Demons.

  The ultimate evil. The boogeymen in the night.

  Haunting spirits etched into myth, painted in shadows, whispered through every culture that ever dared to fear its own reflection.

  For millennia, the idea of devils—or Satan himself—has surfaced in one form or another. No matter where you go in the human world, you’ll find stories.

  Every civilization invents its monsters.

  Because surely no man could possess the kind of evil it takes to lie, to steal, to murder… to stain history with blood and call it progress.

  No. Evil had to come from something else. Something other.

  The ultimate scapegoat.

  I am here to tell you: we are real.

  We demons exist—and we are not as you imagine.

  Yes, we are immortal. Yes, we possess power. Yes, some among us have done terrible things.

  But we are not the monsters you’ve made us out to be.

  At least… not all of us.

  I am Belial.

  No, not that Belial—not the Lord of Lies, not the Father of The Worthless, not the fallen angel woven into religion and folklore.

  That name belongs to my father.

  I am Belial the Second—or to keep things simple, you may call me Bell.

  My story begins like many others: with birth, with blood, with the weight of a name.

  And yet it becomes something else entirely.

  Love.

  Betrayal.

  Power.

  Glory.

  And pain—deep, enduring pain—etched into every chapter.

  Before I tell you how it all ends, you must understand how it began.

  You must know what it means to be born a demon.

  We live in the underworld, far from human sight.

  Our worlds are divided by law, by legacy, by fate—linked only by one gate, the mythic passage you call the Gates of Hell.

  Most humans cannot see us unless we allow it.

  We are concealed by nature—unseen, unsmelled, unheard.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Some humans, rare and strange, are born with the Sight… others acquire it through cursed tools or forbidden rites.

  But most walk blind through a world richer and darker than they know.

  Demons are not eternal—but we are immortal.

  We do not grow old unless we choose to. And when we do, we stop ourselves at the stage we find most fitting.

  Maturity, then, is not a passing phase—it is a choice, a transformation, a threshold crossed with purpose.

  Our magic is not the gaudy, fireball-flinging spectacle you might imagine.

  It is rooted in sacrifice, in exchange, in binding.

  Three sources: contracts, oaths, and souls.

  Each demands a price.

  Power is never given freely in our world.

  It is traded—willingly or not—and the cost often reveals itself far too late.

  We were left here.

  A forgotten creation.

  Half-formed and abandoned.

  The Lord of Creation turned His gaze elsewhere, and we were left to find our own purpose in the dark.

  Lucifer gave us one.

  He has ruled since the first silence fell, since the first demon drew breath.

  His word is law.

  His throne stands at the heart of the Underworld.

  And so far, it has held.

  And me?

  I am Bell.

  The Worthless One.

  The Ashwyn Rebel.

  The Bound Blade.

  But before I became any of that—before the names, before the pain, before the power—

  I was just a child.

  I came into the world screaming.

  Thrashing.

  Fighting for my life like I had just escaped some long, burning nightmare.

  That’s what my mother told me, at least.

  She said I only calmed when she held me in her arms—that her touch was the first silence I ever knew.

  I was born with a faint red hue.

  Not the rich crimson of most demons, but something softer. Strange.

  My ears—pointed in the graceful, elven fashion—marked me as one of our kind.

  My hair was jet-black, except for a single silver streak above my left eye.

  I had no horns yet. They come later, with time and power.

  No, I don’t have a tail. That’s human nonsense.

  Probably invented to make us seem more grotesque—easier to hate.

  But I digress.

  My mother: Lady Raylianna.

  Four hundred and fifty years old and sharp enough to humble a scholar in a single breath.

  The warmth she brought to every room never went unnoticed.

  My father: Lord Belial. Eight hundred and fifty, brooding since year one, and professionally suspicious.

  He had a gift for keeping others at a distance—almost like he was built for solitude. Or bound to it.

  Demons conceive rarely in their lifetimes—and even then, it’s seldom by design.

  I was a surprise.

  Not an entirely welcome one.

  Still, he gave me his name.

  A rare gesture from a man who offered very little of himself.

  When I opened my eyes for the first time, they were gold—bright and wide.

  I met my mother’s gaze. Her eyes, like most demons’, were solid black, endless and ancient.

  Her face was elegant. Her hair was silver. Her skin carried a soft blush-red glow, and two delicate silver horns curved from her brow.

  My father stood nearby, watching me. Appraising.

  He had wine-colored skin, long black hair, and a jawline carved in stone.

  His black eyes were unreadable.

  Two massive, jagged horns curled forward from his forehead like obsidian crowns.

  “Oh look,” my mother said, smiling. “He has my flair for color. Unlike you, husband.”

  “Yes, it would seem so,” he replied, his tone clipped. “But that skin… I’ve never seen any demon so pale. He looks almost human.”

  “He’ll be fine,” my mother said gently. “He’s strong. I can already feel magic moving in him, and he’s not ten minutes old.”

  My father stepped closer and picked me up.

  I squirmed in his hands, grabbed hold of one of his fingers, and—slowly—began to pry it apart.

  He blinked in surprise.

  I giggled.

  “He has strength to spare,” he said, lowering me. “You might be right, Ray. Let’s hope he finds use for it.”

  When he set me down, my mother noticed faint bruises blooming across his fingers—but she said nothing.

  She only pulled me close.

  “My little Belial… my little Bell,” she whispered. “Strong as steel. Loud as thunder.”

  “You’ll grow into something wondrous. I already see it.”

  And with her voice wrapped around me, I slipped into my first deep sleep.

  Peace, for a moment, wrapped itself around me— a borrowed grace, too fragile for what came after. Love tried to bind the wound, but the blade remained. And so I stepped from a cradle of light into a world that teaches you how to endure the dark by becoming it.