Nisaba
The candlelight flickered violently as if the flames themselves feared what was coming.
The cauldron bubbled with thick silver fluid, its vapor coiling through the air like ghostly fingers. I grinned as I stirred it, the smell of molten silver mixed with wolfsbane burning my nose. One more drop, and she'd be gone. Finally. The girl who had dodged fate far too long.
A mistake corrected.
I raised the crystal vial, steady in my hand, ready to pour it into the final brew—until the shadows behind me moved.
No sound.
No wind.
Just pressure.
A shift in the air so sudden and suffocating, the flames bowed low in fear. My breath caught as the scent of brimstone filled the room.
The shadows parted.
And he stepped forward.
Cloaked in black. His silhouette tall, commanding, a mass of darkness that didn't just walk—it owned. Silver eyes gleamed beneath a polished mask that concealed most of his face, but it couldn't hide the sheer weight of power that clung to him like smoke.
I froze.
The vial slipped from my fingers and shattered on the stone floor.
He didn't flinch.
"You witches…" he said, voice smooth and slow, like the crackle of burning coals. "Always meddling. Always ruining."
My magic surged in defense, curling at my fingertips, but it withered before it could ignite. The moment I blinked, he was inches from my face, the edges of his mask catching the candlelight in sharp, cruel glints.
"I should carve your soul out for this stupidity," he whispered, each word laced with centuries of restrained wrath. "Another drop of silver, and she dies. And I… I wait another four thousand years."
"You—You don't understand—" I stammered, stepping back.
He didn't follow.
He didn't have to.
The room obeyed him.
Walls trembled. The iron chains hanging by the cauldron rattled like scared snakes.
"I understand everything, Nisaba," he hissed. "The prophecy. The girl. Her power. Her bloodline. I know what you've done. I know why you did it. And I know exactly how to end you."
His voice was no longer soft.
It boomed, ancient and dreadful, echoing like a thousand damned souls screaming in unison.
"She must not die. She is mine," he snarled. "My vessel. My chaos. My storm. She is the heart of a fate you will not touch."
I trembled. "You can't command me—"
He reached out.
Not with his hand.
With his will.
And suddenly my magic collapsed. My knees buckled. My throat constricted, and I was forced to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings.
"I am Valerius, demon of the Deep. Slayer of Kings. Corrupter of Empires. I have waited in silence for the girl of the Moon's Prophecy to be born—and you nearly ended her before she bloomed."
He crouched beside me, lifting my chin with a single gloved finger.
"I will drag you to the hollow between stars," he whispered, "and I will keep you alive through centuries of torment. I will make you a legend in Hell. A cautionary tale for even the damned."
A pause.
Then his voice turned cold and calm—more terrifying than before.
"She must live. I do not care how. You will watch her. Heal her. And when the time comes, you will deliver her."
"Or what?" I choked.
Valerius straightened, cloak trailing the floor like spilled ink. His mask gleamed as he turned toward the shadows again.
"If she dies," he said, "I will make you beg for death." I rule this earth.
And then—
He vanished.
The flames rose again.
But they burned colder than ever before.