He lounged in a throne carved of bone and dark marble, red and black magic swirling in his palm, like a kid playing with a lit match out of boredom. His hair was a deep crimson, spilling over his shoulders like silk, his eyes scarlet rubies that burned too bright. Power radiated from him, and something else, something familiar.
I froze.
It was the way he tilted his head. The subtle smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, the same arrogant calm I’d seen every day with Malakai, when he had teased and kissed and…
I knew Malakai said the Demon King was his father, but… I never thought they’d look so similar.
The King’s eyes sharpened, his nostrils flaring. He leaned forward, gaze sliding over me, lingering knowingly.
“Interesting. You smell… familiar.” His voice was low and as rich as dark wine.
My heart stumbled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “Don’t lie to me,little flame. My blood recognizes its own.”
My throat went dry. The air between us burned, not with heat, but revelation. He didn’t know. Not yet. But he would.
He didn’t move at first, he simply watched me. His gaze was heavy, like pressure building behind glass, testing the limits of what would break first—my self-preservation or my loyalty.
When he finally rose, the air itself seemed to recoil. His presence filled the room, swallowing the space between us until the torches along the walls flickered in submission.
I stood my ground, barely, my fingers betraying me with a slight tremble. I tried hiding it by curling them into fists.
“You reek of familiarity,” he said, his voice velvet and venom. “Not of my kind, not quite… but close enough to be unsettling.”
He descended the steps of the dais, slow and deliberate, the clack of his boots echoing like a countdown. Each one sent a tremor through the floor, through me.
“What are you, little fire mage?”
His eyes flicked to the faint flames sparking around my fists. “You carry the most desired power of them all. I’m amazed that the humans haven’t locked you up for their own greed.”
My throat worked around a dry swallow. I wanted to speak, to lie, to laugh,anythingto make him think that I could stand my ground against him. Yet my tongue felt heavier than ever, as if it had doubled in size.
“You’re mistaken,” I said, forcing steadiness. “I’m a simple fire-wielder, they don’t thirst for my powers, they respect it as any other.”
He stopped a few paces from me, close enough that the heat of him pressed against my skin, aberrant and threatening at once. He leaned in, inhaling sharply, a predator scenting blood.
And then his eyes changed, narrowed.
“Ah…”
His voice dropped, soft but slicing the air. “There it is. Someonemarkedyou.”
I flinched before I could stop myself.
“A demon… well, half, maybe,” he continued, circling me now. “Not one of my minions. But…” His tone sharpened, as though cutting through memory. “My blood, a part of my scent. You carry it.”
He stopped behind me, close enough that his breath grazed the back of my neck.
“Who marked you?”
I said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy as a blade against my throat.
“Who,” he repeated, quieter this time, and far more dangerous.
The fire in my veins surged, instinctively. Flames shimmered around my hands and wrists, but he didn’t even flinch. Instead, he laughed, a low, amused sound that made my stomach twist.
“You think your flames frighten me? My dear, Imadecreatures that burn brighter than you ever will.”
