Marked by the Devil’s Touch.

The mansion didn't sleep.

While the world outside paused in a false silence, the Devil's domain pulsed with unrest. Shadows shifted in the walls, and whispers crawled through the corridors. Something was changing. Something was awakening.

She stood in the courtyard at dawn—if dawn could exist here. The sky was a deep bruise-purple, clouds etched in red. Her hair was tied back, boots laced tight, eyes hard. Gone was the girl who had once trembled beneath his gaze.

Now she stood tall, waiting for him.

He arrived without sound, stepping from the mist like a nightmare made flesh. His cloak trailed behind him like living shadow. No crown, no theatrics—only purpose.

"You came," he said, voice rough with sleep and smoke.

"You summoned," she replied.

They didn't speak of the kiss. Or the memories. Or the choice she made when she laced her fingers with his. This was a new beginning. One forged in blood, not words.

"Then let's begin," he said.

He raised his hand. The courtyard trembled.

The stone beneath her feet reshaped itself, transforming into a perfect ring. Obsidian pillars rose in a circle, each inscribed with glowing runes. Above them, a sphere of dark magic shimmered—a dome of pure protection.

"No distractions. No interruptions," he said. "This place bends to my will. It will respond to yours… if you earn it."

He stepped back. "Strike me."

She blinked. "What?"

"You want power. Control. Confidence. Then take it. Try to land a single blow."

She hesitated only a second. Then she ran.

Her fists moved with instinct, forged by anger and fire. She struck forward—only to meet air. He'd vanished.

A whisper at her back: "Too slow."

She spun, catching only a shadow. Again she struck—again he dodged.

"You hesitate," he said, appearing behind her, close enough for his breath to ghost her neck. "Even now, a part of you fears me."

"No," she growled. "I fear myself."

She reached deep. The mark on her collarbone pulsed. Her power surged.

This time, when she swung, a blast of energy followed—a whip of violet flame. It seared through the air toward him.

He caught it.

His hand closed around the flame, snuffing it out like a candle.

"Better," he murmured. "Again."

She lunged forward, this time with no warning. Her limbs moved like fire—uncontrolled, untrained, but deadly. She struck with elbows, with knees, with magic that screamed to be let out.

He blocked. Dodged. Parried.

Then, with one swift move, he sent her flying across the ring. She landed hard, shoulder scraping the stone.

"Again."

She stood, chest heaving. Again.

Every strike was met with correction. Every spark of power pushed to its edge. She lost count of how many times he knocked her down, how often she screamed into the stone or felt the sting of her own magic backfiring.

But she kept rising.

"You won't break me," she gasped after the fifteenth fall.

"I don't want to break you," he said, walking toward her slowly. "I want to forge you."

She looked up, eyes rimmed with sweat and pain. "Why?"

He stopped inches from her. "Because the world you knew is already gone. And the one that's coming will eat you alive unless you own what you are."

He knelt beside her.

"You are not some mortal pawn," he said, voice low, deadly. "You are chaos-born. You are mine. But more than that—you are becoming."

She held his gaze. "What if I don't want to become what you are?"

"Then become something greater."

He stood again. "But first… survive."

He snapped his fingers.

The world changed.

Suddenly, the ring was no longer empty.

From the shadows, creatures emerged—twisted things with hollow eyes and bone-blades for arms. Shades. Nightborn. Her breath caught.

"This is not training," she shouted.

"It is now."

They rushed her.

She had no sword, no shield. Only instinct and fire.

Her hands ignited.

She fought.

She fought like the girl who had screamed in that burned village. Like the woman who had survived the Devil's mark. Every blast of power came sharper, every dodge cleaner. She moved like someone with nothing left to lose.

Blood splashed her boots—not hers. Screeches pierced the dome. Runes flared.

And through it all, he watched—silent, unreadable.

When the last creature fell to ash, she stood alone, swaying. Her skin was covered in cuts and smoke. But she was alive.

Barely.

She turned to him. "You could've helped."

He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't need me."

She staggered toward him. "Why are you doing this?"

He looked away then, just for a second. "Because soon, even I won't be enough to protect you."

A silence hung between them. One heavy with meaning.

"Come," he said at last. "You need rest."

"I need answers."

He paused. Then nodded.

He led her not to the dungeons or the throne room—but to the library.

It was vast. Endless. Books flew through the air. Shadows clung to shelves like sleeping cats.

At the center was a glass table. Upon it, a single black book.

"This," he said, "is your inheritance."

She picked it up. It pulsed like it breathed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A record of every chaos-born who ever lived. Including you."

She opened the first page.

And gasped.

It was her. As a child. Scrawled in ink, drawn in shadow.

She flipped faster. Her life was there—each hidden memory. Each sealed truth. Even the night of the fire. The village.

But at the end… the pages were blank.

"What does it mean?" she whispered.

He stepped beside her. "That your story isn't finished. That you still get to write it."

She closed the book.

"Then let's make it worth reading."

He smiled. Not mockingly. Not cruelly. For once, it was real.

But it vanished quickly.

"Tomorrow, the High Lords arrive."

"Who are they?"

"The council that rules the in-between. Angels in masks. Devils in robes. They want to see you. To test you."

"And if I fail?"

"They'll destroy you."

She laughed once—dry and bitter. "So nothing new."

He stepped closer, voice hushed. "They fear what you could be. And they're right to."

She turned to him. "Will you stand with me?"

He didn't answer. But he touched her cheek—just once, gently.

"I don't stand," he said. "I reign. But for you... I'll burn the sky."

She didn't know what to say.

So she didn't.

She walked to the window, gazing at the unnatural stars.

Below, in the courtyard, the ashes of her training still smoldered.

And above?

The storm was coming.

But this time, she would not kneel.

She would rise.

As his apprentice.

As chaos reborn.

As the girl who would bring kingdoms to their knees—not because she wanted to…

But because she was forged to.

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