Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The moment Liana slid the ring onto her finger, the earth trembled beneath the Devil's mansion.

She felt it before she heard it—something ancient unfurling beneath the stone and obsidian floors, like the slow awakening of a creature that had long forgotten it was alive. A pressure built in the air, dense and vibrating with whispers she could not understand. The seal had broken.

Lucivar stood beside her, watching with unreadable eyes. His usual smirk was gone. In its place was something almost reverent. Or regretful.

"So it's true," he murmured. "You really are the key."

A section of the floor cracked with glowing lines. Then, with a loud, grinding groan, a circular platform descended into the earth, revealing a staircase that spiraled into blackness.

Liana turned to him. "You're coming with me."

"No," he said simply. "You must enter alone. The Vault recognizes only chaos-blood."

She swallowed hard and stepped toward the stairs.

"Will I come back the same?" she asked.

Lucivar met her gaze. "No. You'll come back stronger. Or not at all."

She nodded once.

And descended into darkness.

---

The air grew colder with every step. Not like ice or winter—but like memory. The Vault didn't smell of rot or dust. It smelled of dreams long dead and screams trapped in time. The further she walked, the louder the voices became—distant, layered, like hundreds of whispers echoing off one another.

Finally, she reached a vast, circular chamber lit by flickering red flame. It was carved entirely from stone and runes, with no clear source of fire or light. Six archways stretched from the chamber like fingers of an open hand, and at the center sat a pedestal made of bone and crystal.

On it, a book.

Black leather. No title.

Liana stepped toward it, heart pounding.

As her fingers touched the cover, the flames flared violently—and the voices stopped.

Dead silence.

Then a deep, female voice echoed in the chamber.

"Lysara's daughter."

Liana spun around, hand on her dagger.

No one.

The voice came again—this time from within.

"Do you remember my voice?"

Liana shook her head, but her heart whispered yes.

The book snapped open.

Pages flipped rapidly on their own, stopping midway.

An illustration revealed itself.

A woman cloaked in flame and darkness—fighting atop a mountain against a sea of monsters.

Below it, a single line:

"The blood remembers what the mind forgets."

Liana closed her eyes.

And suddenly, she was no longer in the Vault.

---

She stood in a vision.

A memory.

It wasn't hers, but it lived in her bones.

She was on a battlefield of black ash and blood. Giant beasts roared across the horizon. Above her, two figures clashed in midair—Lucivar, young and golden-eyed, and a woman with wings of violet fire.

Lysara.

Her mother.

Liana fell to her knees.

The vision snapped.

---

She gasped, back in the Vault, clutching the pedestal.

The book had changed.

Now, it showed a spell.

A powerful one.

Words she couldn't understand but felt.

Then, a second voice joined the first.

Male.

Older. Sinister.

"Take it, girl. Use it against him."

Liana turned.

A figure stood at the far end of the chamber, behind one of the arches. Cloaked in shadow, faceless, but radiating a presence she recognized.

Tharos.

"Get out," she hissed.

He chuckled. "You opened the Vault, little flame. Did you think I wouldn't feel it?"

She raised her hand, chaos coiling in her palm.

"I will burn you from this place."

But he only laughed again.

"You can try. But the Vault is not your ally. It is your inheritance. And I am the only one who can teach you to wield it fully."

"I'd rather die," she spat.

**"Oh, you will," he whispered. "But not yet."

He vanished.

The runes dimmed.

The book sealed shut.

The Vault had spoken.

And now… it waited.

---

When Liana returned to the surface, Lucivar was waiting at the edge of the platform. He studied her carefully.

"You saw him," he said.

She nodded.

"And?"

"He offered me power."

Lucivar's jaw clenched. "He always does. He offers it like honey and hides the rot."

"I didn't take it," she said.

"I know," he replied. "Or I wouldn't be able to stand this close."

She looked down at the ring on her hand. "What is this place, really?"

Lucivar hesitated. "A prison of knowledge. Everything the High Lords wanted to erase."

"And my mother kept it?"

"No," he said. "She died trying to destroy it. But the Vault refused."

Liana shivered. "Then why do I feel like it wants me to succeed?"

"Because it doesn't care about right or wrong," he said. "It only cares about chaos."

"And you?" she asked. "What do you care about?"

Lucivar stepped closer, his eyes darkening.

"You."

She blinked.

And in that moment, the Devil wasn't wearing a mask. He wasn't a king or a god or a tormentor.

He was a man on the edge of losing something he never meant to love.

"I can't be yours," she said quietly. "Not like this."

"I know," he murmured. "But I can be yours."

Then he kissed her.

Not softly.

Not cruelly.

But completely.

As if the world would end before he let her go.

And when they pulled apart, the night burned with a new kind of fire.

---

The next morning, the council of Lesser Lords arrived.

They came in sleek carriages drawn by shadow-stallions, each more jeweled than the last. Lesser Lords were not demons. They were nobles of power—fallen kings, ancient warlocks, seers and betrayers. They didn't serve Lucivar, but they respected his territory.

Now, they wanted answers.

Liana stood beside him in the throne room, no longer wearing silk or shadow. She wore armor—dark metal shaped like thorned vines, and her chaos burned just beneath the surface.

A tall woman with silver hair stepped forward.

"Lucivar," she said coolly. "Your borders shake. The sky bleeds. The Vault opens. Are we at war?"

"Soon," he replied.

"And this girl?" the woman asked, eyes sliding to Liana. "Your new apprentice? Or something else?"

Liana stepped forward.

"I am both," she said. "And more."

A ripple of unease moved through the Lords.

"She's marked," one whispered.

"She passed the trials," said another.

"She's dangerous."

"She's necessary," Lucivar said, voice like steel. "If Tharos returns, none of you will survive without her."

The Lords exchanged glances.

Then the silver-haired woman nodded.

"Then let us prepare."

---

That night, Liana stood on the balcony overlooking the Black Forest. Fires had been lit at its edge. Training camps were forming. Demons sharpening blades. Lesser Lords summoning forgotten beasts.

The world was getting ready for war.

Lucivar appeared behind her.

"You scared them," he said.

"Good."

"They'll try to turn on you."

"I'll turn faster."

He smiled.

But it didn't reach his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I had a vision," he said.

Her brows drew together. "You?"

He nodded.

"I saw you on a throne," he said. "But not mine. Not the Lords'. Something older. Something crueler."

"And?"

"You were smiling."

She looked away. "Then maybe that's the future."

"No," he said softly. "Because in the vision... I wasn't beside you."

She turned.

"I don't want a throne," she said.

"Then why are you climbing the steps?"

Silence.

Then she whispered, "Because if I don't, someone else will."

---

In the dark, Tharos stood atop his ship of bone.

A mirror hovered before him, reflecting Liana's face.

"She is nearly ready," said a voice behind him.

Another figure stepped into the light—a girl with violet eyes, almost identical to Liana.

"Are you sure she'll choose you?" the girl asked.

"She won't have a choice," Tharos said.

Then he turned away.

And the mirror shattered.

---