They said vengeance was for the weak.

  Darian had believed that, once. Back when he had something to lose. Back when his sister still smiled, when his apartment didn’t smell like blood and stale coffee, and before the words “it’s not personal” were whispered by the man who left him bleeding on the church floor.

  Now, vengeance was the only thing he had left.

  And tonight, he was going to summon it.

  Literally.

  The circle was drawn in ash and regret, a meticulous sigil etched into the cracked concrete beneath the old city chapel. Candlelight flickered against the damp stone, casting warped shadows on the stained gss behind him—gss that hadn’t seen sun in decades. The room reeked of mold and old incense. No one came here anymore. That was the point.

  Darian knelt in the center of the circle, shirtless, scars bared. On his chest: the final offering—a mark carved by his own hand. Not deep. Just enough to sting. To signal sincerity.

  He opened the ancient book.

  He didn’t remember how he’d found it. Only that it had been waiting.

  The words were in a nguage he didn’t speak but understood anyway. Not with the brain. With something deeper. Older.

  “Spirantem inferna. Audi me.”

  The room pulsed.

  “Dominam Umbrae. Da mihi oculos ad videre. Manus ad facere. Cor ad non sentire.”

  The air turned to ice.

  Then—heat.

  A breath against the back of his neck.

  He didn’t turn.

  The voice came from behind him, velvet and smoke.

  “You bleed beautifully.”

  He swallowed. Didn’t answer.

  “I like the way you suffer,” the voice continued. “It’s not noisy. It’s hungry.”

  He turned.

  And saw her.

  She wasn’t fmes and horns and monstrous wings. She didn’t need to be. She stood barefoot on the edge of the circle, skin like polished obsidian, eyes glowing faint amber—not bright, but burning, like coals under silk.

  Hair bck as the void, cascading over bare shoulders. A simple dress, red as spilled wine, clinging to curves sculpted for sin. No weapons. No cws. Just a smirk.

  “What do you want, little summoner?”

  Darian didn’t blink. “I want power.”

  “Everyone does.” She tilted her head. “But they usually want to live too.”

  He said nothing.

  The demoness stepped closer, toes brushing the ash. “You ask for my touch. My voice. My gifts. But the price—”

  “I know the price.”

  She grinned. “Do you?”

  He stepped forward. Blood smeared the circle’s edge.

  “I offer my soul.”

  She raised a brow. “You offer what you’ve already half burned out.”

  “Then take what’s left.”

  She watched him, eyes narrowing with interest. “You don’t want a second chance. You want permission.”

  Darian exhaled. “I want to kill them.”

  “All of them?”

  He nodded once. “Every name on the list.”

  She smiled wider. “Then let’s make it a pact.”

  He woke alone in the chapel.

  The candles were out. The sigil gone. But something had changed.

  The air felt heavier. His breath fogged slightly in the cold. Every heartbeat thudded with strange resonance—like he’d been rewired from the inside out.

  He sat up slowly, muscles aching. On his chest, the carved mark still burned faintly—no longer blood, now something etched into him. A symbol. A cim.

  He reached for the book.

  Gone.

  Only the impression of weight remained.

  Darian stood, limbs trembling. He should’ve felt fear. Doubt. Regret.

  Instead, there was only a whisper. Quiet. Female. Inside his skull.

  “One day soon, they’ll beg. And you’ll smile.”

  He walked out of the chapel without looking back.

  Back in his apartment, the lights flickered.

  The power had been cut a week ago.

  Didn’t matter.

  He sat on the floor beside the cold radiator and stared at the city lights bleeding through broken blinds.

  His hand brushed over the sigil on his chest.

  It pulsed—just once.

  A heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

  Then the whisper returned, softer this time:

  “Sleep, my darling. I’m already dreaming of you.”

  And Darian closed his eyes.