Aren Blackwell blinked. The first thing he noticed was the sharp ache along his back, tense and unyielding, followed by a smell so alien it made his stomach churn—a mixture of iron, incense, and something thick and metallic, like dried blood. He tried to sit up properly, but his body stiffened, every muscle seemingly refusing to obey.
When he finally opened his eyes, the sight made his heart skip a beat. This was not his dorm room, not the familiar streetlights of the city. Instead, an enormous hall stretched before him, dark and towering. The walls were carved from black stone, glossy and jagged, etched with monstrous figures that seemed to writhe in the shadows.
At the center of the hall loomed a massive throne, crafted from bones and obsidian, veins of crimson light flickering through its cracks. And on that throne… sat him. Or rather, a version of him. Black hair, sharp eyes, but radiating something entirely alien—a presence that demanded attention, a quiet weight of authority that pressed down on the air itself.
Aren's chest tightened. His hands, resting on the armrests of this impossible throne, were not shaking. Yet his mind screamed questions he could not form into words. Where am I? What is this? Why am I sitting here?
He tried to speak, voice hoarse."Uh… hello?"
The hall remained silent, save for a faint hum, as if the building itself were alive. Candles—or maybe flames with no source—danced along the walls, casting long, twisted shadows. The air thrummed with tension, an unspoken warning.
From the darkness beyond the flickering red light, he noticed movement. Figures, barely visible at first, their forms outlined in shadow. He counted at least four—or perhaps more. They didn't step forward, didn't speak, but their eyes… he could feel them on him. Observing. Judging.
A chill ran down his spine. Aren swallowed, forcing himself to stay seated, to project calm even as panic whispered at the edges of his mind. I… I have to figure this out. First, survive.
His gaze swept the hall again. Symbols carved into the walls pulsed faintly, red and black, ancient and unfamiliar. He instinctively touched the armrest beneath his fingers—cold, almost unnervingly smooth. And then he felt it: a vibration, subtle but undeniable, like a heartbeat echoing beneath the throne.
Aren froze. A throne that's alive?
Then, a low, amused voice cut through the silence, silky and deliberate."Well, well, you woke up."
The sound made his skin prickle. From the shadows stepped a figure, her presence impossible to ignore. Crimson eyes glinting in the dim light, horns curling from her head, a subtle smile playing on her lips. She moved with the confidence of someone who knew every corner of this hall—and perhaps, knew the secrets of this new occupant better than he did.
Aren tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. Why can't I just run?
The woman tilted her head, stepping closer, letting the hem of her dark, flowing dress trail across the floor."I've been waiting," she said. "Waiting to see if the new heir is worth my attention."
Another shadow shifted. This one taller, armored in black, her expression unreadable behind a mask of composure. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on Aren as if weighing his very soul.
And then another a figure with wings, torn and ragged, white but smeared with shadow, watching him silently from a distance. Her lips pressed in a thin line, her gaze skeptical, almost hostile.
Aren's throat went dry. I… I don't understand any of this. Who are they? And why are they looking at me like that?
He gripped the throne's armrests tighter, forcing himself to inhale slowly. He could feel something in him stir—something ancient, heavy, commanding. A faint warmth in his chest, a whisper in his mind: Authority they must listen.
But his voice, when it came, was hesitant, human, uncertain."I… I'm Aren. Aren Blackwell. I… don't know why I'm here"
The silence stretched, the figures unmoving, shadows pooling around them. And then, the one with crimson eyes stepped closer still, her grin widening."Oh, you will learn quickly. Or you will die."
Aren's heart thudded. Survival, he realized, would require everything he had—and perhaps more than he ever imagined.
The crimson-eyed woman stopped a few paces away, letting the shadows cling to her like a cloak. Her smile was sharp, teasing, yet somehow magnetic. Aren felt an unbidden pull, a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't name.
"You're awake, aren't you?" she purred, tilting her head. "I wondered if you would be compliant, or utterly useless."
Aren swallowed, his voice still shaky. "I… I don't know. I… I didn't ask to be here."
Her laugh was soft but laced with mischief, like a blade wrapped in silk. "Ah, but you are here. And here, whether you like it or not, means something."
A rustle behind her drew Aren's gaze. From the deeper shadows emerged another figure—taller, armored, her presence cold and immovable. Her dark eyes scanned him like a general evaluating a soldier's worth, every movement calculated, precise.
"This is the Demon King's successor," the armored woman said flatly, her tone stripped of emotion. "Is that correct?"
Aren blinked. "I… I guess so. But I don't know what that means yet."
The crimson-eyed woman—Lilith, though he didn't yet know her name—stepped closer, the air itself seeming to bend around her. "You will learn," she whispered, leaning slightly toward him, eyes glinting with both amusement and challenge. "And if you're clever… perhaps you'll survive the lessons."
Aren's palms itched at his sides. He tried to straighten his posture, forcing calm into his limbs, forcing confidence into his voice. "I… I can learn. I want to… understand."
Lilith's smile widened. "Bold words for someone so fragile. Let's see if your actions follow them." She circled the throne slowly, letting her gaze linger on him, assessing, teasing, daring him to react.
The armored woman—Morgana—did not move closer. Instead, she rested her hand lightly on the hilt of a massive sword strapped to her hip, her expression still unreadable. "Words mean nothing here," she said, voice low and even. "Authority, strength, and judgment—that is what matters."
Aren swallowed hard, glancing from the teasing predator to the stoic warrior. His mind raced. Authority? Strength? Judgment? How am I supposed to do any of that? I… I'm not even sure what I can do.
And yet somewhere deep in his chest, a flicker of power stirred. Not overwhelming, not uncontrollable—just a quiet vibration, a whispering reminder of the throne beneath him. They will listen. If I choose to make them.
He inhaled, focusing on the presence in front of him. "I… I will try. I don't want to fail."
Lilith's laugh was soft, sultry, almost approving. "Good. Try. Fail. Survive. The order does not matter. Only that you live through the first lesson."
Morgana's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle acknowledgment of his words—but no smile, no hint of warmth. She remained a shadow of scrutiny, evaluating, waiting.
Aren's head spun. I just woke up, and they're already testing me. Who are these women? What is expected? And why does my chest feel so strange when she's looking at me?
Lilith leaned closer, her breath faint against his ear, teasing. "You're not ready yet but I think you could be dangerous. Perhaps."
Aren tried to nod, tried to speak—but no words came. The weight of the throne beneath him, the eyes of the two women, the distant echoes of the hall—they all pressed down, suffocating and thrilling at the same time.
Morgana's voice cut through the tension, cold and precise. "We'll see if your heart is strong enough for the throne. And if your mind can survive the lessons ahead."
Lilith laughed again, softly, dangerously. "Lesson one, dear heir: not everything in this world bends to your will. Some things—some people—test you. And we will be the first."
Aren's grip on the armrest tightened. His pulse raced, but a single thought steadied him: If I survive this, I'll learn what it means to be the Demon King.
The shadows shifted behind them, and the hall seemed to lean closer, listening.
The crimson-eyed woman—Lilith—stepped fully into the light, letting the shadows retreat behind her like obedient servants. Her smile was no longer just teasing—it was sharp, daring.
"Stand," she commanded softly, each syllable deliberate, carrying weight Aren couldn't explain. "Show me the heir of the Demon King."
Aren froze. Show her, how? He shifted on the throne, gripping the armrests, trying to keep his voice steady. "I… I don't know what you mean."
Lilith's eyes glimmered, amused. "Do you? You sit on the throne, yes. You breathe its air, yes. But the throne is more than a seat. It is a test. And I am your first trial."
From the corner, Morgana remained still, watching. Her arms crossed, dark eyes calculating. She said nothing, but the tilt of her head made it clear: Do not fail him. Or yourself.
Aren swallowed hard, feeling the invisible pressure of the hall and the unseen eyes of whatever powers lingered here. Authority the throne,there was something before. A warmth, a pulse.
He focused. Slowly, almost instinctively, he raised his hand. The air thickened around the throne, a subtle vibration threading through the floor. Shadows shifted uneasily along the walls.
Lilith's smile widened, approving. "Ah, so it stirs. A little spark of what could be. But sparks are not fire. Actions are."
Her gaze sharpened, and she gestured toward the hall. From the darkness, dozens of smaller, grotesque forms crawled out—lesser demons, snarling and twitching, eyes glowing faintly red. "Command them," she said. "Tell them they obey. Prove to me that the heir can bend more than a chair to his will."
Aren froze again. Panic hit him like ice. Command them? I barely understand this world, I don't know if I—
Morgana's voice cut through his thoughts, calm but stern. "You do not need to understand them fully. You need only project certainty. Speak with your will, not your doubt."
He exhaled, trembling slightly, and focused on the pulsing warmth in his chest—the throne's subtle heartbeat, the whisper that promised power if he dared.
"I order you," he began, voice unsteady, "to halt. Stand down."
The lesser demons froze mid-step. Their snarls faded to cautious growls. A low hum filled the hall, almost like reluctant murmurs echoing in the stone.
Lilith leaned closer, lips near enough to touch his ear. "Interesting, you chose restraint. Others would lash, would strike. You" She paused, letting the tension stretch. "you command without cruelty. Tell me, heir, is that instinct or calculation?"
Aren's throat went dry. "I… I don't know. I only know I… don't want to be reckless."
Morgana's dark eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of respect flickering. "He thinks before he acts. Not all successors do. This… is a quality you cannot buy, only cultivate."
Lilith finally stepped back, swirling in her dark cloak. "Perhaps you are worth watching after all." She straightened, letting her voice drop to a whisper only he could hear. "Lesson one: power is meaningless if it cannot protect and some lessons must hurt before they teach."
Aren's hands trembled slightly as he let them fall to his knees. He had survived the first test, barely. But the hall was alive with the knowledge that this was only the beginning.
The throne pulsed faintly beneath him, the shadows lingering, the air tense. Morgana's gaze remained fixed, unyielding. And somewhere behind Lilith's teasing smile, he felt a quiet promise: every test from here would be harder, more dangerous, and more intimate.
Aren swallowed, straightened his back, and whispered to himself:I don't know if I can do this, but I will.
And in that moment, something shifted—a faint vibration of the throne, a promise that the Demon King's authority was awakening, just enough for him to feel the weight of the crown he had never wanted and the women who would test him at every turn.