius loved horses. They'd stolen moments together in empty stalls and shadowed corners, believing their secret was safe.
They'd been wrong.
The trial had been swift and brutal. Sodomy was a hanging offense, and the Ashford name couldn't protect him from that particular sin. His family had tried—oh, how they'd tried. His mother had wept and pleaded with every contact she had at court. His father had thrown money at anyone who would take it. His grandfather had even attempted to use the old magics, the blood rites that their family had guarded for generations.
And it had worked, in a way. The rope had snapped just as Valerius lost consciousness, sending him crashing to the ground while the crowd screamed about divine intervention. For a moment, he'd thought he was saved.
Then he'd opened his eyes and seen Thomas hanging beside him, and he'd understood that some kinds of salvation were worse than death.
The curse that saved his life had damned his soul. Instead of heaven or the peaceful rest of the grave, Valerius had been pulled into the space between worlds, bound to serve as a crossroads demon until the end of time. His family had traded his eternal rest for his continued existence, and in doing so, had created something that was no longer entirely human.
But his grandfather's magic had been woven with love as much as desperation. The old man had designed the curse not just to save Valerius's life, but to give him hope—a way back to freedom through genuine connection. If Valerius could find someone who truly saw him, truly loved him, the blood bond formed through that love would break the chains that bound him to hell. It was meant to be a path to redemption, a second chance at the happiness that had been stolen from him.
His grandfather had preserved not just Valerius's soul, but his physical form as well, binding both spirit and flesh to his demon existence so that when love finally found him, the connection could be complete—body, soul, and heart united in a bond strong enough to shatter even death's constraints.
For the first century, they'd still summoned him sometimes. His sister Eleanor had called him back during the plague, desperate for his help to save her children. His nephew Marcus had reached out during the War of the Roses, seeking protection from political enemies. Each generation had passed down the knowledge of how to contact him, treating him like a dangerous family secret—useful in emergencies, shameful the rest of the time. But back then, he could move freely between worlds, could visit earth whenever he chose, could still feel somewhat connected to the mortal realm that had once been his home.
But as the centuries passed and the world changed, the summons had grown less frequent. The family name evolved, magic became superstition, and eventually, the last Ashford descendant had made it clear that a demon in the family tree was no longer an asset but an embarrassment. They had grown ashamed of what their own ancestors had created out of love.
The final letter had come ninety-three years ago, delivered through magical means that had taken considerable effort to maintain. It is the family's decision that contact between our bloodline and your... current state... should cease permanently. We trust you understand this is for the best.
No signature. No farewell. Just a polite dismissal after three centuries of service.
But the letter had done more than just cut emotional ties. With their final act, his family had altered the very nature of his curse, binding him more completely to his role as a crossroads demon. Now he could only return to earth when called for a wish, pulled back to the underworld the moment any deal was signed. The only other time his feet were allowed to touch solid ground was when he came to collect souls—brief, terrible moments when he could breathe fresh air again before being dragged back to his eternal library.
Since then, Valerius had been alone in the most complete sense of the word. No summons from desperate humans seeking deals. No family obligations pulling him back to the mortal realm. Just endless existence in a library where every book told the same story: once upon a time, someone had mattered to someone else, and now they didn't.
He was reaching for another volume when he felt it—a pull unlike anything he'd experienced in decades. It started as a whisper in his chest, then exploded into something agonizing that drove him to his knees. The book fell from his hands as pain lanced through him, not physical but something deeper, more fundamental. Someone was calling. Not with the careful rituals and protective circles that summoners usually employed, but with something rawer, more desperate—a soul-deep ache that resonated with his own centuries of loneliness and made him gasp with the force of shared suffering.
The pull intensified, and suddenly Valerius could hear the words as clearly as if they were spoken directly into his ear:
"I know I'm not much to look at. I know I'm not the kind of person people dream about. But I'm good—I try to be good..."
The voice was young, male, and so full of pain that it made Valerius's chest tighten with recognition. He'd heard that same desperate loneliness in his own voice once, centuries ago, when he'd begged his family to see him as more than just a political disappointment.
"Why can't anyone see the good in me?"
The pull was stronger now, tugging at something fundamental in Valerius's being. This wasn't a formal summoning—this was something much more dangerous. A soul calling out to the universe in pure desperation, tearing holes in reality through the sheer force of its need.
"I just want someone to see me. Really see me..."
And suddenly, Valerius was moving.
Not walking, not running, but being pulled through space itself as the library dissolved around him. The sensation was disorienting—like falling upward while the world turned inside out. He caught glimpses of other realms as he passed through them: forests where the trees grew downward, cities built on clouds, oceans that burned with cold fire.
Then he was falling through what felt like a curtain of rain and wind, emerging into a mortal dorm room that smelled of rain and desperation.
Valerius staggered to his feet, disoriented and shaken. Where was he? This wasn't his library—this was somewhere else entirely, somewhere that smelled of rain and youth and desperate loneliness. A mortal room, small and cramped, with windows that showed a storm still raging outside.
The door opened, and a young man stumbled inside, soaked to the bone and shivering. Julian.
Valerius frowned, watching the boy's movements with growing confusion. He stepped directly into Julian's path, close enough to touch, close enough that their eyes should have met.
Nothing. Julian walked right past him, brushing so close that Valerius felt the chill of rain-soaked fabric, but the boy's gaze never wavered, never acknowledged his presence.
"Can you see me?" Valerius asked, his voice echoing strangely in the small space.
Julian continued gathering dry clothes from his dresser, utterly oblivious. Whatever force had pulled Valerius here, it hadn't made him visible to mortal eyes. Not yet.
Julian Cross. Flashes of the boy's life came to him in that moment—fragments of memory and emotion that hit like physical blows. Foster homes where silence meant safety. Art hidden away like shameful secrets. Years of being overlooked, dismissed, forgotten. Valerius felt Julian's pain as if it were his own, the grief and loneliness so familiar it made his chest ache with recognition.
So this was the boy who had pulled him here. It was almost impossible to believe—this slip of a thing, this fragile-looking young man, had somehow been powerful enough to shatter the ancient magic that kept him locked in his prison. Old magic, woven by generations of his family, broken by someone who looked like a strong wind might knock him over. Yet here Valerius stood, free from his library for the first time in nearly a century, because this boy's desperate cry had been strong enough to tear through dimensions themselves.
Valerius moved through the small space, taking in the careful emptiness of it. No photographs of friends or family. No personal decorations beyond reproductions of famous paintings. Nothing that would mark this as the room of someone who mattered to anyone else.
It was painfully familiar.
On the desk, a sketchbook lay open to a drawing that made Valerius pause. Dark, abstract shapes that seemed to pulse with their own life, as if Julian had somehow captured the essence of longing itself and pressed it onto paper. There was real talent here, raw and untrained but undeniably powerful.
Just like the summons that had pulled him across dimensions.
Valerius touched the edge of the drawing, and felt an answering tremor in his chest. Yes, this boy would do perfectly. Not because he was weak or easily manipulated, but because he understood the particular agony of being invisible to everyone who mattered.
Because he was, in all the ways that counted, exactly like Valerius had been.
The demon settled into the chair by Julian's bed and waited. He could be patient. He'd had centuries of practice.
Julian woke to his alarm feeling like he'd been hit by a truck.
The storm had passed sometime during the night, leaving behind the kind of crisp October morning that usually made him feel optimistic about the day ahead. Today, though, his body felt heavy and strange, like he'd run a marathon in his sleep. His skin was sensitive to the touch of his sheets, and there was an odd warmth spreading through his chest that he couldn't quite explain.
He must be getting sick. That would be just perfect—humiliate himself in front of Sophia, then catch pneumonia from standing in the rain like an idiot.
Julian rolled over to check his phone and froze.
There was a piece of paper lying on the pillow beside him, covered in pencil strokes that definitely hadn't been there when he went to sleep. For a moment, his sleep-fogged brain tried to rationalize it—maybe he'd been drawing before bed and forgotten about it, maybe it had fallen from his sketchbook somehow.
Then he actually looked at the drawing, and his breath caught in his throat.
It was a portrait of a man unlike anyone Julian had ever seen. The face was aristocratic, all sharp cheekbones and elegant angles, with dark hair that looked soft enough to run your fingers through. But it was the eyes that made Julian's chest tighten—ancient and sad and beautiful, burning with an otherworldly gold, like someone who had seen too much and felt too deeply.
The technique was flawless, better than anything Julian had ever produced. Every line was precise, every shadow perfectly placed. But it wasn't entirely human—elegant horns curved from the subject's temples, and his eyes burned with an otherworldly gold that seemed to glow even in graphite. The features were too sharp and perfect to be natural, with an aura of darkness that seemed to pulse from the paper itself. It looked less like a drawing and more like a photograph, as if the demon had posed for hours while Julian captured every supernatural detail.
Julian sat up slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He definitely hadn't drawn this. He would have remembered creating something this technically perfect, this emotionally resonant. But it was his style, his hand, his pencil strokes.
Wasn't it?
He looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see graphite stains on his fingers, but they were clean. No evidence that he'd held a pencil at all.
You were dreaming, he told himself firmly. People don't draw masterpieces in their sleep.
But even as he thought it, fragments of the dream came rushing back. Hands touching his face with reverent gentleness. A voice speaking words he couldn't quite remember but that had made his heart race. The sensation of being seen, really seen, for the first time in his life.
And those eyes. Those impossibly beautiful, impossibly sad golden eyes looking at him like he was something precious and worth protecting.
Julian touched his chest, where the warmth seemed to be centered, and winced. The spot was tender, sensitive to even the lightest pressure. He looked down and saw a mark just over his heart—not quite a bruise, not quite a burn, but something that looked almost like a brand. It was small, no bigger than a thumbprint, and shaped like... like...
Like the symbol he'd seen carved into the stones of old churches. Some kind of religious marking that he didn't recognize.
Julian scrambled out of bed and stumbled to the mirror on his closet door. The mark was clearly visible against his pale skin, dark red and slightly raised, as if something had pressed against him with just enough heat to leave a permanent impression.
"What the hell?" he whispered to his reflection.
His reflection didn't answer, but Julian could swear that for just a moment, those ancient, beautiful eyes looked back at him from the glass.
He blinked, and it was just his own face again—ordinary brown eyes, unremarkable features, the same forgettable person he'd always been.
But the drawing was still there when he turned around. And the mark on his chest was still warm to the touch.
Julian sank down onto his bed, holding the portrait with hands that shook slightly. Either he was losing his mind, or something impossible had happened during the night. Something that involved a man with burning golden eyes and a touch that left marks on more than just his skin.
Outside his door, he could hear Marcus moving around, getting ready for his morning classes. Normal sounds. Normal life continuing exactly as it always had.
Julian folded the drawing carefully and slipped it into his sketchbook, his hands still trembling slightly as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The portrait felt heavier than paper should, as if it carried weight beyond the physical. He pulled on a shirt, the fabric brushing against the tender mark on his chest and making him wince. Whatever had happened during the night—whether it was some kind of vivid dream, a stress-induced breakdown, or something else entirely—would have to be pushed aside for now. He had Professor Vasquez's seminar in an hour, followed by his medieval art survey, and then three more classes that would carry him through until evening. Normal things. Predictable things. The kind of routine that had kept him anchored through eighteen years of being nobody special to anyone who mattered.
But as he gathered his books and prepared to face another day of being no one to everyone, Julian couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed.
Valerius watched from beside the bed, fascination and something deeper stirring in his chest. He had sat there through the night, observing as Julian's hand moved across the paper with impossible precision, guided not by sight but by something far more profound. Even in sleep, the boy had seen him—seen his true demonic form with perfect clarity. Julian hadn't been drawing with his eyes, he had been drawing with his soul, capturing Valerius's essence through a connection that transcended mortal perception.
The demon smiled, a slow curve of lips that held centuries of patience and newfound purpose. Julian had seen him. Really seen him, in ways that went beyond the physical realm, beyond the careful masks that most beings wore. The first step had begun that night, and claiming this remarkable boy as his own had become not just a desire, but a necessity.
Even if Julian didn't yet understand what he was capable of.