Kreal
1655–1990
May the Morningstar guide your soul to peace.
It was several days after the burial, and the Count had finally allowed Asphodel to visit Kreal’s grave at Belial Manor. Ray held Bell in her arms; he was fast asleep, unbothered by the quiet murmurs of the early afternoon procession.
Asphodel’s cherry-red skin looked almost dull in the dim light, her deep black eyes glassy with grief. Strands of her dark hair, streaked with the faintest shade of purple, clung to her damp cheeks. The makeup around her eyes had streaked down her face, smudging into dark trails from hours of crying.
“I still can’t believe he planted all these flowers just for me...” Asphodel murmured, her gaze drifting over the patch of blooms surrounding the freshly dug grave.
“I loved him,” she said quietly. “Truly. If he had asked... I would’ve left everything behind. Lived here with him. Happily.”
She gestured toward the small cottage near the stables.
“But no... he always said I deserved better. That he had to make me a proper bride, do everything the right way.” Her voice cracked. “He always said that I—”
She broke off, the words strangled by fresh tears.
Ray looked at her longtime friend and offered a soft, aching smile. There were no words that could ease that kind of pain. So instead, she reached out and gently stroked Asphodel’s hair, careful not to disturb baby Bell, still fast asleep in her arms.
Ray had always been the one others leaned on. The one with the steady voice, the kind hands. But today, she had none of that strength to spare. Today, she was simply tired—tired in a way that lived in her bones. After years of tending to her husband’s ambitions, and now only two weeks after giving birth, she had stepped into the quiet, relentless work of raising a child.
She needed rest. She needed the world to pause, just for a little while.
But the world would not stop for her.
In the quiet that followed, a thought crept into Ray’s mind.
Why does it have to be this way?
She had watched for years—watched the pain, the cruelty, the slow erosion of kindness that the old laws demanded.
My husband follows them without question... but at what cost?
A quiet anger stirred beneath her exhaustion.
What can I do? What must I do to protect those I love?
Her eyes fell to Bell’s sleeping face, so small and still. In that moment, clarity settled over her like a mantle.
He would not grow up blind to the truth.
He would know the weight carried by those beneath them. He would understand the pain of the lower classes—their struggle, their losses. Belial would try to shape him into his own image, as Lucifer had once shaped him.
But she wouldn’t allow it.
She wouldn’t let her son inherit the cruelty of the old world. She wouldn’t let time chip away at his soul until all that remained was coldness and control. He would not become like his father. Not if she had anything to say about it.
She would make an Oath—the deepest and most binding magic their kind possessed.
And in doing so, she would carve a new path. One that might shake the very foundation of their world.
Ray looked back at Asphodel and gently stepped out of her thoughts.
“It’s getting late,” she said softly. “I need to take Bell in for his nap. You’re welcome to stay the night, if you don’t feel up to the trip.”
“I should go,” Asphodel replied. “If I stay any longer, my father will start asking questions. He only let me come today because he was too busy to stop me.”
“Very well.” Ray straightened with practiced poise. “Crispen!”
The scarred manservant, who had been waiting at a respectful distance, stepped forward and gave a shallow bow.
“Yes, yer ladyship?”
“Bring the carriage around. See that Lady Asphodel is returned to the Count’s estate safely.”
“Course, yer ladyship. Right away.”
Crispen bowed again and moved briskly to carry out her order.
Ray turned back to Asphodel, her expression softening.
“Take care of yourself,” she said gently. “And if you need anything—anything at all—just send word.”
Asphodel didn’t speak. She only nodded, her eyes lingering on the grave. Then, slowly, she turned and walked away.
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Ray returned to the manor, her steps heavy with weariness. She drifted into the kitchen in search of something to eat—a moment’s peace, if such a thing still existed. She hadn’t sat for a proper meal in days. Belial wouldn’t return until late, and she was alone for now.
She sat down with Bell nestled in her lap and placed a strange purple fruit on the table in front of her. It was round, the size of her palm, with soft skin and a pungent, floral sweetness.
The smell made Bell stir, reaching for it with a curious little grunt.
“Not yet, silly,” she murmured. “An odine’s far too tough for you.”
She bit into it. The fruit’s soft outer layer gave way to a dense, fibrous core. Her sharp demon teeth made quick work of it.
A voice came from the doorway.
“My lady, your bath is ready. Shall I take the young master?”
It was Veronica, one of the smaller housemaids, her voice gentle.
“Thank you, Veronica. Yes—please change him and put him down for his nap. And don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean up here.”
“Of course, your ladyship.”
Veronica carefully lifted Bell and cradled him as she exited.
Ray exhaled and looked at the bits of purple pulp and juice streaked across the counter. She wiped them away with a cloth and glanced down at her silk dress. A dark splash of juice stained the fabric.
She sighed and headed toward the baths.
The baths were nothing short of indulgent. Fresh-picked red blossoms floated in porcelain bowls by the wall, their scent subtle but grounding. In the center of the chamber sat the Grimorian claw-foot tub, gleaming gold and full to the brim with steaming water. Hotter than anything a human could endure—but for Ray, it was perfect.
She slipped off her soiled dress and stepped into the water. Heat enveloped her, easing the aches in her muscles, sinking into the marrow of her bones.
Veronica had, as always, remembered to pour in her favorite tincture—a mix of patchouli, clove, and vanilla. A fragrance she’d fallen in love with during her years above, when she’d roamed ancient human ruins and listened to the earth whisper its stories. It was the same scent that once made Belial lean in close and breathe her in, years ago when he still smiled without thinking.
Ray sank into the bath, her eyes closing as the scent curled through the rising steam.
Bell… oh, Bell. What kind of world will be left for you if I do nothing?
How can I just stand by while the years wear down your soul the same way they did his?
She let the water carry her backward in memory—back to a time when Belial had been different. Softer. Warmer. Before centuries of duty and grief had hardened him.
She remembered the way he used to sing in the quiet hours of the morning, his voice low and rich, drifting through the halls like it belonged to the stars. She used to pretend to be asleep just to listen, not wanting to break the spell.
One morning, long ago, he’d caught her by surprise—laughing, spinning her around in the garden path, sunlight painting them in gold. He had looked at her like nothing else existed.
That version of him had vanished piece by piece, year by year. Not by choice, but by the cruel arithmetic of time. It was the way of all demons. If they didn’t learn to blunt their feelings, they went mad.
Most dulled themselves before they reached seven hundred.
Belial had lasted longer than most. But even he had grown cold.
There must be a way.
A way to protect Bell. To let him feel—not just survive.
I want him to grow up with wonder. To laugh and cry and love as freely as his heart desires. If it takes everything I have, so be it. I’ll make the Oath. I’ll mark my soul if that’s what it takes.
The water rippled around her as her resolve settled, thick and final.
She rose from the tub, water cascading from her skin like glass. She moved slowly, as if every step carried weight. Wrapping herself in a silken robe, she crossed to where her folded dress lay, slipping a hand into its inner pocket.
Her fingers closed around a small, flat ceremonial blade. Its surface shimmered with faint, shifting runes. She held it to her chest for a long moment, breathing deeply.
Then she turned and walked down the corridor toward Bell’s room.
The chamber was still, lit only by the soft glow of a magic lantern. Bell slept in his crib, the gentle rhythm of his breath the only sound.
Ray stood over him, looking down at her son, fast asleep. The weight of her thoughts pressed into her chest like stone.
What is the right Oath? What promise will shield him—and help our people?
Her thoughts flickered to Asphodel, and the raw pain etched into her face as she stood before Kreal’s grave. That agony—grief without justice—burned behind Ray’s eyes. She would not let her son grow up in a world built on such loss.
She knew who bore the blame.
Lucifer.
The one who shaped their world in this broken image. Who watched, age after age, as suffering became custom, and cruelty became law.
Even thinking it felt like blasphemy. Like cursing the sun for shining.
But the truth throbbed in her chest. Unignorable.
Lucifer is the problem.
And her Oath was the solution.
She drew the blade from her robe, its edge catching the dim light. She took one final breath and pressed it to the meat of her palm.
Without flinching, she cut.
Thick black blood welled up, slow and heavy. None of it touched the ground.
She dipped her finger into the pool forming in her hand and raised it to her forehead. Carefully, she drew the first symbol. Then the next. The arcane marks shimmered, resisting their final shape before settling into place.
Her hands shook, but she moved with care. With purpose.
When the last symbol was drawn, she leaned over the crib and gently pressed her bloodied finger to Bell’s brow, tracing the same symbols with trembling reverence.
Her breath caught as the last mark settled in.
And then, she spoke—barely a whisper, but laced with power.
“By soul and flame,
May this Oath shape your life and our world,
Bending what is into what could be.
May you walk unhindered—
Feel deeply, love freely, and experience the wonder of existence.
May none, not even Lucifer himself, chain your soul.
I swear on my own soul to bring you into a world that is filled with light.”
The final word echoed like a bell struck in a deep well.
And then the light faded.
Ray collapsed to the floor.
My mother knew more than most about Oath magic—but not everything. She could not have guessed the price of her Oath.
As the lines of age slowly crept onto her face, her beautiful immortal visage cracked. The soft red glow of her skin faded into a pale rose. Her once vibrant silver hair dulled to a steely gray, its luster dimmed like a shroud of mist.
The light in her eyes, once radiant and warm, flickered. They still held the shape of her strength and love, but the centuries of vitality she had once carried were gone.
She was no longer the youthful, luminous woman from the portrait that hung in the hall—but changed. Not aged beyond recognition, nor withered to a husk, but softened. Weathered by sacrifice. A little dimmer in light, a little heavier in spirit.
She was still alive, still strong—but the toll was undeniable. Her immortality was the cost.
And yet—when she looked up again, there was something else in her gaze. A quiet certainty. A flicker of peace.
It had been worth it.
I wouldn’t understand what she had done for me until much later—long after the Oath had woven itself into the fabric of my soul, and the path she carved for me had led through blood and ash.
But I owe her everything. The life I lived—whatever it became—began that night, etched in blood and born of love.