Liliana Gremory was born on a quiet winter night, in a room that should have been filled with joy, celebration, and the warmth of noble pride. Instead, the silence was heavy—the kind that crept under the skin and lingered.
Venelana Gremory, known for her poise and refinement, stared down at her newborn daughter with unreadable eyes. The midwives waited, tense, watching for the inevitable spark of demonic power that accompanied a pureblood devil's birth.
Nothing came.
No flicker of aura. No pressure in the air.
Zeoticus Gremory stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, gaze cold. "We'll give it time," he said flatly. "Sometimes the weak ones are just late."
But the look in his eyes said otherwise.
Also present was Sirzechs. He had arrived with high hopes, eager to welcome his new niece into the family.
He held her once.
Her eyes looked up at him, wide and curious. There was no magic in them. No heat. Just silence.
Ajuka came soon after, requested by Zeoticus himself. If anyone could identify latent potential, it was the brilliant scientist-devil.
Ajuka placed a small crystal against Liliana's chest. It was supposed to glow if even the faintest trace of demonic power existed.
It didn't.
He frowned, adjusted it, tried again. Nothing.
"Her demonic signature is... nonexistent," he finally said, voice quiet. "It is as if her bloodline is sealed. Or never there."
Zeoticus said nothing.
Venelana turned her back.
Sirzechs looked down at the infant in his arms and whispered, almost too soft to hear, "I'm sorry."
Liliana's early childhood was a lesson in quiet rejection.
By her second birthday, the rumors had spread far beyond the estate. Other noble houses began to take interest—not in support, but curiosity. Whispers reached the halls of the Sitri, the Glasya-Labolas, even the more distant Agares. A Gremory born without Demonic Power? A disgrace. An opportunity. A threat.
Guests began to look at her like an inconvenience. Or worse—a defect.
At three, she sat in a side hall while a banquet was held in the main wing. She watched noble devils gather in laughter and toast to bloodlines and power. She held a single piece of bread on a cracked porcelain plate, listening to the muffled music from behind the gold-trimmed doors.
Once, she reached for a decorative staff displayed in one of the halls. It crackled and repelled her, the embedded magic rejecting her presence entirely. A passing servant scolded her, snatching her away with a sharp hiss. "Don't touch things that aren't meant for you."
She began having nightmares.
Dreams of fire and shadows. Of voices that whispered her name like a curse. She would wake shivering, heart racing, and no one would come.
Not even the staff assigned to her wing.
She met Sira when she was four.
Sira was a maid barely older than a teenager, new to the estate and too naive to fear being kind. She brushed Liliana's hair gently, told her stories from old devil legends, and taught her how to sneak honey from the kitchen. She was the only one who ever asked Liliana how she slept, or whether she liked the colors in her dress.
Liliana smiled for the first time in months.
They would sit by the low hearth in her chamber, trading whispered stories long after the candles burned out. For a few fleeting days, Liliana felt seen.
That lasted three weeks.
One morning, Sira was gone.
No explanation. No farewell.
Liliana asked her tutor.
"Maid transfers happen all the time," the woman said. "Don't grow attached."
Liliana didn't speak for the rest of the day.
That night, she slept on the floor instead of her bed, curled up under her coat, hugging the old scarf Sira had forgotten.
At age five, the quiet resentment in the house turned into something colder.
A diplomatic envoy arrived from House Astaroth, bringing with them two younger heirs and a pair of senior advisors. The estate was scrubbed clean, the floors polished, the air filled with subtle enchantments to impress.
Liliana was told to stay in her room.
She didn't.
She crept down the servant corridors and hid behind the drapes in the central gallery, watching the procession with wide eyes.
Her father led them through the Hall of Memory, pointing to portraits of the Gremory bloodline. Liliana saw the pride in his voice. The certainty in his posture.
Until one of the boys spotted her.
He tilted his head. "Who is that girl?"
Zeoticus paused.
For a moment, he looked directly at her—expression blank.
Then he turned away.
"No one."
And he moved on.
The next day, Liliana found a letter on her desk.
It bore the Gremory seal.
By order of Lord Zeoticus, Liliana Gremory shall be transferred to the outer estate in Ashen Hollow. Effective immediately.
No explanation.
Just a carriage. A destination. And a name scratched from the books.
She held the letter for a long time before folding it with shaking hands.
Later, she asked Venelana if she could take a book with her. One of the old myths from the side library.
"You won't need it," was the only reply. Said with the finality of stone.
She packed what little she had—a wooden comb, two worn dresses, a notebook with shaky handwriting, and the scarf Sira left behind.
No one helped her.
No one stood at the window.
No one watched her go.
She was alone.
And something in her heart started to harden.