Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The silence after truth is always louder than the lie.

Liana Evans sat in the Devil's garden, surrounded by nightblooming flowers that whispered when the wind passed through them. The revelations of the last night echoed inside her like a second heartbeat—one she couldn't ignore anymore.

She wasn't just chaos-born.

She was the daughter of Lysara, the former blade of the High Lords.

And now, Tharos—the Shadow King—knew she lived.

"Why me?" she whispered into the wind. "Why must I be her legacy?"

No answer came. But shadows shifted behind her.

"You speak like you have a choice," said Lucivar—Leonardo De Luca—the Devil himself, stepping into the moonlight.

She didn't turn to face him. "Do I?"

"Not in blood," he replied. "But in destiny? Yes."

She finally stood, slowly turning. Her black coat whipped in the breeze, eyes glowing faintly violet under the weight of her awakening chaos.

He looked tired tonight. Not in body—but in soul.

"You didn't sleep," she said.

"Sleep is for the guiltless," he murmured. "And I haven't been that for centuries."

A pause stretched between them.

Then she asked the question that had haunted her all day: "What does Tharos want?"

Lucivar's jaw clenched. "He wants power. And you're the key to unlocking it."

She stepped closer. "What kind of power?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he waved his hand. The flowers around them withered in an instant. The trees blackened.

Then, rising from the cracked earth, came a vision.

A palace.

Carved from bone. Floating in the sky. Screaming souls chained to its gates.

"The Citadel of Dusk," he said. "Tharos' stronghold. It was sealed after the Chaos War. But if he finds a vessel strong enough... he can open it again."

Liana's throat tightened. "Me."

Lucivar nodded. "You are chaos unshaped. Your blood opens what no key can."

She turned away, overwhelmed.

"If I'm a weapon," she whispered, "then everyone will want to use me."

He stepped behind her, voice low. "Then learn to wield yourself before anyone else does."

She looked up at him.

He wasn't just the Devil tonight. He was something else—war-torn, broken, and yet burning with unwavering purpose.

"I want to fight," she said. "I want to train. Not just to survive—but to destroy him."

A smirk touched his lips. "Then it's time for your final lesson."

---

The Devil's arena had transformed.

No longer the obsidian circle of her apprenticeship. Now, it was a living labyrinth—an ever-shifting maze of stone, shadow, and fire. In the center: a throne carved from hellglass, glowing with her mark.

Lucivar walked her to its edge.

"This is a simulation of Tharos' mind," he explained. "His traps. His trials. His logic."

"It's beautiful," she said bitterly.

"It's lethal."

He summoned a blade—silver and black, humming with runes.

"No magic," he told her. "Not until the final stage."

She took the sword.

Its weight felt familiar. Right.

"You survive," he said, "or you begin again."

Then the ground dropped beneath her.

She landed inside the maze.

The walls breathed.

And the hunt began.

---

The first trial came quickly.

She turned a corner and came face to face with herself.

Not a mirror. A perfect replica.

Same hair. Same eyes. Same fire.

But this version smiled like a monster.

"You don't belong here," it said. "You're a fraud. A girl wearing a demon's skin."

Liana attacked.

They clashed, steel on steel, pain for pain. Every move the double made, she knew already. It was like fighting her own instinct.

But instincts could be outsmarted.

She faked a high swing—then stabbed low.

Her twin collapsed into ash.

The wall opened.

Trial one—passed.

---

The second trial was worse.

A figure stood tied to a pillar, screaming.

Her mother.

Or what her memory twisted into one.

"Liana!" the figure cried. "Don't leave me again! Don't let him win!"

It was a trap. She knew it. But still, the voice ripped through her like claws.

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself forward, ignoring the plea, the tears.

The moment she passed the pillar, the illusion exploded into black dust.

Grief would always be the hardest to kill.

---

By the time she reached the maze's center, she was bruised, exhausted, and burning.

Lucivar waited, sitting on the throne.

Not his usual smirk. Not even a warning.

Just silence.

She raised her blade. "What now?"

He stood. "Magic."

She blinked. "What?"

"The final stage," he said. "Me. No rules."

Then he vanished.

And the fire rained down.

---

The battle was unlike anything she'd known.

Not because he was stronger. She'd already seen his power.

But because this time—he didn't hold back.

Shadow wolves lunged from the walls. Spears of void shot from the sky. Every inch of the maze bent to his will.

But she bent it back.

She screamed, unleashing her chaos.

Walls shattered. Flame turned violet. Lightning poured from her veins.

And then—suddenly—she stood over him.

Lucivar knelt, his chest heaving. Her blade at his throat.

But he laughed.

"You did it," he said.

She didn't move. "Why does it feel like I lost?"

"Because now," he said, standing slowly, "you're strong enough for the real war."

---

The sky outside the mansion had darkened.

Not night.

Storm.

She and Lucivar stood at the edge of the cliff overlooking the dead forest.

And from that storm… a ship emerged.

Flying.

Crafted from iron, black bone, and screaming wind.

"That's not yours," she said.

"No," he whispered. "It's his."

Tharos had arrived.

The Shadow King's vessel hovered just above the land, massive and alive, pulsing with energy that made the earth tremble.

From its deck, a single shadow descended. Cloaked. Faceless.

Until he touched the ground.

And then the world screamed.

Liana felt her knees weaken.

Lucivar caught her.

"Don't look at his eyes," he warned.

But she did.

Tharos' gaze was not made of pupils or color.

It was void. Endless. A reflection of everything she could become.

"You've grown," the Shadow King said. "Lysara would be proud."

Lucivar stepped between them. "Say her name again and I'll feed you to your own ship."

Tharos chuckled. "Still dramatic, brother-in-law."

Liana's blood turned to ice.

"You were her brother," she whispered.

"I still am," Tharos said, turning his attention to her again. "And I've come for my niece."

Lucivar's fire surged. "She is not yours."

"But she could be," Tharos said smoothly. "Tell me, Liana—have you ever wondered why your power keeps growing? Why no seal can hold it?"

She said nothing.

He stepped closer.

"Because you are meant to sit where I sit. To rule the spaces between shadow and soul."

Lucivar growled, stepping forward. But Liana lifted her hand.

"No," she said.

Both men froze.

"I will not be anyone's heir. Not to the High Lords. Not to my mother. Not to you."

Tharos raised a brow. "Then what will you be?"

She smiled.

"My own prophecy."

And then she raised her hand—and the wind obeyed.

---

That night, the ship retreated.

Not in fear.

In interest.

Tharos had seen enough.

But his words remained.

"She will choose," he'd said before vanishing. "And when she does, the world will burn. Either way."

---

Back in her chambers, Liana stood before the cracked mirror.

She looked at herself.

Truly looked.

She saw power. Pain. Fire. Shadow.

She saw a girl who was becoming a storm.

Lucivar entered without knocking.

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I'm not," she said. "Not anymore."

He walked to her, stopping inches away.

"There's something I've been holding back," he admitted.

She turned.

"More secrets?" she asked.

"No," he said. "A gift."

He handed her a ring.

Black crystal. Carved with ancient runes.

"What is it?"

"A key," he said. "To the Vault. Beneath this mansion lies a library of forbidden magic—spells even I fear. But they are yours by blood. Only you can open it."

"Why now?" she asked.

"Because war is coming," he said. "And you'll need everything."

She looked down at the ring.

And slid it onto her finger.

The mansion trembled.

A seal broke beneath them.

The Vault had awakened

---