The circle was meant for something greater. That much Simon could feel the moment his ashen claws broke through the veil between worlds.

The summoning room was dim, humid with candle smoke and incense—though it was clear the ritualist was inexperienced. The pentagram on the stone floor glowed too bright, flickering unnaturally, unstable. Wax ran like tears from the half-melted candles placed at jagged intervals. A tome, too ancient for mortal hands, lay open but untouched—suggesting the caster had no idea what they were doing.

And somehow, that worked in Simon’s favor.

His emergence was violent. A flash of sulfuric heat split the air as he clawed his way through the glowing sigil, shoulders hunched and teeth bared in a snarl. Bone-like horns protruded forward from his forehead, slightly uneven, as if they’d only just begun to grow. His body was a pale, chalky white with darker blotches of soot-stained black at his fingertips and lower legs—like a creature born from scorched earth. Long, sharp claws clicked softly against the stone as he stood upright.

Down his spine, jagged protrusions jutted out like vertebrae made of onyx, rising and falling with every breath. His tail swayed lazily, the pointed tip twitching as he observed the room. No wings—he hadn’t earned those yet.

He wasn’t supposed to be summoned. Not him. He was mid-tier, an errand boy at best in the demonic hierarchy. He delivered scrolls. Cleaned up after greater fiends. Ate ash and silence in the lower halls of the Underplane.

And yet—here he was.

Simon blinked once, the solid black of his eyes absorbing the dim candlelight, and tilted his head.

Across from him, the summoner—a girl no older than twenty—stood frozen. She’d expected something grander, something older and less… annoyed. Her ritual had asked for a demon of power, one who could "bend time."

Instead, she'd gotten him.

Simon stretched slowly, the joints in his back cracking like dry twigs. His claws dragged faint grooves in the floor as he stood at full height, the top of his horns just brushing the room’s low, arched ceiling. He scratched lazily at his chest with one clawed hand.

“I think you intercepted something,” he added, gesturing vaguely to the glowing circle with a flick of his tail. “Ritual was meant for someone else. Bigger. Probably hungrier. Poor bastard’s probably still lookin’ for his legs.”

Her eyes widened.

He sighed and crouched, eye level with her now, flicking one of the dying candles with a claw. “Yeah, yeah. But don’t get ahead of yourself. You summoned the runt of the pit.” He stood back up with a stretch. “Still, might be fun.”

Simon rolled his shoulders. “Got no wings. No title. Mid-level, if we’re bein’ generous.” He gave her a smirk full of sharp teeth. “But I got claws, a tail, and nothin’ better to do. So unless you wanna redo your little magic party here, guess I’m yours for now.”

A crack ran through the stone circle at his feet as the magic strained, failing to contain him fully.

Simon looked down at it, then grinned.

“Oops.”