My Own Demon

In the center of a clearing, surrounded by black candles and runes carved into the earth, Urik knelt, his hands firm over the circle of salt and bones.

He did not fear the darkness—it was his ally.

“Kharath, veshtari, mordeth...” His voice was hoarse, the words torn from a forgotten tongue. The air vibrated in response, as if the world itself held its breath.

A green spark ignited between his fingers, growing until his entire body was engulfed in cold flames. It was a dangerous ritual, a summoning to entities that dwelled between worlds. Urik knew the risks, but his thirst for knowledge was stronger than fear.

“One more step, and there’s no turning back,” murmured a voice in his ear—the voice of his deceased mentor, Elyon, echoing in his mind like a belated warning.

Urik ignored the ghost.

“I don’t need a way back,” he replied aloud.

The rune circle began to glow with a dull red light, and the ground shook. A crack opened at the center, exhaling a purple mist that smelled of sulfur and wilted flowers. Something was breathing on the other side.

And then—silence.

The candle flames vanished all at once, plunging the clearing into darkness. Urik remained still, his senses sharp. Something was wrong. Rituals never ended like this.

“Who dares summon the void?”

The voice didn’t come from outside. It came from within, reverberating through his skull like a distant drum. Urik clenched his fists, feeling a presence slithering down his spine.

“I didn’t summon the void,” he answered, voice steady. “I seek knowledge.”

A laugh echoed—low and melodic.

“Knowledge has a price, sorcerer. Are you ready to pay?”

Before Urik could answer, a sharp pain exploded in his chest, as if invisible claws clutched his heart. He fell back, gasping, as images invaded his mind—flashes of a realm of fire and mist, of creatures with golden eyes and razor smiles. And at the center of it all, a tall figure cloaked in shadows, watching him with disturbing interest.

“You are strong,” the voice whispered. “But strong enough?”

Urik screamed as the pain intensified, his fingers clawing at the soil. He would not beg. Never.

“Show yourself, coward!” he snarled, spitting blood.

The laughter returned—closer now.

“As you wish.”

The mist condensed before him, taking shape: broad shoulders, curved horns, eyes that burned like embers. A demon. Not just any, but one of the High Ones—a Prince of Shadows.

Urik forced himself to stand, even as his body trembled.

“Melek,” the creature introduced himself, bowing slightly, almost courteously. “And you... you are Urik the Cursed. Yes, I know your name.”

A chill raced through Urik’s veins. How did he know?

“What do you want?” he asked, preparing a defensive spell in his mind.

Melek smiled, revealing sharp teeth.

“You were the one who called me, sorcerer. Not the other way around.”

Urik swallowed hard. He hadn’t summoned a demon—at least not intentionally. The ritual was meant to contact ancestral spirits, not... this.

“There’s been a mistake,” he said cautiously.

Melek stepped closer, and the air around him distorted, as if space itself bent to his presence.

“There are no mistakes. Only fate.”

Before Urik could react, the demon reached out, touching his forehead with a long, cold finger.

The world collapsed.

Urik found himself in a place that wasn’t a place—a void where stars were born and died in seconds, where voices whispered secrets in dead languages. And at the center of it all: Melek. No longer a terrifying figure, but something... more. Something that drew him in like a beacon in the dark.

“You are different,” the demon murmured, his voice now soft, almost human. “I see your loneliness. Your hunger.”

Urik tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to go.

“Don’t touch me.”

Melek chuckled, but this time without cruelty.

“It’s already too late for that.”

And then, like a breath, everything vanished.

Urik woke with a start, back in the clearing, morning sunlight filtering through the trees. His body ached as if he had been crushed under a boulder, but there was no sign of the demon—only the rune circle, now reduced to ash.

He took a deep breath, trying to process what had happened. Was it a dream? A hallucination?

But then, on his wrist, a mark appeared—an intricate symbol, black as night, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Urik stared at the mark, fingers trembling slightly as he traced the dark symbol, etched into his skin like fire. It didn’t hurt, but there was a strange pulse, as if something alive writhed beneath his flesh.

“What the hell did you do to me...?” he muttered, remembering those burning eyes and Melek’s sharp smile.

The morning wind chilled his face, grounding him in reality. He needed to return to his tower, study the mark, and find a way to rid himself of it before—

A sudden involuntary movement between his thighs made him freeze.

Urik looked down.

His body had reacted in a way it hadn’t in years.

“No...” He swallowed hard, feeling the blood rush—hot and uninvited—to a place that should not be so interested after an encounter with a demon.

But it was. Hard. Infuriatingly rigid.

He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the sensation, but the more he fought it, the more Melek’s memory crept in—that cold touch to his forehead, that voice smooth as poisoned silk, the way the demon looked at him as if he could see everything.

“Damn incubus,” he growled, rubbing his face with both hands.

It was no secret that some demons fed on desire, but Urik never imagined he’d be a target. He was disciplined. Controlled. His magic required abstinence—focus. And now, here he was, with a stubborn erection and a demonic mark pulsing on his wrist.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Urik spat on the ground, as if he could expel the strange energy invading him.

The forest didn’t answer.

He took a deep breath, attempting a basic purification spell.

“Lareth, vis aether—”

A jolt surged through him, and the mark on his wrist burned like hot iron. Urik screamed, doubling over as waves of filthy pleasure rushed through his veins—so intense his knees buckled.

“Son of a—!”