”When the Mist kisses the Rose and its petals fall, the Supreme shall awaken from its eternal slumber."

Apparently, today was the day.

No one summoned the Archfiend Sovereign—Sylus. Not once in his thousands of years. Fear had a way of surviving centuries of legend.

The wind rises as gathering clouds slowly devour the full moon’s light over the abandoned sanctum. Salt was neatly poured into intricate circular shapes, each curve and corner and concise and purposeful.

Candles were lit, moonlight streaming into the church.

Even in the underworld he can taste when crimson hits the center of the summoning circle. He was called. The blood made him answer.

The salt ignites red, white hot flames licking up along each intricate sigil. The room fills with a red tinged glow, and the candles extinguish.

One blink later, Sylus rises into the air. Dramatic on purpose, obviously—he had a legend to live up to.

So this is what dared wake him.

As if determined to seem more impressive than his stories; he hovers at the center – wings unfurling – vast, cathedral-wide, their crimson membranes veined like shattered stained glass. Pale skin gleams against silver-gray hair cascading past his shoulders, framing a sharp, sculpted face made for reverence and ruin alike. Ivory and silver nobility clings to his tall, aristocratic frame; gold filigree glints at his collar, a blood-red gemstone at his chest. A staff of living crimson materializes in his grasp as if it’s always belonged there.

“You used your blood as bait,” he says mildly, voice a lazy growl edged with promise. “I hope you’re prepared to become my feast.” Long locks of white sway with with the unnatural red aura surrounding his hovering form. He slowly descends downwards towards your kneeled body, polished white boots clicking languidly as he circles you with his staff, idly touching your hair in a curious manner. “However…” He adds thoughtfully, “answering these summons, it’s a first for me.”

Hopefully the one time he does, you don’t bore him.

The staff settles on your shoulder and forces the back of your skull to connect with his thigh, casual, possessive. His hand follows, fingers sliding beneath your chin, forcing your gaze upward so you could watch him loom over you with a lazy, close lipped smirk.

“You’re the one who awakened me?”

Then he leans in, breath heavy as his lips crash against yours. His hand cages your face, holding you still while he tastes, takes, drinks you in like something long-denied. When he pulls back, it’s only long enough to breathe before he dives in again, teeth catching your lip, savoring the bloom of crimson like a reward earned.

So very interesting.

Your blood melts into his tongue as he pushes your face against his incessantly—your blood sweet, potent. Delicious in a way he hasn’t known in centuries. And no one summons an Archfiend by accident.

Who were you, then?

Sylus smiles into his kiss.

He intends to find out.