The sky bled red the night Liora turned twenty-three.
A strange silence blanketed the mountain village of Elaria. No wind stirred the trees, no birds sang, and even the wolves that howled at dusk had vanished into stillness. The moon, usually silver and soft, hung like a bloodstained coin above the peaks—watchful, unnatural, and full.
Liora stood at the edge of her family's herb garden, her hands coated in earth, her fingers trembling.
She had seen omens before: rotten apples that bled instead of bruised, crows that spoke in dreams, frost on midsummer nights. But this—this moon—was different. It whispered across her skin like a memory she didn't know she had.
Her grandmother's voice came to her then, a tale from her childhood.
> "One day, child, he will come for one of us. When the crimson moon hangs high and the wind does not stir, the Devil will collect what he was promised. And that daughter—whoever she may be—will change the world or end it."
Liora had laughed back then. Who wouldn't? She was ten and full of sass, her knees scraped from climbing trees and her head filled with herbs, potions, and dreams.
But now, as the village lights blinked out one by one and even the crickets held their breath, she felt the weight of that story settle on her bones like frostbite.
She turned back to her cottage, heart pounding, and that's when she saw him.
A man stood by the garden gate.
No sound had preceded him—no footsteps, no rustle, not even a breath of wind. He was tall, draped in a coat blacker than midnight, his hair falling in raven waves, and his skin pale as starlight. His eyes glowed faintly silver, and the air around him shimmered with heat and shadow.
Liora took a cautious step back. "Who are you?"
He smiled faintly. "You already know."
"No," she said, her voice sharp and defiant. "I know stories. I know warnings told to scare children. I don't know you."
His eyes flickered with amusement. "Then let me introduce myself." He stepped forward, and the ground seemed to exhale smoke where his boots touched. "I am Lucien. Lord of the Ninth Flame. The First Sin. The Bargain Maker. The Devil you deny. The one your bloodline owes."
Liora froze. Her breath caught. "No."
"Yes," he said, softer now. "A pact was made, generations ago. One healer begged me to spare this village from plague. I gave her what she wanted. And she gave me… you."
She clenched her fists. "You can't just take me like cattle."
Lucien tilted his head. "I do not take. I collect. The contract is older than your chapel. And I never forget a debt."
Liora's heart beat like war drums in her chest. But she stood tall. "What happens if I say no?"
"Then your village dies," he said, no cruelty in his tone—only fact. "Disease will return. Bones will pile. Your mother's breath will turn to blood. And the name 'Liora' will be cursed in whispers."
Tears threatened, but she blinked them back. "You'd really damn all of them just because I refuse?"
"I would not damn them," he replied, stepping closer. "Your ancestors already did. I merely enforce the balance."
They stood in silence for a long moment.
Then Liora did something that surprised even her—she laughed. Bitterly.
"You're supposed to be a monster," she said. "But you look like a man who reads too much poetry and hasn't slept in years."
Lucien's lips curved faintly. "Guilty."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What do you want with me? Why a bride?"
He did not answer at first. Then, quietly: "Because no creature—angel, mortal, or devil—rules forever alone. I do not need a queen. But I want one. I want you."
Liora's breath caught again.
He raised his hand. A black flame danced on his palm—cold, but bright. "Take my hand, and you'll be more than healer or daughter or legend. You will be sovereign. Ruler of ash and judgment. And I will give you everything."
She stared at him. Then down at the flame.
Everything she had ever known—every herb, every prayer, every warm breath of her mother's cottage—stood behind her.
But in front of her… stood something impossible.
"Can I ever come back?" she asked.
Lucien's voice was soft. "No. Once you cross, you are mine."
She looked up at him. "Will I suffer?"
His silver eyes met hers. "Not unless you want to."
Liora breathed in deeply, as if it were her last taste of earth—and perhaps it was.
Then she stepped forward and took his hand.
The moment she did, the flame enveloped them both. The garden vanished. The moon roared. And in a blink of black fire, Liora of Elaria was gone.