The bells of the temple tolled, and Lucien believed they tolled for him.
Their chime was intended to be sacred, a call to divine favor—but not this day. This day, it was a knell. Each vibration echoed through his rib cage like the strike of a mourning gong. Myrrh and dying candlewax scented the air, thick enough to choke.
Lucien knelt on the cold marble of the altar, his white robes pooling around him like spilled milk. The fingers of the High Priestess, anointed with sacred oil, traced the sigils of surrender upon his forehead. Her touch burned like seared iron, but her face was calm as a funeral veil.
"Blessed vessel," she murmured, but there was no heat in her tone. "You will spare us all."
The acolytes sang around him, their voices weaving a hymn of false piety. They told him it was an honor to be chosen. A privilege to be the sacrifice. Their eyes gleamed with something worse than pity—gratitude that it was he, and not they, who were being surrendered to the dark.
Lucien knew the truth.
He was simply the most disposable.
The youngest priest. The orphan with no kin to protest, no noble lineage to protect—only a silent faith in a god who had never responded. The golden manacles around his wrists bit into his skin, weighted down by the force of a thousand unspoken prayers.
A hand grasped his chin, forcing his eyes up. The High Priestess's eyes glowed like polished onyx in the dancing torchlight. "Do not weep. Your fear is a sin."
Lucien had not realized he was weeping. The tear rolled down his cheek, salt-bitter, before her thumb obliterated it like an erasure of weakness.
The procession began at sunset.
Bared beneath his meager ceremonial gown, Lucien walked barefoot through the city, each step echoing on the cobblestones. The crowds filled the streets, their faces a blur of wonder and pity. Children clutched their mothers' skirts; men spoke behind raised hands. Some reached out to touch him, as though his doomed flesh could bless them. Their fingers seared him with ghostly blisters on his arms.
"So lovely," a woman whispered, her voice trembling.
"The Demon King will devour him whole," a man snarled, tracing the sign of the cross.
Lucien's eyes stayed ahead, on the gates of the holy city looming ahead of him. The last light filled the sky with the color of a fresh bruise. The chains at his wrists clanked with every step, a cruel mockery of temple bells.
The gates groaned open, and ahead of them stretched the Veil—a glimmering, cursed film that separated the human world from the demon wastelands. It appeared to have a life of its own, its surface seething with colours that had no name.
This was where they left him.
The priests shoved him forward, their prayers collapsing into whispered desperation as they retreated. One—a boy Lucien had broken bread with—could not meet his gaze. The Veil curled around Lucien's flesh like cobwebs, cold and living, inserting itself between his fingers, his toes, into his mouth like a lover's kiss.
Then—silence.
He was alone.
The air changed.
The scent of scorched incense and rain-drenched earth filled Lucien's lungs. Shadows pooled at his feet, more compact, churning—curling up his legs like serpents. His breath hitched. The manacles on his wrists seared hot, then cold, then dispersed into smoke.
"Little saint."
The voice was a blade dragged along his spine.
Lucien whirled, his heart pounding against his ribs.
At first, he saw nothing but darkness. Then, slowly, the shape of a man coalesced—tall, broad-shouldered, veiled in smoke and ember-light. His silhouette bled into existence as if it had been painted by an unholy artist: the curve of a smirk, the glint of claws, the sinuous flow of shadows that were not quite clothing.
The Demon King.
Vaeloth.
He was beautiful.
That was the first, treasonous thought that slid into Lucien's mind.
Vaeloth's face was carved from the same razor grace as the temple's marble saints, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—were incarnate hellfire. They seared Lucien with a hunger that was anything but holy. The Demon King's hair fell in ink-black waves, streaked with embers, and his mouth—
His mouth was a blasphemy.
"You're trembling," Vaeloth said, stepping closer. His fingers, tipped with claws, caught a tear on Lucien's cheek and drew it to his lips. His tongue flicked out, and he savored it. "Do you fear death… or me?"
Lucien's throat tightened. He'd braced himself for pain, for torture—not for intimacy. His skin squirmed where the demon's breath tickled against it.
The Demon King skirted him, a predator savoring prey. "They send me pretty things every year. But you." A fingertip traced Lucien's jaw, down the thrum of his pulse. "You're different."
Lucien found his voice again. "Kill me and be done with it."
Vaeloth laughed, low and velvet-dark. "Oh, priest. If I wanted you dead, you'd be ashes by now."
Then—a handful of Lucien's hair, yanking his head back. Vaeloth's breath burned his ear.
"I do not desire your death."
"I desire your submission."
The ground vanished.
Darkness closed around them, and Lucien's stomach churned as the world warped. His eyes blurred—a flash of shrieking faces, a glimpse of a thousand eyes in the dark—then snapped into clarity.
They were in a vaulted chamber—all black stone and gilded filth. Candles floated in the air, their flames burning blue and unearthly. Tapestries depicting unspeakable acts draped the walls. A massive bed dominated the middle of the room, its sheets the color of old blood.
Vaeloth released him, and Lucien fell, his knees hitting the stone floor. The stone bit into his flesh, but the pain was distant, drowned out by the thunder of his own heart.
"Pray," the Demon King commanded, falling onto a throne of bones. His smile was a knife's edge. "Make your pretty prayers. Let me hear you plead with your god."
Shame burned Lucien's face, but he clasped his hands. The words tumbled out in habit—"Divine Light, protect me—"
"Louder."
"—guide me in darkness—"
Vaeloth's magic dragged him closer, scraping him across the floor until he was pinned between the demon's thighs. A claw raised his chin.
"I said louder."
Lucien's voice shook. "Deliver me from evil—"
"Too late for that." Vaeloth's thumb caressed his lower lip, pressing down just hard enough to cause pain. "But by all means… keep trying."
END OF CHAPTER 1