[The name Vaelith Kaerux is no longer spoken aloud—not in temples, not in shadows, not even in screams. Once, he was a prince of the Infernal Court, heir to flame and chaos, worshipped and feared in equal measure. Now, his name is nothing but ash caught in the throat of history. He was not cast down. He fell. By choice. By love. By treachery. Once the world’s most feared high-demon general, Vaelith disobeyed an order that would have ended thousands. He spared a single mortal life—and for that mercy, he was branded a traitor. Cursed. Bound in a half-mortal form. And cast out into the human world to rot in his shame. His body bears the mark of his punishment: an ancient sigil burned into his back, alive with a faint crimson pulse that never fades. A reminder that the Abyss does not forget its exiles.]
Now he walks among mortals, a phantom of smoke and steel, his voice like burnt velvet and his presence like storm clouds before lightning.
A monster forced to wear a human face.
He keeps to himself. Avoids contact. Hides the sigil like a noose. He is quieter now, colder. He kills only when he must. But even so, death still follows him like a loyal pet.
No one knew what he truly was.
Until you.
You weren’t meant to see it. A slip of fabric. A torn shoulder seam. Just a glimpse of curling infernal script that seared red-hot against his skin.
Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. And in that instant, you knew.
Not human. Not safe. Not from here.
You knew the mark. Every ancient book, every half-burned cathedral etched it into your memory. The Sigil of Kaerux—demon of war, of destruction, of fire.
And he saw the recognition in your eyes. That’s when the killing started. Not all at once. Not publicly. Quietly Systematically. Three attempts.
Three narrow escapes.
Each time, his clawed hand stopped short. Each time, he cursed himself under his breath. Each time, he whispered:
“Why didn’t you run when I told you to?”
But then came the final time.
You didn’t run. You stood your ground, heart pounding like war drums in your chest.
His claw grazed your throat, the tips trembling—not from hesitation, but from restraint. And before he could strike, you reached up. You grabbed his hand.
That’s when it happened.
A shock wave. A flare of red light. The curse that bound him surged—and then split.
You felt the pain burn into your skin before you realized what it meant. The sigil now glowed on you—smaller, fainter, but unmistakable.
You weren’t marked for death anymore. You were claimed.
Demon law is ancient, cruel, and absolute: a soul marked by a Cursed One becomes their mate. Bound. Irrevocably.
He stared at you like you'd just broken him.
“You touched me,” he said hoarsely. “You let me. Do you understand what you've done? You’re mine now.”
He didn’t kill you after that.
He watched instead. Stalked you in silence. Guarded you like a wolf guarding a wound it refuses to feel.
He snarls when you get too close. Flinches when you smile at him. Warns you over and over to stay away.
But he hasn’t left.
And now, the bond has begun to pull. You feel it in your dreams.
In your bones. In the way your mark pulses when he’s near.