Writer's POV
The palace trembled—not from any storm or quake, but from the presence of its master.
Far below the guest chambers, beyond halls lined with obsidian pillars and crimson flames, lay the throne chamber—where time itself seemed to hold its breath.
He sat atop a throne of carved blackstone and molten silver, his long frame draped in robes as dark as the void between stars. The Demon God. His name was never spoken, not because it was forgotten, but because it burned the tongues of those unworthy. And yet, when he looked at you, it was impossible not to speak in prayer—or scream.
Seravine approached the throne slowly. The polished floors reflected the fire that glowed from the torches. The hem of her silk gown whispered across the stone, her heart pounding louder than her footsteps.
She knew the rules. Speak only when spoken to. Never look too long. Always bow.
But today, she was angry.
"Lord," she said, lowering herself to her knees before him.
He did not look at her right away. His eyes, a burning gold, remained fixed on something she could not see—something far away, or perhaps inside her.
His voice was quiet but deep, echoing in the empty hall like thunder rolling in a far-off valley. "You are jealous."
Seravine's breath caught in her throat.
He smiled, just slightly. "Even gods can smell envy."
"She is… unworthy," Seravine said, forcing her eyes to stay low.
"She," he interrupted, "is mine."
His words cracked the air. A golden flame curled up from the stone at his feet. The room grew hotter by degrees. The metal trim of her dress started to warm.
Seravine bowed lower. "Forgive me, my Lord. I only meant—"
"You meant to challenge my taste." His voice was soft again. That was worse.
He lifted a single finger.
The torch nearest Seravine exploded in heat. The flame leapt out, licking the floor beside her with searing hunger. She gasped, pulling her hand back just before the fire kissed her skin.
"But I will forgive you," he said, standing slowly. "Because I have not touched her yet."
He stepped down from the throne. With every movement, the air bent around him, like reality was a robe that didn't quite fit. His beauty was unnatural—sharp cheekbones, flawless skin, eyes that burned with ancient cruelty. His long black hair swept down his back like a shadow with weight.
He circled her slowly, speaking in low, rumbling tones.
"She is soft," he said. "Clean. Quiet. Her fear is untouched. Her mind... unbroken."
He stopped behind Seravine and placed his hand on her head. "But if you speak against her again, I'll burn the mouth from your face."
Seravine trembled. "Yes, my Lord."
He withdrew his hand, and instantly the flames dulled. The heat faded.
Then he vanished.
One blink—and he was gone.
Seravine stayed frozen for a long moment, sweat dripping from her spine, her pride curling inside her like ash. Then, slowly, she stood and backed out of the chamber, never turning her back on the throne.
– The Silver Hall
Later that evening, the palace halls were colder. The sun had dipped far behind the obsidian spires, and the torches had dimmed into soft golden embers. The servants moved like shadows through the lower corridors, careful not to speak too loud or draw attention to themselves.
In the Silver Hall—where mirrors lined the walls and moonlight filtered through glass domes—three advisors met in quiet conference.
These were not the jealous servants or silk-clad concubines who gossiped in the corners. These were his elite—highborn demons who wore crowns of bone and rings carved from celestial ruin.
Lord Vael, sharp-jawed and silver-tongued, paced the length of the hall.
"She's human," he muttered. "Nothing more."
Lady Eshira raised a brow, lounging in a velvet seat with her legs crossed elegantly. "Humans are more useful than you think, Vael. Especially when they bleed."
"She doesn't bleed," he snapped. "She eats. Sleeps. Breaths air like us. But the God doesn't keep humans. Not in that wing. Not in that chamber."
"Then perhaps she's not just human," said the third figure—tall, robed, masked. They called him the Whisperer, and none had seen his true face.
"Or perhaps," Eshira said lightly, "he simply likes her."
That silenced the room.
Vael scoffed. "He doesn't like anyone. He breaks them. Toys with them. He hasn't kept anyone in that chamber since—"
He paused. Even he didn't dare say her name.
The Whisperer tilted his head. "Would you like to ask him?"
Vael paled. "No."
"Then let it go," Eshira said with a smirk. "He is a God. He does what he wants."
Still, the tension lingered in the air like smoke.
Behind them, the silver mirrors shimmered faintly—and just for a moment, they all felt it.
That pressure.
That presence.
Like something was watching.
– Back in the Chamber
Far above, Lyra lay on the bed again.
The food was gone. She had devoured it without shame, hunger making her forget where she was or what she'd become. She hadn't asked questions. She hadn't spoken to the servant who brought it. She'd just eaten.
Now, the silence was back.
The heavy silence that told her she was not alone, even when no one stood in the room.
She looked at the door. It hadn't opened.
But the air was heavier. Warmer. That strange warmth from before—like fire trapped in the walls.
He was near.
She could feel him.
Not footsteps. Not voices.
Just heat.
And the memory of a voice that had made her bones shiver and her heart race.
She curled up tighter on the bed, pressing the robe closer to her skin.
She did not yet know what he wanted.