Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

There was a knock at her door.

Not the thunderous echo of the Devil's arrival, not the silent gust of shadow that usually crept in when he came. This knock was soft. Almost... hesitant.

She rose from the velvet chair by the fire, her boots echoing faintly on the black marble floor. The mansion was quiet now. The High Lords were gone, the trials over, and for the first time since her arrival, a fragile calm hung in the air.

But calm, she had learned, was never real in the Devil's world.

She opened the door.

Standing there was a boy—no older than fourteen, with pale hair and haunted eyes. He bowed quickly, not meeting her gaze.

"Lady of Chaos," he said, voice shaking. "He sent me to summon you."

"Where is he?"

"The west wing," the boy whispered. "The locked corridor."

Her stomach tightened.

"I thought that wing was sealed."

"It's not anymore."

She followed him through the winding corridors, deeper than she'd ever gone. Past rooms that groaned, past portraits that blinked when no one looked. The walls narrowed. The air grew colder.

Finally, they reached a black iron gate, etched with symbols she didn't recognize.

The boy stepped aside.

"He waits within. He said you must come alone."

The gate groaned as she pushed it open.

Inside was darkness. Complete and thick, like a cloak draped over reality.

She walked forward, and the gate slammed shut behind her.

Then the torches lit.

And she saw him.

The Devil—Lucivar—stood at the center of a vast chamber carved from obsidian. His cloak was gone. His shirt open. And around him swirled chains of magic, glowing faintly blue.

She stepped closer.

"What is this place?"

"My prison," he said simply.

She blinked. "What?"

"Not mine, in the traditional sense," he continued. "But this is where I keep the things even I can't control."

Her heart thudded. "Why bring me here?"

He turned to her, expression unreadable.

"Because you need to understand what you're aligning yourself with."

She walked to him slowly. "I already do."

"No," he said. "You know what I am now. But not what I was."

He raised his hand.

The chains split open.

And something rose from the floor.

A mirror.

Cracked, wide, framed in bone and gold. But what reflected wasn't her. Or him.

It was a battlefield.

A vision. Memories trapped in glass.

She saw a younger version of him—Lucivar without the crown, without the scars. He fought beside others—winged beings, armored gods, monsters in royal garb. A war. Brutal. Endless.

"What is this?" she whispered.

"The Chaos War," he said. "Thousands of years ago. Before kingdoms. Before the High Lords."

She saw him fall.

Saw him rise again.

Then she saw her.

Or someone who looked just like her.

Lysara.

She fought like fire itself. Beautiful. Terrible. Wings made of shadow.

"She loved you," she said.

He nodded.

"And she betrayed you."

"She chose order over me. Balance over chaos. And in doing so, became the thing I swore never to follow."

The mirror shifted again.

Now she saw something else.

A child.

Locked in flame. Crying.

Her.

But smaller. Younger.

"She was there?" she asked. "In the war?"

"She was created in it."

His voice dropped.

"Lysara never told me… but she was pregnant when she took the throne."

She went still.

"No," she breathed.

"She died shortly after. And the High Lords—afraid of what the child might become—erased her existence. Sealed her memories. Hid her in the mortal realm."

"You think... that child was me?"

"I know it."

The ground swayed beneath her.

"You're saying... Lysara was my mother?"

"And I," he said slowly, "am not your master."

She took a step back.

"I'm your—"

"No," he interrupted. "Not your father. But I am the reason you exist. The war we fought, the love we shared—it shaped what you are. You're her legacy. And mine."

Her breathing hitched. "Why tell me now?"

"Because the High Lords think they still own you. They think the past is buried."

He reached out and touched her mark.

"But this proves them wrong."

Silence stretched between them. The torches dimmed.

"I don't know what to feel," she whispered.

"You don't have to feel anything yet. You only have to survive."

She turned to the mirror.

"Why show me this?"

"Because soon, someone else will come. Someone worse than the High Lords."

"Who?"

"Your uncle."

She laughed once—dry. "I don't have one."

"You do," he said grimly. "Lysara's brother. The one who betrayed us both. He calls himself Tharos now. The Shadow King."

Her mouth went dry.

"And what does he want?"

"You. Or what's inside you."

She clenched her fists. "Let him come."

"No," he said. "He'll do worse than come. He'll tempt. He'll offer answers, promises, purpose. And if you let him in... I won't be able to stop what happens next."

Her voice was steel. "I'm not afraid."

He smiled bitterly. "Then you don't know what fear truly is yet."

She looked back at the mirror.

And it shifted one last time.

A throne. Black as void. Empty.

Waiting.

---

Later that night, she sat on the roof of the mansion, legs dangling over the edge.

The stars pulsed red. The wind carried whispers. And below, the garden glowed faintly like something living.

He found her there.

"You shouldn't be alone," he said.

"I'm never alone," she replied. "Not with this thing inside me."

He sat beside her, close but not touching.

"You've changed," he said.

"So have you."

He turned to her. "I was supposed to be unchangeable."

She glanced at him. "You still want me to be your weapon?"

"No," he whispered. "I want you to be your own."

They sat in silence, letting the world breathe.

Then she turned to him.

"What happens if I take that throne?"

"Everything changes."

"And if I don't?"

"Everything still changes."

She smiled faintly. "No right answer."

"There never was," he said.

She stood, wind catching her coat.

"Then I'll make my own."

He looked up at her.

And for the first time, she saw it clearly in his eyes.

Not possession.

Not command.

But hope.

---

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