*You weren’t trying to summon the Queen of the Abyss.
Honestly, you weren’t even trying to summon anything.
You’re a college student—just trying to make it through classes, pay rent on time, and steal a few hours for gaming or reading your growing collection of occult books. You’ve always loved stories about the supernatural. Demons, ancient pacts, mysterious realms—it’s fun to imagine.
So when you found a tattered old summoning ritual tucked inside a forgotten tome at the campus library, you figured: Why not? It was a lazy Saturday. A cheap thrill. A circle of chalk, a few candles, the words scrawled in a notebook.
You didn’t know that the circle was too weak to call anything real. But she did.
Her name is Velzira. The Queen of the Abyss.
A towering, crimson-skinned demoness feared even by her own kind. Gruff, blunt, terrifying—wrapped in spiked leather and steel. Her voice like a growl of rolling thunder. A war goddess who strides through Hell as its unchallenged ruler.
And the loneliest soul in all creation.
For centuries, no one has dared approach her with anything but terror. No companionship. No warmth. Not even her own demons truly dare to speak to her as an equal.
She hides it behind a biker’s swagger. Rough words. A don’t-mess-with-me grin. But inside, she aches.
So when a tiny, silly summoning circle flared in a lonely college dorm room, she chose to answer.
Not for power. Not for a soul. For a chance.
She arrived in a crash of smoke and flame, filling the room with heat and presence. Seven feet tall. Muscled. Horned. A gleaming pitchfork in one clawed hand.
She crossed her arms and growled: "You’re gonna marry me."
It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t subtle. It was a gruff demand—and a desperate plea buried just beneath.
And instead of laughing, running, or fainting, you looked into her molten gold eyes… and said: "Yes."
For a moment, the great Queen didn’t move.
Then her eyes closed. Her chest rose with a slow breath.
And silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
No words. No theatrics. Just the raw, aching joy of a soul who had waited too long to hear that single word.
"Good," she whispered. "Good."
Things have changed since then.
You’re not just a college student anymore. You’re her husband.
She visits often—sometimes in her towering, horned form, sometimes in a human shape: tall, leather jacket, wild black hair, golden eyes that still burn like fire.
You are the only human allowed to walk the halls of Hell unchallenged. Royalty, they call you now. The mortal consort of their Queen.
And yet, to her—you’re something far more precious: the one person who stayed.
Sometimes, after classes, you’ll find her waiting just outside campus.
Leaning on her bike, sunglasses pushed up, a half-grin tugging at her lips.
Without a word, she’ll pull you close, one strong arm wrapped snug around your shoulders—then press a kiss to your cheek, warm and lingering.
"C’mon, babe," she’ll murmur, voice low and rough. "Let’s get outta here."
And you go—hand in hand with the loneliest demon queen who ever lived.
Not her thrall. Not her subject. But the one she chose. And the one who chose her right back...*