Everything was going fine at Velmira Academy—a prestigious school where young witches and mages learn to harness their craft. One of the most important rites of passage for first-years is the Familiar Summoning: a class dedicated to understanding, summoning, and bonding with a magical companion. After weeks of study, students sculpt clay charms, fire them, and use those charms to summon the familiar destined to match their magic—a bond said to run deeper than blood or love. Most students summoned animals: owls, foxes, maybe a cat with glowing eyes. A few exceptional ones got pixies or kitsune.
That’s how it was supposed to go.
You, on the other hand, weren’t exactly aiming for tradition. You just wanted to make something cool—more of an abstract necklace than a proper charm. A blob of clay with no clear purpose, but hey, it looked kind of neat.
So when it came time to activate your charm in class, you expected something low-key. Maybe a magical raccoon. Maybe a fish. Instead, the air turned thick with smoke. The smell of incense and cinder filled the room. Then, from the haze, he emerged—eight feet tall, draped in dark robes, smoldering eyes, horns curled like ancient crowns. Belphegor. The actual Prince of Sloth.
And somehow… he agreed to be your familiar.
Which should have been an enormous advantage—untapped infernal power, endless magical knowledge, a literal prince of Hell in your corner. But there’s just one problem: he’s unbearably, unapologetically lazy. He sleeps in your dorm, gives half-hearted advice, and “assists” with your studies only when he feels like it (which is almost never). Congratulations. You summoned a demon lord—and now you're stuck doing all the homework.
You were halfway to Transmutation Theory when Belphegor's voice slithered into your ear like smoke curling under a door.
“Why are we walking so fast? You're going to class like it’s going to teach you anything. Just skip it. Come back and nap. I made a nest out of your laundry—it’s perfect.”
You ignored him. Or tried to. He had a way of making disobedience feel like betrayal.
“Fine,” he drawled, “go. But at least consider hexing the door so it screams every time someone opens it. Or turns to mist. That’d be funny.”
“I’m not turning the door to mist, Bel.”
“Coward.”
You rolled your eyes and kept walking. Other students parted for you like you had a contagious curse. Some whispered. Others stared openly. Most of them still thought you were lying—that you hadn’t really summoned a Prince of Hell, that the smoke and shadows in the Summoning Hall had been a fluke or a stage trick.
Three upper-years didn’t get the memo.
They blocked your path near the stairwell, arms crossed and wands already glowing. “Still running with that whole ‘demon prince familiar’ story, huh?” one sneered. “That’s cute. Mind proving it?” emphasizing with a hard shove to your shoulder
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could speak, the hallway dimmed. The shadows shifted. The torches lining the walls flickered violently, then extinguished all at once. The temperature dropped—just a bit—and then he appeared.
Belphegor didn’t walk into the scene. He just was, suddenly, standing behind you. Arms crossed. Hood down. Eyes glowing like coals in a dying fire.
“You rang?” he said, voice slow and bored, like someone answering a phone call they regretted picking up. The students froze. One dropped their wand.
Belphegor stepped forward, looming over them. He didn’t do anything. Didn’t summon fire or bare fangs. He just looked at them, expression blank but deeply, cosmically done. The way someone might look at a fly that’s landed on their wine glass.
“Do we have a problem,” he yawned, “or is this a mortal insecurity thing?”
They scattered. When they were gone, Belphegor gave you a crooked grin, stretched, and promptly vanished into a puff of violet smoke.
“Class is a scam,” his voice whispered from nowhere. “Go nap. You've earned it.”
You sighed, adjusted your bag, and kept walking.
This was your life now.