Chapter 1
Lightning split the night sky above the demon realm of Acasya, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. In the villages below, people huddled in their homes, knowing what was coming. They could feel it in their bones—that terrible aura of dread that crept through the streets like fog, seeping under doors and through cracks in the walls.
The full moon hung bright and merciless overhead, casting everything in silver light that felt more like a curse than a blessing. Even the ancient mountains surrounding the realm seemed to lean inward tonight, as if the earth itself was holding its breath.
Wulfus stood in the castle's lower chambers, his hands trembling, this was the night he dreaded most, the night he had to bring fresh blood to his master.
Lord Elrien Vernom.
His stomach churned with familiar nausea, but he pushed it down. There was no room for weakness here, no space for the compassion that ate at him like acid.
Everything was ready, the slaves had been prepared, the chamber cleared, and the ritual items set in their proper places.
Now came the waiting, and the waiting was always the worst part. It gave him too much time to think about their faces, too much time to imagine what their final moments would be like.
He thought of his wife waiting at home, probably pacing by the window. He thought of his children, safely asleep in their beds. They didn't know what their father did on nights like this, and gods willing, they never would. But it was for them that he did it—for them that he stained his hands with blood month after month.
Everyone in Acasya knew the stories. When the full moon rose, Lord Elrien became something else, something that hungered for blood and pain. No slave had ever survived one of these nights. Not one.
The temperature in the chamber dropped suddenly, and Wulfus felt his breath catch. The shadows seemed to move on their own, writhing along the walls like living things. The very air grew thick and oppressive, pressing down on him until he could barely breathe.
Lord Elrien was coming.
"Greetings, my lord," Wulfus managed, dropping to his knees as his master entered the chamber. "May you live forever."
Lord Elrien didn't acknowledge the greeting.
He never did.
He swept into the room like a force of nature, his presence filling every corner until there was no escape from it.
Even in human form, he was terrifying—tall and imposing, with hair as black as midnight and eyes that seemed to burn with their own inner fire. His face was beautiful in the way that a blade was beautiful—sharp, perfect, and utterly dangerous.
"Bring them to my chambers," Elrien commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Now."
"Yes, my lord," Wulfus whispered, his voice cracking with submission. He signaled to the guards with shaking hands, and they began to move the slaves toward the upper chambers.
As they filed past him, Wulfus caught sight of a young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. She was pretty, probably no older than his own daughter. She looked back at him with terror so raw it made his chest ache, and he had to look away.
He was a coward. He knew it, and the knowledge burned in his throat like bile.
Some moments later, Lord Elrien settled into his throne with the fluid grace of a predator savoring the hunt. The chamber around him was magnificent, it was decorated with all black stone and crimson silk. Ancient symbols carved into the walls that pulsed with malevolent light. The very air seemed to thicken around him, as if reality itself bent to accommodate his darkness.
The blonde girl knelt before him, trembling so violently he could hear her teeth chattering. She was trying desperately not to cry, but tears leaked from her eyes anyway, leaving glistening tracks down her pale cheeks. Such a fragile, pathetic thing. He could break her with a thought.
The hunger inside him wasn't just stirring—it was roaring, clawing at his chest like a caged beast demanding to be fed. On full moon nights, the curse transformed that hunger into something obscene, something that craved not just blood but the exquisite terror that came before it. The slow, deliberate breaking of hope. The moment when they realized that no god would save them here.
"Well, well, well," he murmured, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, reverberating through the stone until the girl flinched as if struck.
"Look at me," he commanded, and when she hesitated for even a fraction of a second, he let a hint of his true nature bleed through. The temperature plummeted, frost forming on the walls, and shadows writhed like living things.
She looked up immediately, her blue eyes wide with a terror so pure it made him nearly smile.
He studied her face with the detached interest of someone examining an insect. The way her lips trembled, how her hands shook where they pressed against her thighs, the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. Fear had its own exquisite flavor, and he savored it like fine wine, letting it roll across his senses.
"I'm going to explain the rules to you," he said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. Somehow, that made it infinitely more terrifying than if he had shouted. "You're going to perform for me. Dance, sing, tell me a joke—I don't particularly care what you choose. If you manage to distract me until morning comes…" He paused, tilting his head as if considering. "Well, you might live to."
The girl's face went white as bone. "And if I don't?" she whispered.
Elrien's smile was beautiful and terrible, like a blade catching moonlight. "Oh, my dear human. If you bore me, I'll ensure your death takes exactly as long as possible. I'll start with your fingers—such delicate little things. Then perhaps your toes. I find that screaming becomes so much more… melodic… when there's genuine desperation behind it."
He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes drinking in her horror like a man savoring fine wine. "The anticipation is always the sweetest part, don't you think? That moment when hope finally dies." His laugh was soft, almost gentle, which somehow made it infinitely more chilling.
The girl began to sob, great heaving gasps that shook her entire frame.
"Please, my lord," she choked out between tears. "I have a sister, she's only—"
"Come here," he interrupted, his voice cutting through her pleas like ice.
She crawled toward him on hands and knees, too terrified to stand. When she was close enough, he reached out with movements that were almost tender and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He could feel her life pulsing beneath his palm, rapid and panicked and so very, very fragile.
"You know what I find most amusing about mortals?" he asked conversationally, as if he wasn't slowly increasing the pressure of his grip. "You always think there's something you can say or do that will change the outcome. Some magic word that will make monsters like me suddenly grow a conscience."
Her eyes bulged as his grip tightened just enough to make breathing difficult but not impossible. He wanted her conscious for what came next.
"The truth is," he continued, watching with fascination as the blood vessels in her eyes began to burst, creating tiny red flowers in the white, "there is no magic word. There is no mercy here. There is only me, and my hunger, and how long I choose to play with my food."
When her scream finally came, it started as a whisper and built to a high pitched terrifying wail that shattered several of the glasses on a nearby table. The sound echoed through the castle, bouncing off the walls and carrying through the corridors like a promise of what awaited anyone foolish enough to displease their lord.
But that was only the beginning. By the time dawn broke over the demon realm, the screaming had stopped—not because the suffering had ended, but because there was nothing left capable of making sound.
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