The town of Rynwold was small, quiet, and painfully ordinary. Its cobblestone streets were slick with rain more often than not, the cathedral bell tolled at dawn and dusk without fail, and the townsfolk lived their days in the kind of rhythm that never left room for miracles or monsters.
At least, that was what Ezagone had been taught to believe.
He and his brother had grown up in the care of a woman named Martha Elrow, a stern but kind widow who carried the burdens of life in her lined face. She had no blood-ties to them, but she had raised them as her own ever since the day their mysterious father left them on her doorstep, swaddled in blankets that smelled faintly of ash and roses.
The boys never knew their true mother. They never asked. In a way, Martha was enough.
Zethra, sixteen, was the thoughtful one. At fifteen, he was lean, quiet, and sharp-eyed, with a habit of staring too long at the cathedral spire across town. Teachers said he was clever, but distant, always a little lost in thoughts too deep for his age.
Ezagone, the younger by a year, was his opposite. Stronger, louder, wilder. He had a smile that could melt or terrify, depending on his mood. While Zethra's presence was like a candle in a still room, Ezagone's was a flame caught in a storm—fierce, restless, uncontainable.
Yet they were inseparable. If one got into trouble, the other followed. If one fell, the other lifted. That bond was the one thing Martha both cherished and feared.
She often muttered that they weren't like other boys, though she never explained why. They didn't bleed quite the same, didn't fall ill the same way, didn't seem to fit among the children of Rynwold. She prayed to the cathedral saints that they would grow into men who could hide whatever strangeness lived in them.
But prayers are often ignored.
That day, rain fell heavy. The streets glistened like black glass, and thunder growled above the clouds as if the heavens themselves were restless. The townsfolk crossed themselves and muttered of ill omens.
Ezagone and Zethra returned from school with their satchels soaked, boots clattering against the cobblestones.
"Sixteen," Zethra grinned, shoving Ezagone's shoulder as they walked. "You realize that makes me a man now?"
Ezagone rolled his eyes. "If being a man means chasing girls and starting fights, then yes—you've been a man since twelve."
Zethra laughed, the sound bold even against the thunder. "You'll understand soon enough, little brother. Wait until your turn comes."
Ezagone didn't answer. He often wondered what it would mean when his own turn came. He didn't know of what, only that something always stirred at the edge of his awareness—like a whisper too faint to catch.
When they reached their house, Martha stood at the door. Her hair was bound beneath a kerchief, her apron still damp with the day's chores. But her face—Ezagone noticed at once—was pale.
"You two, inside," she said quickly.
Zethra frowned. "What's the rush? We're soaked anyway."
"Inside," she repeated. Her voice trembled.
Ezagone's stomach knotted. Martha had always been strict, but rarely frightened. He obeyed at once, pulling Zethra with him.
That night, the storm worsened. The air itself felt heavy, as if the clouds had dropped into their very bones. Lightning split the sky again and again, painting the walls of their small home white for the briefest instants.
Ezagone lay awake, listening to the thunder. Zethra's room was next to his, but tonight, silence pressed too thick between them.
Until it broke.
A scream.
Ezagone bolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. That was Zethra's voice.
He ran, nearly tearing the door from its hinges.
What he saw inside would never leave him.
Zethra writhed on the floor, clutching at his back. His skin split, torn by some unseen force, and from the wounds, black feathers spilled. Not the soft feathers of a bird, but dark, razor-edged things that dripped with shadow. His eyes glowed crimson, wild with pain and fury.
Ezagone froze. His brother… his brother was...
Zethra's body convulsed, and then—like a nightmare made flesh—his wings erupted. Vast, terrible, beautiful. Black as obsidian, spread wide enough to shatter the bedpost.The wings were Vast, powerful, and utterly black. Not a flat, leathery black, but a deep, fathomless black of the deepest midnight, covered in thick, lush feathers that seemed to absorb the faint light in the room. They unfurled, a canopy of shadows, their immense spans knocking books from shelves with a soft, terrible rustle.
Zethra collapsed forward, gasping, his new wings settling behind him like a king's funeral mantle. He raised his head, and his eyes were no longer human. They glowed with a faint, infernal amber light, the pupils slitted like a great cat's.
His eyes glowed crimson.
The air stank of smoke and iron.
"Zethra!" Ezagone cried, rushing forward. He caught his brother's hand, gripping it tight. "I'm here! I'm here, don't fight it alone!"
Zethra's lips moved, struggling to form words. His voice broke, guttural and strange. "Eza… I-I… can't—"
And then something else filled the room.
A voice.
Sultry, velvet, dark.
"Finally… you awaken, beloved."
Zethra's blood ran cold. He spun, searching the room.
But the voice wasn't outside. It was inside. Inside Zethra.
And then she appeared.
Not to Ezagone—but to Zethra alone.
A woman, tall and sinuous, draped in shadows that clung like silk. Her hair was night itself, her eyes burning rubies. Her form was alluring, every curve a temptation, every smile a dagger. Yet there was warmth in her gaze, an unsettling tenderness.
Zethra saw her as clearly as he saw his brother. She knelt beside him, her fingers cool against his burning cheek.
"Finally, Zethra," she whispered. " Do not fear the pain. It is only the breaking of chains."
Tears burned at the corners of his crimson eyes. "Who… who are you?"
She smiled, her lips brushing his ear though her body never moved. "I am you. I am the hunger, the power, the truth. I am the Devil within."
Ezagone clutched his brother tighter, not hearing her words, only seeing his agony. "Stay with me, Zethra! Please! You're not alone!"
The woman—this inner devil—gazed at Ezagone then. Her smile softened, strangely gentle.
"Your brother loves you," she said, though only Zethra could hear. "And so do I. I will not take him from you. I will give you strength, so you never need to fear losing him again."
Zethra's breathing slowed. The wings behind him stretched, magnificent and terrible, their shadows swallowing the candlelight.
The pain dulled into something else. Power. Heat. Desire.
And for the first time, he stood.
Ezagone stumbled back, staring wide-eyed. His brother—his Zethra—stood cloaked in wings of night, his silhouette monstrous and yet achingly familiar.
"Zethra…" Ezagone whispered.
The older brother turned, his crimson gaze fixing on him. For a terrible moment, Ezagone feared he had lost him—that the creature before him was no longer his brother.
But then Zethra smiled. Tired, broken, but his smile all the same.
"Don't worry, little brother," he said hoarsely. "I'm still me."
The devil woman purred softly in his mind, her hand on his shoulder. "For now," she said. "But soon, the world will come. Heaven's hounds will sniff you out. Hell's claws will reach for you. Only I can keep you safe."
Zethra shivered, but his grip on Ezagone's hand never faltered.
The storm raged outside.
And inside, in the dim flicker of candlelight, two brothers stood at the beginning of something far greater—and far darker—than either of them could imagine