Elias didn't believe in demons. Not really. Not in the kind that kissed you like they owned you.
He was alone in the attic of his grandmother's house, a place that hadn't seen a broom in twenty years. Dust floated like ash in the moonlight streaming through a cracked skylight, and the old leather-bound book on the floor practically hummed with something he didn't want to name. But Elias had always been curious. Too curious.
The book was bound in dark red hide, stitched with something that looked disturbingly like thread made of hair. Inside, the writing was cramped, curling in strange angles, in a language that looked older than Latin. Some of it was in English—just enough for Elias to piece together the instructions.
Draw the circle. Speak the name. Spill the blood.
It sounded like a dare. A joke. A horror story he'd laugh about later. He was seventeen and bored. What could it hurt?
He used a stick of chalk from the school art room, drawing the intricate circle on the wooden floor, copying each rune and jagged curve. He found an old silver knife in the chest by the wall and pricked his thumb with it, watching a bead of red drip into the center of the circle.
"I summon thee, Varian, Bound Flame of the Deep. Answer me."
At first—silence. Then, a low sound, like someone exhaling smoke.
The air bent. The circle pulsed. And then—
Flames. Not burning, but flickering shadows. In the middle stood a figure: tall, muscular, and half-dressed in what looked like silken armor. His eyes glowed a deep, feral gold. Two black horns curled back from his forehead, and his mouth—his smile—was made of sin and hunger.
"You said my name," the demon said, stepping out of the circle like it meant nothing. "That makes you mine."
Elias stumbled back. "What—no, I didn't mean—"
"You bled for me. You called me." The demon was already close, fingers trailing along Elias's jaw. "Now I'm here."
His touch was warm—too warm. The heat of a summer storm under skin. Elias opened his mouth to speak, but the demon didn't wait.
He kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was a claiming—fierce, forceful, possessive. Elias's hands slammed against the demon's chest, trying to push away, but he didn't move. When Varian finally pulled back, Elias was gasping.
"Lesson one, little summoner," Varian murmured. "I don't ask. I take."
"You—you can't just—!"
"I already did." His grin widened. "You're my servant now. Call me master."
Elias spat on the floor.
The demon only laughed.
And so it began.
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