My mother, Raylianna, was 450 at the time. A scholar, a historian, and one of the kindest souls in the underworld. She was in her prime, her mind sharp and her spirit fierce. Where Father wore shadows like armor, she brought warmth into every room.
Belial worked directly under our ruler Lucifer, as his personal informant and spy. Perhaps his job is what landed him his most famous title: the Lord of Lies. Not because he couldn’t be trusted—though few did—but because he had a way of finding the lies in others. And making them unravel. He was unmatched in his ability to root out treason and dishonesty, overseeing Lucifer’s information networks across both realms.
He’d been many things in his long life: soldier, aristocrat, and oddly enough, a renowned singer—though I would only hear him sing once in life. Sometimes I wonder if that version of him was just another role he played, long discarded.
Before she married my father, my mother was a famous archaeologist. She spent decades exploring the human world, uncovering artifacts lost to time and magic. One such treasure she always kept close: a ruby pendant. It pulsed with a warmth I could feel, even as a newborn.
I must have inherited her curiosity. Even as a baby, I watched Father wondering why he always spoke when no one else was in the room. Muttering to himself like he was being haunted by voices only he could hear.
One night, after she put me to sleep, Mother went to find him.
He was in his study, hunched over parchment in his oversized chair. The leather creaked under his weight as he muttered and flipped through pages. The fire had burned low. His voice rose suddenly:
“No, no, goddammit! I told him this would happen, the damn fool!”
“You shouldn’t work so late, my love. What could possibly be so important it keeps you from sleep?” she asked gently, stepping into the room.
He didn’t look up.
“Kreal is at it again. Stirring up trouble with the Count. I told him to let her go, but he can’t help himself. He’ll end up dead.”
“Still chasing Asphodel? And after the Count denied him three times…”
“He insulted the Count. In front of his court. And now there’s going to be a duel. One way or another, blood will spill.”
Raylianna’s brow furrowed.
“I remember when Kreal and Asphodel first met...it was just after you hired Crispen. Kreal drove me to the Count's manor for my tea with Asphodel. I saw the spark of love in their eyes that day—bright and foolish and wonderful.”
She smiled, stepping closer.
“Not every man was as lucky as you, you know. You never had to fight for my hand.” she teased.
This time, he looked up. Even in a simple gown, her presence lit the room. He rose, pulling her into an embrace.
“I would’ve fought a thousand demons for you,” he said softly. “And I would’ve won.”
“Bell is asleep,” she whispered. “This time is ours.”
The Morningstar’s light filtered through the curtains, casting their silhouette on the wall beside a portrait—Father, younger, in wedding garb, and Mother beside him, radiant and unchanged.
And then, of course, I cried from down the hall.
“Our son has impeccable timing,” she sighed.
“Go to bed, Ray. I’ll handle him.”
“Read the book on the nightstand. And don’t forget to kiss him goodnight.” She smiled, teasing him.
Father entered my room, and I quieted the moment I saw him. He sat beside the crib and reached—unfortunately—for the wrong book. The title read Silence and Dawn.
He began to read aloud:
In the beginning, there was only darkness and silence. Wild magics flowed untamed across the world—raw, unpredictable, and without master. Demons were not as we are now. We came in many shapes, wild and formless, until order was imposed.
Humans came first, carving the world in their image. They built cities, forged empires, and ruled the lands above while we lurked in shadow.
Then came Lucifer. He descended from the heavens and gave purpose to the chaos. He gave us light—setting the crystal star into the roof of the underworld, the Morningstar, casting away our eternal night and ushering in the dawn.
He shaped our bodies to resemble humans, whom he admired for their ambition and curiosity. He bound the wild magic with law, and taught us to control it. He formed the rules: contracts, oaths, and the power of the soul. These magics became our legacy.
In the beginning, harmony reigned. Peace lasted for five centuries.
But magic is a hungry thing. The bindings frayed. The world tore open. The Gates of Hell were formed—a permanent scar between our world and theirs.
Through these gates, demons walked freely into the human world. Some sought knowledge. Others conquest. We learned the faults of men—and how our magic could feed upon their desires.
Lucifer tried to halt it, but it was too late. The humans struck back with crusades and steel. Thousands perished. Entire legacies turned to ash—
It was an old tale. I didn’t understand the words then, but I remember the weight of them. The way his voice softened, then stiffened.
“This is… not for children,” he murmured, suddenly realizing.
He replaced the book with the correct one, composed himself as though nothing had happened—but I giggled. Even then, I knew he didn’t like being caught off guard.
He read until I fell asleep. Then he lingered a while longer before returning to bed. But the story stayed with him. The words he had just spoken—the rise of demons, the betrayal of humans, the binding of magic—stirred old memories. Fire and loss crept through the cracks in his fortified mind. Even when the book was shut, the tale refused to let go.
He did not kiss me goodnight. He never had, and never would.
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As he lay beside my mother, his mind drifted to the duel he’d be officiating the next morning. Kreal—his old friend and servant—and the Count. It wasn’t just a formal duel.
It was an execution wrapped in ceremony.
Kreal stood alone in the courtyard, sweat already beading on his brow. Muscular. Proud. Hopelessly outmatched.
Zel-born. A stable hand. No noble title. Hardly any magic. Just a heart too full, and a dream he couldn’t let die.
His opponent was a Count.
“You were right,” Kreal said quietly. “This is a death sentence. I know that.”
He looked down, jaw tight. “But I couldn’t just keep waiting. I’ve spent fifty years chasing his blessing, and all I ever got was silence. I had to take something back. Even if it’s just this.”
Father sighed. “You’re a fool.”
Then, softer: “But maybe you’ve reminded me of something I’d forgotten. A demon’s love is eternal. To be denied it… maybe that’s the crueler fate.”
“He didn’t even let her come,” Kreal muttered. “Said I wasn’t worthy to be seen by her.”
His voice caught. “He’s wrong.”
Father noticed Kreal’s hand shaking—his old nervous twitch. Kreal quickly hid it behind his back, trying to look composed. He said nothing more, only looked his friend in the eyes, knowing no words could change what was coming.
Then, gently, Father placed a hand on Kreal’s shoulder.
“He is wrong,” he said. “Lucifer be with you, old friend.”
Across the yard, the Count Accura stood in white and red military garb. He was short, stocky, and overly decorated—more reminiscent of a pompous human general from centuries past. The kind of man who wore power like armor to make up for what he lacked in presence. Short, sneering. His presence irritated Father more than he’d admit.
Standing just behind the Count was a lean nobleman with slicked-back hair and a few faint scars along his cheek and jaw. His black horns were thin and polished, curling neatly back toward his temples. He stood with the air of a man who belonged in places like this—hands folded behind his back, spine perfectly straight.
Viscount Curn, if memory served. Not especially powerful, but well-connected—often seen at court, rarely heard. His gaze slid over Kreal with quiet dismissal, like one might glance at a servant who’d overstayed his welcome.
Belial caught the look and moved on. Nobles like Curn didn’t need reasons to sneer at common-born men chasing noble daughters.
“Are you two quite ready?” the Count called across the courtyard, his voice thick with impatience.
Kreal stepped forward, chin high. “I am.”
The Count snorted. “Charming. And here I was hoping you’d run.”
Kreal said nothing.
“You understand this is all theater,” the Count went on, gesturing lazily to the gathered witnesses. “A formality so the records don’t read cowardly pest incinerated on sight.”
“Let us begin,” Kreal said firmly.
The Count gave a mocking bow. “As you wish. Do try to make it interesting.”
They stood forty paces apart. Kreal drew a channeling rod—cheap, worn. The Count needed no conduit. Highborn demons rarely did.
Father raised his hand.
The duel began.
Kreal’s staff lashed out immediately, crackling blue lightning arcing across the yard to strike the Count squarely in the chest.
The Count didn’t flinch. His gaze remained fixed, cold and impassive, as though brushing away an insect.
Kreal, already pale and sweating from the strain, didn’t look surprised by the spell’s failure. He had poured everything he had into that one moment. He had nothing left.
The Count raised a hand.
An enormous gout of flame erupted above Kreal, a blossom of fire that roared down in a pillar of heat and fury.
As it descended, Kreal’s final thought drifted to Asphodel—sitting in the garden beneath the Morningstar light, surrounded by the flowers he’d planted for her. He saw her smiling gently, her hair catching the silver glow, fingers brushing the petals he’d never get to place in her hands.
And then the fire took him.
The world went white-hot, silent. His soul-fire burned through in an instant, and the rest turned to ash.
Father stared at the scorched remains. Kreal had been his friend for over two hundred years.
No noble name. No titles. Just love.
A foolish, unwavering love.
His fists clenched at his sides. Sharp nails dug into his palms, drawing a small bead of black blood.
The pain grounded him in a moment he could not bear to forget.
“We’ll bury him at the manor,” Father said, jaw tight. “In the garden. Between the belladonna and the yew.”
His servant nodded and began collecting what was left.
As the chariot prepared to leave, Father glanced once more at the Count—unscathed, unbothered, more powerful in every measurable way.
“Good day, Count. A blessing to your health,” Father said flatly, closing the door.
The words were polite. The tone was not.
Crispen, his manservant of fifty years, guided the reins with quiet strength. He was large for a demon—easily two meters tall—with broad shoulders and a scar running horizontally across his nose. His horns had been filed to dull nubs, a sign of his caste, but few dared speak down to him.
Short brown hair. Neatly trimmed. Words used sparingly. And yet each one carried weight.
There was a gravity to him, a steadfastness earned through decades of loyal service.
Though of low blood, many bowed their heads in respect—for they knew exactly who he served.
“Yer Lordship... Kreal planted those asphodels last season. Near his cottage by the stables. Wanted to give her a bouquet, I’m sure. Maybe... we should bury him there. Might bring his soul some peace.”
Father nodded slowly.
“Your soul sees clearer than mine these days, Crispen. Make the arrangements.”
He thought of how Kreal had built that cottage with his own hands after meeting Asphodel. Belial had offered him a room in the manor more than once, but Kreal always declined.
He insisted on building a home—a place he and his lady love could share, even if only in dreams.
Now, as the memory of the man resurfaced, Belial let it hold him for a moment longer than he meant to.
The Grimorian chargers pulled them home—massive beasts resembling horses in form, but monstrous in detail.
Their black, lizard-like scales shimmered with residual heat.
Their hooves struck the ground like thunder.
Twisted horns jutted from their skulls, curling outward like blackened tree roots.
Sulfuric smoke flared from their nostrils, each breath flickering with fire.
They were more dragon than horse—creatures of flame and fury, bred for power and fear.
The air shimmered around them. Brimstone trailed in their wake.
They galloped with terrifying grace, hoofbeats shaking the earth, fire and smoke spiraling behind them as they surged down the winding stone roads toward Belial Manor.
Raylianna stood at the manor doorway, watching in silence as the chariot approached.
Concern was etched across her face. Her eyes darkened with the weight of what had occurred.
I remained blissfully unaware in her arms. My usual bright smile lit up my features.
But as Father stepped down from the carriage, the heaviness of his presence changed everything.
The warmth in the air vanished. My cheerful babbling died in my throat.
I could feel it—something terrible had happened, even if I didn’t yet understand it.
“Take him inside,” Father said, voice low and strained. “He shouldn’t witness this. Fetch the rest of the staff to help Crispen.”
I was swiftly carried away by a maid, bundled close to her chest. I peeked back once over her shoulder, catching a final glimpse of my father.
He stood motionless, framed by the dying light of day. His eyes were hollow.
Mother joined him as Crispen and the staff carefully unloaded the body. She reached out and placed a hand gently on his arm.
He didn’t move.
My father had known death before—far more than most.
He had lived through the worst years of the Crusades.
Seen fire rain from the skies.
Heard the screams of both humans and demons alike.
But time wears on all things. Even those who walk through eternity.
He sat slowly in his chair, the weight of memory heavier than his body.
His black eyes stared at nothing.
His hands trembled.
He muttered to himself, broken words from some long-lost place.
His fists clenched once more, nails reopening the wounds, his body repeating the motion as if locked in a loop of grief and guilt.
Raylianna knelt beside him.
Her expression was unreadable—equal parts sorrow and knowing. One single tear slid down her cheek.
She had seen this before. The decay of the mind brought not by age, but by centuries of burden.
Then, as if seized by a storm, my father went rigid.
A guttural scream tore from his throat—not one of rage, but something far worse:
Terror.
His eyes bulged, locked on some invisible nightmare.
His hands clutched his chest, as though trying to hold himself together.
He shook violently, eyes wide with the horrors only he could see.
Later, my mother would tell me what he saw in those moments:
Visions from the past.
Horrors burned into his soul.
Fires consuming villages.
Human crusaders in white and red.
Entire demon clans wiped out.
Screams of the innocent, the damned, and the forgotten—clawing to be remembered through him.
Then it ended.
The fit passed.
His body slumped, spent.
His gaze returned to the present. He looked at her—not as the Lord of Lies, but as a man unmade.
“I am sorry, my love,” he whispered.
“Never apologize for what you cannot control, my sweet,” she replied, her voice steady and warm.
“Only Lucifer himself can still the madness of age. But my love for you is a light that will never fade. No matter how far you fall, I will always be here to guide you back.”
He looked at her, and something in him softened.
“My Ray of light,” he murmured.
And in that fragile moment, even the Lord of Lies looked human.