The Kingdom of Malakor was not a place for children; it was a forge where souls were hammered into jagged, unyielding blades of war. I was born into a world of crimson skies, where the air smelled eternally of sulfur and the constant, deafening rhythm of steel clashing against steel served as our only lullaby. In the demon realm, "mercy" was a foreign concept and "weakness" was a death sentence. To the demons of Malakor, raw strength was the only currency that mattered, and battling was the only form of prayer they knew. I don't know who my parents are. I don't have a single memory of a mother's face or a father's warm voice. In Malakor, family is considered a distraction from the pursuit of absolute power. As soon as a child can stand on their own two legs, they are dropped off at the "House of Demons." It sounds like it might be a home, but it was really a brutal training camp. The walls were made of jagged basalt, and the floors were permanently stained with the blood of thousands of young initiates. Our "parents" were demon trainers—monsters with scarred hides and obsidian hearts who viewed us as nothing more than raw material to be sharpened.
Every day in the House of Demons was a nightmare of combat. We didn't learn to read or write; we learned how to break bones, how to parry killing blows, and how to find the soft spots in a rival's armor. They made us fight for our food, fight for a place to sleep, and fight just for the right to breathe another day. If you were beaten, you didn't get a hug; you got a lecture on why your stance was flawed and a heavy boot to the ribs to make sure you remembered it. I grew up strong—I had to—and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the thrill of the fight. There's a certain clarity in battle that you can't find anywhere else. But even back then, something felt empty. I looked at the other kids, and all I saw were rivals or targets. I wanted someone to talk to, someone who wouldn't try to rip my throat out the second I lowered my guard. But in a kingdom of warriors, a "friend" is just an enemy you haven't fought yet. The silence after a fight was the loneliest sound in the world, and as I grew, the weight of that loneliness became heavier than any training weight.
By the time I was eight, I'd had enough of the red dirt and the endless snarling. I didn't want to be just another nameless weapon in a demon king's army. During a chaotic night when the trainers were distracted by a border skirmish, I slipped through the iron grates of the barracks. I ran until my lungs burned like they were filled with hot coals and my feet bled, crossing the jagged mountains that separated the demon realm from the human lands. I collapsed on the outskirts of a human village, fully expecting to be executed or sold into a different kind of slavery. Instead, I woke up in a bed that felt like a cloud. Standing over me was a human woman with the kindest eyes I had ever seen. She didn't look at me with fear or the desire to test my strength; she looked at me with genuine concern. She took me in, fed me real food that didn't require a duel to obtain, and told me I was safe. "You can call me Mom," she said one evening as she tucked a soft blanket around me. I stared at her, completely lost. "Mom? What is a 'Mom'?" I asked. She laughed softly, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. She spent the next hour explaining what a mother was—someone who cares for you unconditionally, someone who loves you even when you aren't the strongest person in the room.
The years that followed were a whirlwind of experiences that my demon brain struggled to process. First, there was the food. In the demon realm, food was gray, tough, and bitter. Here, she fed me enough to nourish a small army. She piled my plate high with roasted meats dripping in savory juices, buttery mashed vegetables that melted on my tongue, and sweet fruit pies that made my tail twitch with pure, unadulterated joy. She never let me go hungry, always ensuring there was a warm snack waiting for me after I finished my chores. But it wasn't just the eating. She washed the grime and dried blood of Malakor from my skin with warm, lavender-scented water, scrubbing away the memories of the pits. She carefully trimmed my wild, matted hair until I looked less like a beast and more like a boy. She spent hours every afternoon teaching me how to read the soft, curving letters of the human language, patiently guiding my clumsy, clawed fingers as I practiced writing my own name on pieces of parchment.
She bought me clothes made of soft wool and linen that didn't chafe against my scales, and she taught me how to button a shirt without ripping the fabric in a fit of strength. Every night, she tucked me into a bed with sun-dried sheets that smelled like the outdoors, whispering stories of heroes who won through kindness and cleverness rather than brutal conquest. She celebrated the day I arrived as my "birthday," giving me a hand-carved wooden dragon that I still keep in my pocket at all times. When I fell ill with a human fever, she stayed up all night pressing cool, damp cloths to my forehead and humming tunes that finally replaced the sound of clashing swords in my dreams. She showed me how to tend to a small garden behind our cottage, teaching me to touch the delicate flower petals with a gentle graze instead of crushing them in my fist.
She took me to village festivals where she encouraged me to dance, even though I mostly just stomped around like a war-golem, much to the amusement of the locals. She taught me how to use a fork and knife instead of my claws, how to say "please" and "thank you" until they became second nature, and how to apologize when my demon temper flared up and I accidentally broke something. She sat with me during terrifying thunderstorms, holding my hand and telling me that the thunder was just the sky clearing its throat after a long day. She patched the holes in my knees with colorful fabric when I climbed trees too fast, and she praised me for being helpful—like when I carried the heavy water buckets—rather than for being deadly. She even taught me how to whistle, a sound so bright and useless that it felt like a miracle every time I managed it. She taught me how to brush my teeth, how to comb my hair, and how to look someone in the eye without baring my teeth as a challenge. She taught me how to feed the birds in the square without scaring them away, how to help an old lady cross the street, and how to appreciate the smell of rain on hot pavement. She showed me how to draw, giving me charcoal and paper to express the things I couldn't say. She taught me how to brew tea and how to sit in silence without feeling the need to attack. Most importantly, she taught me how to hug—a strange, non-combative grapple that made my heart feel strangely heavy and light all at once. She was the first person to ever tell me she was proud of me just for being me.
She raised me with a gentleness that constantly confused my demon instincts. She told me that there was more to life than training. "Lucian," she would say, "you should make some friends. It's fun to share your life with others. Fighting is just one way to spend a day, but a friend is a treasure that lasts forever." I would just grunt and go back to practicing my forms. To me, "fun" was a successful counter-attack, not a conversation. But she never gave up. She saw the way I looked at the village children with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. She knew that inside my barrel chest was a heart that desperately wanted to belong.
When I turned sixteen, she sat me down with a serious expression and a packed bag. "Lucian, I've enrolled you in the Mage and Warriors University. I want you to go there not just to get stronger, but to make friends and actually have a life. You've spent too long being a lone wolf. Go find people who will laugh with you, not just fight you. The world is big, Lucian, and you deserve to see it through the eyes of someone with companions at his side."
I looked into her eyes—those soft, human eyes that had saved me from a life of slaughter—and I sighed. I couldn't say no to her. She was the only person who had ever truly seen me, the only one who didn't want anything from me other than my happiness. "Fine," I said, a grin slowly spreading across my face as my demon competitive streak flared up. "If I'm going, I'm not just going to make a friend. I'LL GET THE MOST FRIENDS IN THIS WORLD! AHAHAHA!"
She chuckled, shaking her head at my typical over-the-top energy. I spent the next few weeks preparing, packing my gear, and trying to practice "friendly" faces in the mirror. It was hard; my smiles mostly just looked like I was baring my teeth at a rival, but I kept at it for her. I memorized her list of "how to be a friend": listen more than you talk, share your snacks, don't tackle people unless they ask, and always try to find common ground. As I walked toward the university gates, I felt a familiar rush. This was a new kind of battle. I wasn't fighting for survival anymore; I was fighting for a social life. I arrived at the gates and saw hundreds of students. My heart hammered against my ribs. These weren't enemies. These were potential best friends.
The world better get ready. Lucian of the House of Demons is looking for a best friend, and I won't stop until I've befriended every single person in this place! I'll be the champion of friendship, even if I have to wrestle everyone into liking me! I'll be the greatest friend anyone has ever had, and I'll do it with the same intensity I used to use to survive the pits of Malakor! I stepped through the gates, chest puffed out and a massive, terrifyingly wide grin on my face, ready to conquer the hearts of everyone in the room. I'll make Mom proud—I'll make more friends than this kingdom has ever seen! I'll be the legend of the university, the demon who chose laughter over blood!