Deimos

  Long ago, the Underworld — known as Nethos — was a land of endless suffering, ruled by the merciless fist of the Devil. Nightmares bled into reality, and torment was the only promise. Even the wicked who sought shelter there found no sanctuary — only more pain.

  Desperate for change, the citizens built a sacred altar, drawing on ancient power to summon seven demonic beasts. They were called the Ancient Demons, and they rose to challenge the Devil himself. The battle shook the very foundations of Nethos — brutal, cataclysmic, and decisive.

  In the end, the Ancient Demons triumphed. The Devil was struck down, cast into nothingness. But not before unleashing one final curse.

  With his dying breath, he condemned the Ancient Demons, twisting them into the very embodiments of the Seven Sins — Pride, Greed, Lust, Wrath, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth.

  Despite the curse, the Sins rebuilt Nethos. Harsh, yes, but livable. Over time, they divided the land into powerful regions: Hell, Tartarus, Silvermere, Virdos, and others. Peace seemed possible — until the realms above, Arcanis and Heaven, dragged the world into new conflict.

  And then one day, everything changed again.

  In the capital of Hell, deep within the citadel of the Council’s chambers, the altar stirred. Its dormant glow pulsed with returning power.

  Something — or someone — was about to awaken.

  *

  Deimos felt nothing.

  No body. No movement. No control. Only the cold sensation of emptiness. He drifted in a void of endless black, the chill clawing at him from every side — until a faint shimmer appeared in the distance.

  A light.

  It grew brighter with each second. He couldn’t tell if he was moving toward it, or if it was pulling him in. Before he could react, the light consumed him — and flung him through.

  He slammed onto a cold stone.

  The freezing touch shot up his spine as he gasped, drawing in air like it was the first breath he’d taken in centuries. His body was covered in thick black ooze, sticky as tar. Each breath hurt. Every inhale felt earned through agony.

  His vision was blurred, but with each breath, it cleared. Crystals glowed dimly in the distance, illuminating cavern walls of blackened stone. The ooze that had clung to him slithered across the floor, vanishing into cracks like it had somewhere to be.

  Behind him, a stone pillar rose — twisted in vines, ancient and ominous. Carved into the side were words:

  Altar of Ancients.

  I need to get out of here. Something about this place isn’t safe, his mind shouted.

  He tried to stand, but pain surged through his body—sharp and punishing. Agony kept him slumped against the cold stone floor. Then came a sound—low, rhythmic, growing louder with every second. A deep thud echoing through the cavern like a heartbeat made of stone and dread.

  Something massive was coming.

  As he strained to turn toward the sound, fear clawed at his chest. But Deimos—ever defiant—shoved it down, burying every sign of weakness beneath a sharpened glare. He was defenseless, yes. But he would never look like prey.

  From the darkness at the end of the cavern, a silhouette emerged—huge, slow-moving, and terrifying. The ground trembled under its steps. And then it entered the light.

  Towering over him was the first creature Deimos had ever laid eyes on—an entity brimming with strength, power so immense it could crush him without effort. A ripple of stress swept through him as he met its gaze. And something unspoken passed between them.

  They were not ordinary beings.

  The figure wore intricate spiked armor, crafted from pale ivory—beast bone. Despite seeing this world for the first time, Deimos instinctively recognized the material. Confusion and a strange sense of pride bubbled inside him.

  Why would something so powerful need armor? And yet, it stood still—completely still. Not a word. Not a twitch. Just that empty, unblinking stare.

  Deimos narrowed his eyes, voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Are you planning to just keep staring, or do you actually have a plan?”

  Nothing. Only the sound of wind threading through the cavern’s cracks.

  Then, without warning, the creature moved. It grabbed Deimos like he weighed nothing, hoisting him over its massive shoulder. The armor dug into his ribs. He struggled, but his body refused to fight. He could barely move.

  The creature’s grip was iron. Escape was a fantasy.

  The ride was long. And humiliating. Deimos hated being carried—it made him look weak. Helpless. He hated that most of all. His mind spun with questions like a brewing storm. Who am I? Where am I? Where is this creature taking me? Once again, he sought answers.

  “For someone so big and intimidating,” he growled, “you sure don’t talk much. Where the hell are we going?”

  Silence. Again.

  The creature said nothing. It just marched forward, every step making the ground vibrate like the drumbeat of some ancient ritual.

  Finally, light bled into the darkness ahead.

  The cavern gave way to an interior so vast and ornate it felt like walking into a painting. Deimos caught a glimpse of a sprawling complex, gleaming with hues of crimson, gold, and bone-white. Grand architecture rose around them like monuments to something ancient and powerful. The walls were carved with figures he didn’t recognize. Statues lined the halls—the same beings, again and again.

  They must be important. But who are they?

  The deeper they moved into the citadel, the more the grandeur revealed itself.

  The corridors were nothing short of majestic lined with towering murals, embroidered tapestries, and etched stonework telling stories of seven exalted figures. Yet even with all that lore staring him in the face, Deimos remained clueless. No answers, just more questions.

  Smaller figures—though still formidable—patrolled the halls. Each radiated raw power. Their glowing eyes fixed on Deimos, silently measuring him. No one spoke. No one needed to. The atmosphere was thick with judgment.

  Still, he kept his posture high, fists clenched. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing weakness.

  Eventually, the creature carrying him stopped—and without ceremony, hurled him onto the polished floor of a towering throne room. The impact cracked the marble beneath him. Pain pulsed through his bones, but Deimos gritted his teeth and refused to fold. With effort, he forced himself into a seated position, head tilted upward.

  His gaze met the figure on the throne.

  The being radiated majesty and dominance. Everything in the room bent around his presence, crafted to exalt him. Seated, he still towered over Deimos. His armor was forged of darkened celestial silver and searing gold, glinting under flickering torchlight. His wings, vast and coal-black, were folded behind him. Seven horns spiraled upward from his skull like a crown shaped by arrogance itself.

  Glowing white eyes pierced through Deimos, reaching down into the scraps of his soul. His skin was a pale, unnatural grey that shimmered with eerie vitality.

  Power. Authority. Control. This creature was all of it.

  His expression was unreadable—a calm smile that spoke of amusement and absolute superiority. Deimos scanned the room and locked eyes with a statue in the throne’s shadow. It mirrored the figure perfectly.

  The inscription read: Statue of Pride.

  Deimos, still stinging from being tossed around like dead weight, scowled. “Are you going to keep smiling and glaring, or are you actually going to explain why I’m here?”

  The figure tilted his head ever so slightly. Not in offense—more like intrigue. He studied Deimos with mild amusement. The silence stretched thin, held only by the soft crackle of the dimming torches.

  Then, he finally spoke.

  His voice was like thunder softened by velvet. Calm, controlled, and undeniably dominant.

  “You’ve got some serious nerve talking to me like that. I like it. You’ve got grit.”

  Those glowing eyes narrowed, studying Deimos further. “The altar pulsed. That means something powerful woke up—something you. Tell me… what’s your name?”

  Deimos bit back the pain in his muscles and stood upright. His legs wobbled, every inch of his body screaming in protest—but he refused to fall. He crossed his arms, chin high.

  “Deimos,” he said. “Remember it. And since we’re getting formal… what do I call you?”

  The figure chuckled, a low, reverberating sound that echoed through the chamber like a distant storm. He leaned forward, elbows resting casually on his knees, gaze locked onto Deimos. Shadows stretched across the floor, reaching like claws.

  “Call me Predicus,” he said. “The Sin of Pride.”

  Deimos didn’t flinch. He said nothing—still, focused, watching like a predator waiting for its prey to slip up.

  Predicus smiled wider, clearly entertained. “So,” he began, rising from his throne with calculated grace, “you want to know why you’re here.”

  He stood tall, his presence commanding the space entirely. The gold and silver of his armor shimmered with every movement. As he stepped forward, his wings unfurled behind him, drinking in the room’s light like a god bathed in fire.

  “The sacred Altar of Ancient Demons,” he continued, voice like silk wrapped in steel, “has been dormant for centuries. Its only purpose: to summon the original seven—beasts of immense power. We are now known as the Seven Sins. I am their leader.”

  He stepped closer, his tone lowering.

  “I felt the altar pulse—alive again, for the first time in eons. Something stirred it. I sent Barbados to investigate. And instead of some relic or warning… he found you.”

  Deimos stood frozen, silent, a war raging behind his eyes. Who am I? What power do I have? Why did that altar call to me? The questions tangled and tightened inside his head, but he held Predicus’s gaze with defiance.

  Predicus passed him, slow and deliberate, arms folded behind his back like a monarch inspecting a throne room built in his own image. The guards along the walls bowed in perfect unison as he walked by, the choreography unnervingly precise.

  When he reached the grand glass doors, two guards with gleaming spears pushed them open. He paused, staring out into the glowing distance.

  “Come, Deimos.”

  There was a beat of hesitation—but Deimos followed, each step burning with ache. Whatever lay beyond the balcony, it was worth enduring the pain. He had to know what this world held.

  They stepped onto the stone overlook. A gust of heated air hit Deimos like a wave.

  The view was… stunning.

  Molten rivers flowed through the city like veins of living fire, casting a crimson glow that lit the stone streets. Towering spires pierced the clouds. The city pulsed with life—creatures of all shapes and sizes moving with eerie coordination. Some were hulking monsters. Others glided like wraiths. Many bore the same traits as Predicus and the guards—demonic elegance, power, command.

  The air stank of sulfur, thick and burning. Heat rippled off the streets, rising like shimmering ghosts.

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  And yet... it had beauty. A brutal, terrifying beauty. Deimos couldn’t look away.

  But after a breath, he masked it. Replaced awe with his usual steely calm.

  Without turning away, he asked the question clawing at his mind. “Where am I… and what am I?”

  Predicus placed a hand on Deimos’s shoulder, eclipsing part of the view. His voice dropped low, like a secret being spoken aloud for the first time.

  “This… is Hell. The largest, most dominant region in Nethos. Some call it the Underworld.” He squeezed Deimos’s shoulder lightly. “And Nethos is the home of our kind.”

  Deimos turned to Predicus, fists clenched, jaw tight. His eyes demanded the rest of the answer.

  “And you,” Predicus said, dragging out the silence, watching Deimos with calculating interest, “are a demon. But not just any kind… you’re an ancient one. Something lost. Something powerful. Even if the world doesn’t know you yet, they will. You’ll become a warrior of immense strength.” He smirked. “Not quite as great as me—but still dangerous.”

  Deimos absorbed the words, but they didn’t settle. They sparked.

  A warrior?

  Was that all he was meant to be? A weapon? A blade forged for war, shaped only for killing?

  His breath grew heavier, fists tightening until the knuckles strained. The molten glow of the city reflected in his eyes, but inside, the heat was worse—boiling, rising.

  Is that it?

  My only purpose… is to fight?

  His voice erupted before he could suppress it. “My only purpose is to become a warrior?” His stance shifted, sharp and ready. “Is that all I am?”

  Anger surged through him like a tide of fire. He could barely contain it. But he did.

  Predicus didn’t even blink. He kept his posture relaxed, eyes fixed on the scarlet horizon of Nethos like none of this mattered. When he finally spoke, his voice was colder than before.

  “Being a warrior is the highest honor for a demon—especially now. A war is coming. The kind that decides everything. And you?” His voice sharpened. “You scorn that? You think you’re above it? That you have some destiny different from what the altar chose you for?”

  Deimos froze.

  That chill again, crawling under his skin. He hadn’t expected this shift—the prideful king replaced with a strict, commanding voice of fate. He lowered his gaze slightly, fighting the mix of defiance and fear crawling up his throat.

  Predicus stepped closer. “Your power could change the fate of Nethos. Save us from being erased. Or…” His eyes narrowed. “You can rot in the dungeons with the rest of the forgotten.”

  Silence fell like a guillotine.

  No more bravado. No more taunts. Just a choice.

  Deimos’s heart thudded. His mind turned over the possibilities, neither one good. Rot in some pit? Or serve a cause he didn’t even understand?

  But there was only one path that kept him free. Only one that let him keep searching for who he really was.

  He raised his hand, sealing the agreement.

  Predicus’s smile returned, but this time, there was something beneath it—something dark, a flicker of triumph that didn’t sit right.

  Still, Deimos knew what he had chosen.

  He had made the right call.

  “Great choice, Deimos. I knew I could rely on you,” Predicus chuckled, the sound curling like smoke through the air. He noticed the tremble in Deimos’s legs but said nothing at first. Instead, he snapped his fingers, and guards appeared from the shadows like phantoms.

  “Even warriors need rest,” he said, his tone light but edged. “We can’t have you collapsing before the real test begins. Tomorrow, we start. For now, Barbados will take you to your quarters.”

  Barbados emerged like a wall of shadow, his frame eclipsing the ornate doorway. He moved silently, only the faint murmurs of the other guards marked his presence. As always, he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Deimos could feel the weight of his loyalty to Predicus—and his strength.

  “I’ll walk,” Deimos muttered, brushing past his own fatigue. He didn’t want to be carried again. Not now. Not ever.

  Barbados didn’t question him. He only nodded once and turned down the hallway. Deimos followed.

  His thoughts spiraled like a storm behind his eyes. Could Predicus be trusted? He hadn’t lied—yet. But that smile… it held too much pride, too much certainty. Arrogance like that didn’t come without cracks underneath.

  Still, the choice had been made. And now, he’d have to live with it.

  The walk through the citadel revealed a palace of impossible scale. Hundreds of rooms, each one a painting in motion. Gilded carvings. Tapestries woven with stories Deimos didn’t understand. Everything shimmered with wealth and power.

  When Barbados stopped, Deimos knew they’d arrived. The door opened to reveal a suite fit for a ruler. Chandeliers dripping crystal light. Walls draped in velvet and gold. A bed larger than some battlefields he might one day fight on.

  It felt… wrong.

  Too perfect. Too generous.

  Deimos stood there, wary, as Barbados handed him the room’s key. No words. Just the silent transfer of ownership.

  Deimos nodded in thanks.

  Barbados returned the gesture and vanished behind the closing door.

  The moment he was alone, the silence thickened.

  Deimos walked toward the center of the room, his boots soft against the plush carpet. The luxury didn’t comfort him. It felt like a gift meant to distract. Like gold wrapped around a hollow shell.

  He stared at the ornate bed. At the art on the walls. At the way everything seemed designed to please.

  And yet… he felt empty.

  This is a reward I didn’t earn.

  Why offer a throne to someone who hasn’t lifted a sword?

  There was a battle ahead. He could feel it pressing on his chest. And no amount of silk or crystal could soften that weight.

  He moved to the tall window, looking out across the sprawling city. Lava rivers twisted between towering buildings. Demons of every kind wandered the streets below, living their lives beneath a sky choked with clouds.

  Were they warriors too? Or just survivors of someone else’s war?

  He tightened his jaw.

  Predicus said warriors were the highest honor in Nethos. That might’ve been true. But Deimos had been handed that honor without proving anything.

  The thought made him restless.

  Still, he’d accepted. And now, he’d see it through.

  His eyes drooped, vision flickering at the edges. The constant resistance to pain—the effort it took to mask his exhaustion—was finally catching up to him. The bed, soft and probably warm, whispered a promise of comfort. And for once, Deimos found no argument strong enough to deny himself rest.

  But just before he could give in, something caught his eye.

  On the nightstand—an intricate piece of dark, carved wood—sat a book. Dust caked its surface in a thick, undisturbed layer, the only speck of neglect in a room otherwise pristine. It looked untouched for years. Maybe centuries.

  That was odd.

  Drawn by curiosity, Deimos stepped closer and lifted the book. The cover was heavy, cracked with age. He exhaled sharply, sending a plume of dust into the air that stung his eyes and tickled his nose. He barely noticed. His focus locked on the faded title stamped across the front:

  “The History and Existence of Our World.”

  “This might finally answer something,” he muttered, a flicker of anticipation replacing his weariness.

  He cracked it open and flipped to the contents page. It was shorter than expected.

  “Chapter One: Introduction to Our World. Chapter Two: The History of Our World…” he read aloud. “Simple, but promising.”

  Deimos devoured every page, eyes sharp with focus. The world he’d awakened into was massive—complex in ways he hadn’t imagined. Three primary realms. That much became clear:

  Nethos, the realm of darkness, home to infernal energies and a reputation for chaos.

  Heaven, realm of light—noble, structured, and venerated.

  And Arcanis, the middle ground, a realm of balance, neutrality, and mystery.

  Each realm had its own rules, its own power. Together, they formed the foundation of the world. Yet, they were constantly in flux, often at war—especially Nethos and Heaven.

  But then, something deeper caught his eye.

  Chapter Nine: Creatures of the World.

  He leaned in, intrigued. “Maybe this can teach me something about our enemies.”

  As he scanned the section, he paused at the list of Heaven’s beings. It was... surprisingly short.

  Griffins. Harpies. Spirits. Centaurs. Pegasi.

  But it was the final entry that seized his attention.

  Angels.

  He turned the page quickly, eyes narrowing. The section on angelology was dense, but he devoured the details.

  “Angels, Archangels, Virtues…” he read softly. “Creatures born of the purest light, no darkness in them. Made to serve. Symbols of beauty, kindness, and obedience. Natural enemies of demons—born in opposition.”

  He leaned back, eyes gleaming with realization.

  “So, they fear us,” he muttered. “That explains a lot.”

  A smirk crept onto his face. “Bingo. Looks like we found the target.”

  He traced the words again, committing the details to memory. It wasn’t just about who the enemy was. It was about understanding them. Knowing how they fought. What they feared. What they were made of.

  And yet… something about the description gave him pause.

  If they were pure... good... then why fight them?

  Hours had passed since Deimos first opened the book. He should have rested, but the tome’s intricacies held him captive. Its pages revealed secrets—angelic combat styles, behaviors, habits, even their weaknesses and strengths. All of it was strategic gold. Yet some of it… didn’t sit right.

  The more he read, the more a heavy unease took root in his chest.

  If angels were truly creatures of goodwill… then why were they enemies? Why was war the answer? His grip tightened around the book’s spine. He’d agreed to fight, but now he wasn’t sure who the enemy really was. Could exterminating something pure make him a protector… or a villain?

  Exhaustion crept in—slow, relentless. His vision blurred, his muscles loosened, but he refused to close the book. He flipped to one final page.

  And there, something unexpected: a torn piece of newspaper wedged between the pages.

  Aged and brittle, the scrap bore a date just two decades old. But it wasn’t from Nethos.

  It was from Heaven.

  That alone was enough to spike his interest.

  The headline was bold and regal:

  “Congratulations to Our King and Queen Virtues on the Birth of Their Daughter.”

  Deimos blinked. Once. Twice. He read it again.

  Their daughter?

  According to the book, Heaven’s royal lineage had only ever produced sons. No records of a daughter. No prophecy. No mention at all.

  He scanned the page again, and then he saw it—scribbled across the article in crimson ink, jagged and angry:

  “What makes her special? Why is she so different? I must know.”

  The writing ended abruptly, the message unfinished—ripped off mid-thought. A warning? A question? A plea?

  Deimos leaned back, mind swirling. A daughter born in secret. A first in recorded history. Someone the hierarchy tried to hide… or maybe protect.

  Was she just a royal child? Or something more? Something dangerous?

  His thoughts were racing too fast to find clarity. She might be important. To him. Somehow.

  Then came the knock.

  It was sharp, measured, and deliberate.

  Deimos stirred from his thoughts and rose from the bed, the tome left behind on the polished table. He opened the door—

  And there stood Predicus.

  Tall, composed, a glint of surprise in his eyes at finding Deimos still awake. “You’re not resting,” he said, stepping forward. “Impressive… but foolish.”

  Deimos narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here? We were supposed to meet tomorrow.”

  Predicus tilted his head slightly, his smile tight and unreadable. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his gaze flicking into the room. “I thought I’d check in. This room hasn’t had a tenant in a long time. Might I come in?”

  Suspicion prickled at the back of Deimos’ mind, but he stepped aside.

  Predicus entered with slow, deliberate steps. His eyes scanned the space until they landed on the tome resting on the table.

  He moved toward it.

  Deimos stepped in his way, blocking him.

  Predicus paused, then slowly lowered his hand, slipping it behind his back. His smile thinned. The usual smugness in his expression faltered, shifting into something colder.

  “Really,” he said, voice gruffer now. “You’re reading that book?”

  “You really should be reading from… a different author,” Predicus said gruffly, stepping forward, his tone laced with disapproval. “That book’s always danced on the edge. Never choosing a side. Frankly, I’m surprised it still exists.”

  He turned his back on Deimos, moving toward a tall bookshelf filled with tomes. Some bore his name. Others belonged to writers Deimos had never heard of. Names lost to time… or buried by power.

  Deimos held his ground. “This book has everything—what could possibly be so... negative about its origins?”

  Predicus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tapped his chin, deep in thought, like a man trying to decide whether to destroy the truth or just bury it.

  Finally, he pointed to the author’s name embossed on the book’s cover.

  “Abyssus,” he said, voice quieter now. “A mysterious figure. He doesn’t belong to our world anymore. Not really.” Predicus turned, his expression unreadable. “He believes in peace. In unity. He thinks demons and angels can coexist.” His lips curled into something like a sneer. “But he’s too blind to see what we really are.”

  The words hit Deimos like a cold wave. The name Abyssus stirred something in him—a flicker of something unknown. He didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel… wrong.

  Peace did sound foolish. And yet...

  Before he could speak, Predicus placed a cold hand on his shoulder and gently steered him toward the window.

  They both stood in silence, gazing down at the city. Lights flickered across molten rivers. Creatures bustled through the streets like stars scattered across a night sky.

  Predicus’s voice was softer now, laced with something rare—worry.

  “I don’t want you doubting your place, Deimos. Not because of that book. Don’t lose faith in your people.”

  And then, as quietly as he had arrived, he walked away. The door clicked shut behind him.

  Deimos remained, staring out the window. The people below… they didn’t know him. But they depended on him. If war came, he’d be their sword. Their shield.

  But why couldn’t they be saved through peace?

  His hand trembled as he picked up the book. Then he tossed it into the fire.

  No more distractions. Just resolve.

  Predicus had given him a mission. Protect Nethos. Protect their people. Be ruthless. Be merciless.

  And yet… the idea still lingered. That perhaps there was another way. One that didn’t begin with bloodshed. A different path.

  A compromise.

  Lead with peace. If it fails—then turn to war.

  The fire crackled louder, swallowing the tome’s pages in orange light. Deimos turned toward the bed. His body ached, still screaming from the awakening. His thoughts raged on, an endless storm of conflict and doubt.

  But it was time to rest.

  He paused only when he saw the torn newspaper article still lying on the bed. The one he'd forgotten to burn. He picked it up.

  “…There must be a reason she exists,” he whispered.

  And maybe—just maybe—that reason was the key to everything.

  He tossed the article into the fire.

  Then, exhausted beyond measure, Deimos collapsed onto the bed. His head hit the pillow. His eyes closed. And sleep finally, mercifully, took him.

  Whatever tomorrow held… he was ready.