They called it a celebration.
You stood at the center of the atrium—columns gleaming, lights casting ceremonial halos, every smile sharp with polished performance. You had done everything right. Years clawing through glass ceilings, defending the weak, sacrificing your youth, your name, your quiet dreams for a vision that wasn't just yours.
And yet tonight... they took it all.
Your mentor's hand landed on your shoulder. Firm. Final. "Thank you for your service," he said. "We'll take it from here."
Applause followed.
It felt like shards. Not one of them looked at you—really looked. You were the ladder, never the climber. Disposable once they reached the summit.
You left without a word.
Outside, the city hummed without care. Your palms clenched, nails biting skin. The stars overhead gleamed indifferently. You walked until you couldn't.
Then the dream came.
The devil was not fire. Not horns. Not brimstone.
She was elegance stitched in shadow, eyes like ink spilled over ancient promises. She didn't smile. She whispered.
"They built kingdoms on your spine. Shall I show you how it feels to make them kneel?"
You didn't speak.
"One price: your soul. Not your mind, not your memory. Your soul. The thing that doubts. The thing that forgives. Say yes—and I'll give you the power to bend every truth, every throne, every traitor."
You nodded.
The pact bloomed in silence.
You woke with blood on your tongue, and a voice in your veins that was not your own.