"Oh," Roxana paused, her voice dripping with a sweetness that barely concealed a razor's edge. "Right. Don't you think you have more to say to me, my dear husband?"
Helios felt a chill run down his spine, his muscles tensing as if preparing for battle. "More?" he repeated, tilting his head, his crimson eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Like what?"
Roxana's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Like who that misty black floating thing was earlier. And those... children," she hissed the last word, her fingers twitching as if longing to wrap around something - or someone.
Helios leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "And don't you think you should tell me who this Joker is? The one who leaves playing cards soaked in blood at every crime scene?"
"Jasper," Roxana answered without hesitation, her tone eerily calm. "He's my adopted brother. The one who taught me how to make a man scream without leaving a mark."
Helios blinked, a mixture of horror and fascination crossing his face. "Aha?" He inched closer, the air between them crackling with tension. "And that's it?"
Roxana hesitated, her eyes unfocusing as if peering into a dark abyss of memories. "Well..." A pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity. "Not that I recall anything else. The rest is... shrouded in darkness."
Helios let out a slow, tired exhale, the sound of a man who's seen too much death. "Haaah..." He rubbed his temples, smearing a drop of blood that neither had noticed before. "That misty form... is my ancestor, Xerxes. The Devourer of Souls."
Roxana stiffened, her body coiling like a predator ready to strike. She scoffed, the sound bitter and hollow. "That monster who claims he's seen Luxana's fate and wants to 'save' her by killing her? So she doesn't suffer the same curse - turning into a demon, forever trapped between worlds, feeding on the living?"
Helios flinched. "H-How'd you know? Those are the secrets of the damned."
Roxana flicked his forehead, her nail drawing a bead of blood. "Idiot. Have you seriously lost your mind to the whispers of the void?"
"Wha—what do you mean?" Helios stammered, a creeping dread filling his heart.
She crossed her arms, her tone sharp enough to cut through bone. "Demons don't 'save' people by killing them, Helios. Think. He's probably here for the same reason as Jasper - to open the Gates of Oblivion and unleash hell on earth."
The fire's shadows stretched like skeletal fingers across the chamber walls as Helios' voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "What reason?"
Roxana's smile sharpened, a blade sheathed in silk. "What else? Possessing Luxana." She leaned back, the firelight catching the silver scars snaking up her arms—marks from rituals older than the palace itself. "Six generations, Helios. Six. And out of all of them, Luxana is the first to ever bear the flames." Her gaze turned glacial. "Did you ever wonder why her? Or what those flames hunger for?"
Silence pooled between them, thick as spilled blood.
"Because that power isn't a gift," Roxana continued, her voice a serpent's hiss. "It's a debt. One paid in flesh and memory. The price I bore…" She trailed a finger along her wrist, where a jagged scar pulsed faintly. "...was carving out my own heart to cage hers."
Helios' knuckles whitened. "And you think letting her roam free will spare her?"
"Restraint breeds desperation," Roxana countered, her laugh brittle. "She's already tasted the void in your family's crypts. What do you think she'll do when she learns your ancestors' hands are stained with her bloodline's extinction?"
Helios stiffened. Shadows writhed at the edges of the room, as if the stone itself recoiled.
Roxana pressed closer, her breath chilling his neck. "Xerxes and Jasper don't want her. They want the key she carries—the one your family buried six generations ago when they slaughtered mine." Her lips brushed his ear. "The Artifact of Lirania."
Helios recoiled. "You destroyed it!"
"You thought," she corrected, pulling a dagger from her sleeve—its hilt inlaid with blackened bone. "The counterfeit I melted was a ruse. The real artifact? It's still out there… and it sings to her."
Helios' pulse roared. "You'd let our daughter become a vessel for that thing?"
Roxana's blade flashed, pressing lightly against his throat. "She's no vessel. She's the lock. And the demons your bloodline invited into this world?" Her eyes glowed with borrowed fire. "They'll tear through her to reach it unless we rip out their roots."
A choked laugh escaped Helios. "Roots? You mean the curse you bound to her—"
The dagger drew blood. "The curse your forefathers forged when they butchered my clan to steal their magic," she hissed. "Luxana's flames aren't a blessing. They're a countdown. Every spark burns another thread tethering Xerxes' soul to this plane."
Helios gripped her wrist, their shared warmth a mockery against the tension. "You're gambling with her life."
"You gambled when you let Xerxes whisper lies in your ear," she spat. "'Save her by killing her'? How poetic. Tell me, husband—" Her free hand slid to his chest, where his heartbeat thundered. "—did he also mention the ritual requires your heart to complete it? Xerxes wants the artifact. Jasper wants revenge."
The air froze. Somewhere distant, a child's scream echoed—whether memory or omen, neither could tell.
Helios' voice fractured. "You think I'd—"
"I think you're a fool who still believes in redemption," she whispered, her cruelty softening. "But this world doesn't let monsters repent. It feeds on them."
For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—raw fear, raw need. Roxana's lips curved, triumphant.
Outside, thunder split the sky—a storm brewed from centuries of buried sins. Somewhere, Luxana's flames flickered, inching closer to truths better left ash.
Roxana stepped back, her silhouette merging with the shadows. "Choose wisely, my heart. Protect her from our enemies… or protect her from us."
The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Helios alone.
-40 Years ago-
Forty years ago, in the cursed halls of the Palace of Kior, midnight came like a blade slicing through sanity. The air was thick—choking, suffocating—laden with an unnatural weight that pressed against the skin and soul. The moon above was veiled in blood-red clouds, its light extinguished by the malevolence brewing within the palace walls.
Eight-year-old Roxana stood trembling at the center of the grand ritual chamber, her obsidian black hair cascading like spilled ink over her frail shoulders. Her zircon blue eyes, wide with terror, reflected the flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls—shadows that seemed alive, writhing and twisting as if feeding on the dread saturating the room. She was surrounded by figures cloaked in darkness: her older sister, whose obsidian black eyes glistened like bottomless pits; their mother, a towering presence of void and malice; and their aunt Medea, her dull zircon eyes dimmed by years of torment and secrets too monstrous to speak.
All four were draped in flowing black dresses that seemed to move unnaturally, as though stitched from shadows themselves. Black veils covered their faces, but beneath them, faint glimpses of their expressions revealed a terrifying unity—a shared purpose steeped in blood and despair. The veils pulsed rhythmically, as if breathing, feeding off the growing tension in the room.
The obsidian daggers gleamed in their hands—blades sharper than death itself, forged from cursed metals that whispered in languages no mortal could decipher. Without hesitation, they raised the daggers high above their heads. The chamber seemed to groan under the weight of what was about to unfold.
Then came the cuts.
The sound was sickening: flesh tearing open like wet parchment. Blood poured forth—not red, but black as tar and thick as oil. It splattered onto the cold stone floor with a hiss that echoed like screams trapped between realms. Roxana winced as her small hands bled profusely, her tears mixing with the dark ichor pooling beneath her feet. Her sister's face remained emotionless, her obsidian eyes locked on their mother's movements.
The blood began to spread unnaturally across the floor, slithering like serpents to form intricate sigils—symbols so grotesque they defied logic and burned themselves into memory. The room trembled violently as purple light erupted from these sigils, bathing everything in an eerie glow that made even shadows recoil in fear.
The light grew brighter—blindingly so—and then reality itself began to tear apart.
A deafening roar filled the chamber as a black void opened in the center of the circle. It was not just darkness—it was absence, a hole where existence ceased to be. From this abyss crawled horrors beyond comprehension. Demons emerged one by one, their forms grotesque and ever-shifting: limbs twisted at impossible angles; mouths filled with rows upon rows of jagged teeth; flesh that bubbled and split open to reveal writhing tendrils; eyes that blinked erratically from places no eyes should exist.
Roxana screamed—a raw, primal sound—but it was swallowed by the cacophony of shrieks emanating from the demons. Their voices were layered: guttural growls mixed with high-pitched wails that seemed to pierce directly into the mind. Her sister stood stoic beside her, while their mother chanted words that dripped with venom and power.
Aunt Medea stepped forward then, her veil soaked in blood and trembling as she raised her hands toward the void. Her dull zircon blue eyes reflected nothing but despair as she uttered an incantation so vile it made Roxana's ears bleed. The demons howled in response—some clawing at each other for dominance while others bowed reverently toward Medea.
And then it appeared.
In the center of the circle where blood had pooled and demons had emerged, an artifact materialized—a thing so profoundly wrong it defied description. It seemed alive yet lifeless; its surface pulsed like a beating heart but emitted a coldness that froze even thought itself. It absorbed all light around it, leaving only shadow in its wake. The artifact hummed faintly—a sound that resonated deep within Roxana's chest, filling her with dread so consuming she thought she might collapse.
The ritual was complete.
The demons began retreating back into their realms—but not before leaving marks on every surface they touched: claw gouges on stone walls; trails of slime that hissed and burned; whispers etched invisibly into the air itself. As they vanished into the void, their screams lingered—a haunting echo that would never truly fade.
Roxana collapsed to her knees as purple light dimmed into darkness once more. Her hands trembled uncontrollably as she stared at what remained—the artifact sitting silently amidst a circle of blood-soaked sigils. Her sister placed a hand on her shoulder—a gesture meant to comfort but felt cold and hollow.
Their mother turned toward them then, her veil dripping with blood and shadow. "It is done," she said simply, her voice devoid of emotion but heavy with finality.
Aunt Medea stepped back into the shadows without a word, her dull zircon eyes dimming further as if consumed by what she had just unleashed.
Roxana looked up at her mother through tear-streaked cheeks and trembling lips. "What… what have we done?" she whispered weakly.
Her mother knelt beside her, brushing back strands of obsidian hair from Roxana's pale face. "We have ensured survival," she said softly—but there was no warmth in her voice, only darkness.
In the aftermath of the horrific ritual, the corridor of the Palace of Kior was shrouded in suffocating darkness, the air thick with the lingering stench of blood and sulfur from the night's ritual. Young Roxana stumbled into the dimly lit corridor, trembling and clutching her wrist, her small frame shaking with the weight of what she had witnessed. As she raised her hand to brush away tears, a strange gray mark on her wrist caught her eye. Panic rising in her chest, she ran towards her mother, her voice trembling with desperation, her small feet echoing against the cold stone floors.
"Mother! What is this?!" she cried, thrusting her marked wrist forward, as tears streamed down her face.
Her mother stopped mid-stride, her veil still dripping with blood from the ritual. Slowly, she turned to face Roxana, her obsidian black eyes narrowing as they fell upon the mark. Roxana's older sister froze beside her mother, visibly trembling, her hands clenching into fists as she stared at the mark with a look of sheer terror.
Their mother crouched down to meet Roxana's gaze. Her movements were deliberate, predatory. For a moment, Roxana thought she saw a flicker of concern in her mother's void-like eyes—but it was quickly replaced by something far colder.
SLAP!
The sound rang out like a gunshot in the empty corridor. Roxana stumbled backward, clutching her cheek as fresh tears spilled over her pale skin. Her mother rose to full height, towering over her daughter like an executioner over their victim.
"死ね." Her voice was venomous, dripping with malice that made Roxana's stomach churn.
Before Roxana could respond or even process what had just happened, her mother's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Roxana's obsidian black hair. The young girl screamed in pain as she was dragged down the endless corridor, her small feet scraping against the blood-stained floor.
"Mother! Please! Stop!" Roxana shrieked, but her cries were swallowed by the oppressive silence of the palace.
Her sister stood frozen in place, too terrified to intervene. Aunt Medea appeared briefly at the end of the hallway but turned away without a word, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.
Roxana's screams echoed through the halls all night long—piercing cries that seemed to shake the very foundations of Kior Palace. No one dared approach. The servants huddled in their quarters, whispering prayers to gods who would not listen. The demons summoned earlier seemed to linger in unseen corners, their guttural laughter mingling with Roxana's agony.
The next morning came like an unwelcome intruder. The first rays of sunlight filtered weakly through the palace windows but brought no warmth or solace. The halls were silent now—eerily so—until footsteps echoed once more.
Roxana emerged from the depths of the palace, staggering into view. Her black dress was soaked in blood—her own and perhaps something far worse. Her face was pale and hollow; her zircon blue eyes dulled by trauma so profound it seemed to have stolen part of her soul. Blood dripped from her fingertips onto the stone floor as she walked unsteadily toward the main hall.
The gray mark on her wrist had spread slightly overnight, its edges jagged like cracks in glass. It pulsed faintly with an unnatural rhythm—a reminder of what had been done to her.
Roxana said nothing. She simply walked past them all—her mother included—without a word or glance.
To be Continued...