Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The night didn't fall in this realm. It crept in—slow, silent, suffocating. No stars, no moon, only shadows that moved with a will of their own. The air carried weight, pressing against her skin like invisible fingers tracing her veins.

She stood in front of the mirror, though it no longer showed her reflection. Only the mark on her collarbone glowed faintly—red and pulsing like a second heartbeat. The Devil's mark. A reminder that she no longer belonged to herself.

She didn't know what the trials were. Only that they were coming. Only that he had spoken the words with a calm finality that left her stomach twisted. The Devil didn't bluff. He didn't warn. So for him to speak of trials meant something was about to change. Something brutal.

The door opened without a knock. He stepped in, clothed in obsidian, with a crown of darkness carved by presence alone. His expression was unreadable. Not cruel, not kind. Something in between, like a storm that hadn't decided whether to break or pass.

"You're ready," he said. Not a question. A verdict.

She nodded, though every bone in her body wanted to resist. But resistance meant nothing here. This wasn't her world. It was his.

He led her through a hallway she hadn't seen before. The walls breathed, the ceiling shimmered. Time didn't pass in a straight line. With every step, her fear grew legs. It ran ahead of her, whispering that whatever lay ahead was worse than what she'd already endured.

They arrived at a chamber lit by a thousand candles, none of which cast shadows. In the center: a circle inscribed with symbols that pulsed like they were alive. She felt them before she saw them—each one humming against her ribs.

"The first trial," he said, gesturing to the circle. "Step inside."

She hesitated. "What is it?"

"A mirror. Of everything you hide from yourself."

The words sent a chill through her. But she obeyed. She stepped into the circle.

The air turned thick. The world outside the symbols fell away. All sound died. And then she saw her.

Herself—only not. This version wore a crown of thorns, eyes blackened, lips red with blood. The twin stepped forward, and her voice was hers, yet laced with venom.

"You want him," the mirror said. "You crave the Devil. His power. His touch. His domination."

"No—"

"Liar."

She staggered back, heart hammering. The trial wasn't physical. It was emotional carnage. She was being unraveled.

The mirror-self circled her like a predator, her heels clicking against nothing. "You think you're strong," she hissed. "But you're just a girl who got lost in a story far bigger than herself. A toy for the Devil."

"That's not true," she whispered, her voice cracking. But doubt had already begun its slow, cruel crawl.

The reflection changed. Now it was her, kneeling. The Devil's hand on her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. But her own gaze wasn't afraid. It was... eager.

"You'll fall," the mirror warned. "And when you do, he'll own not just your body—but your will."

The scene faded. The symbols beneath her feet flared blindingly, then extinguished all at once. She stumbled out of the circle, gasping as if surfacing from drowning.

He stood there, arms crossed, watching. Always watching.

"You saw," he said. Not a question. A fact.

She nodded. "She said I'd fall."

"They all do."

Silence stretched between them like a taut string. Her breaths were uneven. She hated how much she needed his steadiness. Hated how much his presence grounded her.

"You passed," he finally said. "You faced yourself. Most mortals don't make it through the first trial."

She blinked. "That was the first?"

His lips curved in amusement. "Did you think it would end there?"

The hallway outside the chamber was colder now. Or maybe it was her. Stripped of illusion. Naked in soul.

He walked beside her in silence until they reached a balcony overlooking the black garden. The trees swayed though there was no wind. Each branch whispered something she couldn't understand.

"Why me?" she asked softly, not looking at him.

He didn't answer immediately. Then: "Because the mark doesn't choose the strong. It chooses the ones who can be broken."

She turned to him sharply. "So you're trying to break me?"

His gaze was unreadable. "No. I'm trying to see what you become when you're no longer afraid to break."

The next trial came at dawn—or what passed for dawn in his realm. The sky bled gray light, and the floor beneath her feet rippled like water.

He met her at the edge of a black corridor, eyes less cruel than before. "Today you face desire."

She flinched. "I thought I already was."

He smirked. "You've felt attraction. Hunger. But desire… true desire… that's something deeper. It demands surrender."

She followed him into the corridor. The air changed. Warm, heavy, scented like wild roses and ash. Her heart pounded without reason. Her skin felt exposed.

Then she was alone. He vanished. The corridor closed behind her. And standing before her was… him.

But different. This version wasn't cold. He was bare. Stripped of armor. He smiled—not the cruel smile—but one full of want. Of promise. Of tenderness.

"Come to me," he said, holding out a hand.

She hesitated. This wasn't real. It was a test. And yet, her feet moved without her permission.

When she reached him, he didn't grab her. Didn't dominate her. He simply looked at her with eyes that softened. That saw too much.

"You want to be touched," he said. "Not to be taken, but to be claimed. Not as a prisoner. But as a chosen one."

Her knees buckled. He caught her. His touch was fire—but gentle. A contradiction. Like everything about him.

"What do you want?" he whispered.

She couldn't speak. Because the truth—the real truth—terrified her more than pain. She wanted him. Not in spite of the danger. Because of it.

The illusion broke. He vanished like smoke. And she fell to the floor, gasping.

The real Devil appeared behind her, silent. She could feel his eyes on her back.

"Well?" he asked.

"I saw… what I hide from myself."

"That is the purpose of desire. To make liars of us all."

She turned to face him. Her cheeks flushed, hair tangled, breath ragged. But her eyes held something new—acceptance of the storm inside her.

"You passed again," he said.

She didn't smile. Victory didn't feel like relief. It felt like losing pieces of herself.

"And the next?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he held out his hand. For a second, she thought he might be offering comfort. But the second she touched him—

She was pulled into blackness.

She landed hard on cold stone. No walls, no ceiling. Just endless dark. But she wasn't alone.

Whispers surrounded her—dozens, hundreds, all speaking in voices she knew. Her mother. Her best friend. Her childhood self. All whispering doubts.

"You'll never escape."

"You're not enough."

"You were made to be used."

The voices cut like razors, flaying open wounds she thought long scarred. She covered her ears, but they seeped through her skin.

She screamed—but the sound was swallowed. No echo. Just more doubt.

Then one voice rose above them all—his.

"Silence."

Everything stopped. The dark hissed and recoiled. A figure formed beside her. Him—cloaked in shadow, yet shining like silver fire.

"What is this?" she asked, trembling.

"The third trial," he said. "The trial of truth. These voices are you. Every lie you believed. Every fear you fed. Now you face them."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

He vanished again.

She stood, every bone aching. Her breath fogged in the air. And then she walked forward. Into the voices. Into the past.

They surrounded her again. But she didn't cover her ears. She listened.

"You're weak," one voice hissed.

"Maybe," she said. "But I'm still standing."

"He'll destroy you."

"Maybe. But I'll choose how."

The voices began to waver. To distort. She kept walking. Step by step, she claimed herself back.

And then there was silence.

Light exploded.

She woke on her bedroom floor, heart thudding like a drum.

He was there. Watching. Always.

"You survived all three," he said, kneeling beside her. His voice was low. Rough.

"What does it mean?" she whispered.

"It means you're not prey anymore."

He lifted her chin. Their eyes locked.

"Now you're something worse," he murmured. "You're mine."

She should have slapped him. Run. Screamed. But instead—

She leaned in.

The kiss burned like judgment. Like surrender. Like war.

And somewhere, deep inside her, something ancient awakened.

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