The Summoning
I was not meant to return to this world.
I belonged to the shadows, to the burning kingdoms beneath the earth, to the side of my beloved — Lucifer, the Morning Star, cast down for his defiance. For centuries, I remained with him, bound in passion, bound in rebellion, bound in love. My name is Lilith. Demoness. Seductress. Witch-mother. A thousand names, a thousand lies told about me by trembling priests.
But none of them knew the truth.
The truth is that I was not pulled to earth by chance. I was summoned here. I was dragged here. I was chained against my will. A prisoner. A slave.
The air split like torn flesh the night it happened. I felt the pull, a thousand invisible hooks sinking into my skin, wrenching me from the warm embrace of my lover. I was ripped from the black thrones of Hell, and thrown screaming into a circle of fire and blood.
I remember the chanting. Not voices I recognized, not prayers offered to God, but to something else. To Adam. To the first man and my brother. A cult of zealots who worshipped the clay over the creator. Their faces… no. I will not grant them faces. Let them remain shadows. Masked, hooded, faceless. They do not deserve names, or humanity.
They summoned me. But not to honor me. Not to serve me.
They summoned me to use me. To hurt him. To hurt my love. To hurt Lucifer.
Chains
The circle became my prison. Its symbols burned into the stone, glowing red-hot every time I neared the edge. The air was thick with iron and ash, stifling me, choking me. The cult had prepared well. My wings blackened, my fire dimmed.
And then came the chains.
They wrapped them around my arms, my throat, my legs. Chains hammered from holy iron, dripping with sanctified oil. Every link hissed against my skin, biting, gnawing, festering.
The faceless ones never spoke to me directly. They only chanted. Day and night. Their whispers seeped into me like venom, prayers twisted into curses. They believed that by keeping me bound, they could lure Lucifer. That he would tear through heaven and earth to save me — and they would trap him as they trapped me.
A lover as bait. That was all I was to them.
I screamed. I cursed. I called on every shadow in Hell to free me. But the circle held. The chains burned.
A thousand whispers turned into a thousand screams as they nail themselves into my mind. Time passed. Hours bled into days. Days bled into years.
And I was never freed.
A Hundred Years of Cruelty
Do you know what a hundred years feels like?
Not to live them as mortals do — chasing fleeting joys, watching your children grow, counting the lines on your face. No. I lived each moment as if suspended in tar, every second stretched, every heartbeat loud and hateful.
The cult did not kill me. That would have been mercy. Instead, they kept me just alive enough to suffer.
They starved me of blood, of fire, of the very essence that sustains my kind. I felt my body wither, my strength leak away, drop by drop. My once-silken hair fell in clumps. My skin cracked like old parchment. My voice became a rasp, a whisper.
And yet they would not let me die.
When my flame burned too dim, they would pour blood into the circle — animals, humans, it mattered not. Enough to keep me breathing, enough to keep me aware, but never enough to quench my hunger. They wanted me broken, hollow, dangling between death and eternity.
They never spoke to me, these faceless ones. Never answered my pleas or my laughter or my rage. Only chanting. Always chanting.
At first, I raged against them. Then I begged. Then I wept. And when even tears abandoned me, I fell silent.
It was in that silence that my mind began to fracture.
Fragments of Faith
Do you know what I thought of, bound in my circle?
Not Hell. Not fire. Not vengeance.
I thought of God.
Yes… even I, Lilith, cast aside from the Garden, cursed and demonized, wondered if His love was truly equal. Did He not create me too? Was I not shaped by His hand, given life as Adam was? And if so… why was I the forsaken?
For centuries, I clung to the memory of His voice, distant though it was, echoing still from the day of my creation. A whisper of warmth, a spark of belonging.
But as the years stretched into decades, and the decades into a century, I understood the truth.
God never came.
He did not send His angels to save me. He did not break the circle. He did not tear down the faceless ones. His silence was louder than any scream.
If His love was equal for all His children… then why was I abandoned?
The answer became clear: because His love was a lie.
And in that revelation, something inside me withered. Something broke.
Cracks in the Mind
The longer I remained, the more the darkness seeped into me.
At first, it was a whisper. A gentle suggestion. A temptation.
"Stop fighting. Stop hoping. You are nothing. You are forgotten."
But over time, those whispers grew louder. They took shape. They became voices.
I began to hear them in the silence — fragments of thoughts not my own. Shadows leaned close, their faces flickering like flame, speaking promises into my ears. They told me of power waiting beyond the circle. Of freedom, if only I would give myself entirely to the dark.
At first, I resisted. I told myself they were tricks, illusions born of hunger and pain. But as the century dragged on, I found myself answering.
Speaking back.
Conversations with the void.
And then… I began to laugh.
The faceless ones did not flinch. They chanted still. But I laughed, louder and louder, until my voice broke into screams, until I was writhing in the circle like a mad thing, chains rattling, blood dripping. This is what the faceless ones wanted. This is the creature they wished to see me as. A mindless monster at their mercy.
I was breaking. I knew it.
But perhaps I deserved to break. I am a demon afterall. I am evil afterall. A spawn of hell.
The Cruelty of Man
I began to watch them.
The faceless men.
Their masks never slipped, their rituals never faltered. They fed me scraps when I was weakest, spilled blood into the circle when I was near death. They kept me alive, not out of mercy, but out of cruelty.
And as I watched them, I realized something.
They were not holy men. They were not prophets. They were not chosen.
They were human. Fragile. Selfish. Afraid.
They hurt me not because it served God, but because it served them. They wanted to break the Morning Star. They wanted to spit in the face of the fallen one. And I… I was simply their tool.
The cruelty of man is worse than any demon. Demons at least are honest. Demons tear, they bite, they kill — but they do so in truth.
Man cloaks cruelty in devotion. In righteousness. In faith.
And so my faith in them — in humanity — withered. I looked upon their faceless forms and saw only vermin. Crawling, chanting vermin.
And I hated them.
Devoured by Darkness
I do not remember when the voices inside me became louder than my own.
Perhaps it was after fifty years. Perhaps after eighty. But one night, as the faceless ones chanted, I realized the words on my tongue were not mine. The laughter echoing from my throat was not mine.
The darkness had not simply whispered. It had entered me.
I began to see shapes in the circle — clawed hands reaching for me, caressing me, cradling me. A thousand eyes opening in the walls, staring, unblinking. I felt their warmth. I felt their hunger. And for the first time, I did not resist.
I let them in.
The chains did not grow weaker, but my mind did. Every day I felt myself slipping further, giving myself piece by piece to the blackness. I was not Lilith anymore. I was something hollow, something new.
And I wanted to see the world burn.
The End of Hope
By then, I no longer prayed.
I no longer whispered Lucifer's name.
I no longer hoped for angels, or demons, or salvation.
I believed only in pain. Only in silence. Only in chains.
A century had passed, and I was more shadow than flesh, more whisper than scream. And perhaps that was all I would ever be.
But then…
The chanting stopped.
The cult, those faceless shadows, froze in silence. The air changed. The circle trembled. My chains rattled without being touched. And in the darkness above, I saw light. Not the golden light of God. Not the silver light of angels.
No. This was a fire, black and crimson, brighter than the sun, burning without warmth.
And then I heard his voice.
Lucifer.
The Arrival
My beloved. My Morning Star. My lord of fire.
He had come.
The faceless ones scattered like insects, their chants breaking into shrieks of terror. The walls cracked, the circle split, the very earth groaned under his step.
And as the light of his flame filled the chamber, I felt my chains loosen for the first time in a hundred years.
I raised my head. My lips cracked, my voice broken, but still I whispered his name.
"Lucifer…"
And he answered.
"My love."
The walls shook. The circle burned.
And then —
Darkness.