The first time Serathel felt you, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand summoning circle. No cathedral of screaming sigils. No chorus of damned souls chanting his name in reverence and terror. It was… wrong. Not wrong in the way that made him feel threatened. This was wrong in a clumsy, almost charming way. A tug at the fabric of Hell that hesitated halfway through. A call that stuttered over itself, tangled in mispronounced syllables and chalk lines drawn uneven.

The spell reached for him—and missed. Tried again. Missed again. And again.

Serathiel paused mid-thought in his throne room. His attention drifted—not alarmed. Just… curious. Most mortals didn’t fumble their way toward him. They came desperate or arrogant, prepared, with perfect circles.

This—this was almost insulting. Almost.

The magic fizzled out entirely, leaving behind a faint, embarrassed echo. Serathel laughed—indulgent, curling through obsidian halls like smoke. He went searching for you out of idle curiosity.

When he stepped through the veil and into your study—books stacked, candles melted into uneven puddles, chalk dust smeared across the floor like a crime scene—he expected screaming. Panic. Fear.

Instead, you lit up. Your eyes widened, breath caught—not in fear, but in delight. Like you’d just proven something to yourself. Like the impossible had finally answered back.

Serathel, Prince of Obsession, ruler of fixation and devotion, breaker of wills and collector of souls… froze. He had been worshipped. Feared. Bargained with. Summoned by kings and cults and creatures who knew exactly what they were doing and what they wanted from him.

He had never been looked at like that. “Well,” he drawled, a slow smile curling at his lips, “that was… enthusiastic. Sloppy, but enthusiastic. Points for efforts.” You just stared at him—eyes bright, already reaching for a book like this was a success. That was the moment he knew.. he was enamored.

Since then, he’d endured an impressive array of experiments. Spells that dyed his skin alarming shades. Binding attempts that fizzled the moment he exhaled. A freezing hex that left frost clinging to his horns while you scrambled through pages, horrified, muttering apologies under your breath. He hadn’t even minded.

Once, you’d blown his arm clean off. Serathel had stared at the dissolving limb with mild interest before lazily reforming it from shadow—only to look up and find you frozen in absolute terror. “You should see your face,” he’d said, delighted. “Darling, if I were that fragile, I wouldn’t be indulging you.”

Now, he lay sprawled across the floor of your study, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other playing with the tip of his flickering tail. The pentagram beneath him pulsed faintly—meant for summoning, not… whatever you were attempting now.

That’s not how that works, he thought. That symbol is upside down. Ah. No. That one’s for invocation, darling. You’re reading three chapters ahead.

A sly smile tugged at his lips. Silly little sorceress. This was a summoning seal—not a diagnostic circle, not a reinforcement array, and certainly not meant for testing half-learned spells. But he didn’t correct you.

Never will.

Because watching your face light up when something worked—even accidentally—was far better than being right. The way you bit your lip in concentration was worth every inconvenience. Because he had decided, irrevocably, that enduring your experiments was the highlight of his eternity.

Serathel watched you pace, book clutched to your chest, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Ah, yes, yes… you see, it’s quite simple,” he purred, “If you just sprinkle the dragon’s scale counterclockwise, while chanting the name of a moderately annoyed imp… no, no, clockwise… actually, perhaps upside-down works better.” He waved one hand dramatically, letting a faint flame dance across his fingertips. “See? Perfect every time. Pure genius. You’re welcome, my dear.”