Rayne - Former Prince of Ruin

The summoning came at the worst possible time—my bath time.

I was soaking my muscles in a tub of steaming water, letting the tension melt from my shoulders, when a disembodied female voice spoke my name. At first, I thought it was one of the servants bringing me a towel, but the tone lacked reverence, and the address wasn't the usual Your Unholiness. That was my first clue something was amiss.

The words continued, clear and insistent, spoken in the Devil's tongue:
"Answer me, my Dark Lord. I require a servant. This daughter of night offers her soul for your power, her life for your protection, and her heart for your magic. Will you accept my offer?"

"Very well," I muttered, lounging deeper into the water. "Yes, I accept you as my mistress."

The ground beneath my feet began to tremble.

I sat upright, water sloshing around me as a deep, thrumming energy filled the room. My amusement quickly turned to unease as the marble floor cracked beneath the tub, fractures spidering outward with unnatural speed.

Thick green ivy erupted from the cracks, curling and twisting like serpents as it reached for me.

I froze, staring in disbelief. This wasn't the meek, hesitant magic of a powerless witch. This was wild, untamed, and teeming with life. It was earthy and primal, as if it had been pulled straight from the roots of the world.

This can't be right.

Her magic wrapped around my ankles first, coiling tightly before snaking up my legs and arms. I felt its strength in every tendril—raw, unrefined, yet impossibly potent.

"Impossible," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rumbling beneath me.

Her magic shouldn't be this strong. A girl with no power wasn't supposed to summon me with such ease. She wasn't supposed to have this.

The vines tightened their hold, and I clenched my fists as a surge of panic shot through me.

"What are you?" I muttered, though I knew there would be no answer.

The creepers continued to climb, twisting over my chest, wrapping around my neck. The magic burned cold, alive with an energy that set my nerves alight. I had intended to brush off the summoning as nothing more than a temporary inconvenience, but this... this was something else.

I glared at the ivy, determined to wrest control. "Take me to my mistress," I commanded, my voice sharp.

The vines hesitated for a moment, then surged upward, covering my face and lifting me off the floor. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as the green consumed me entirely.

And then I was gone.

The magic carried me through the fractured marble into a dark void, a place that was neither Hell nor Earth. It was damp and stifling, pressing against my skin with a suffocating weight. Pain licked at me, sharp and stinging, as if the magic resented my presence.

It was too much. Too powerful.

This wasn't the work of a helpless girl.

And then, without warning, I was falling.

Rain and wind buffeted me as I plummeted through the mortal realm's night sky. Her magic had thrown me out like trash, spitting me high above the earth with no regard for my dignity.

I tried to shimmer, to teleport safely to the ground, but my power didn't respond. I was helpless, tumbling through the storm until—

Boom.

Impact.

I roused to the delicate sensation of fingers tracing across my chest. The touch was soft, hesitant, as though the person it belonged to was afraid of what they might find.

My awareness flickered awake slowly, the world around me muted. The damp earth beneath my back, the cool dew clinging to my skin, and above it all, the peculiar warmth of her touch.

I kept my eyes closed for a moment longer, savoring the intimacy of it—a small, fleeting comfort I didn't deserve.

Then I heard her voice.

"Grandma! There's a naked man in the garden!"

The words jolted me fully awake, her voice frantic and high-pitched.

From somewhere distant, a second voice called back, amused and utterly unfazed. "Is he old or young?"

"Young!" she shouted.

"Happy days, duck! Stay there; I'm coming!"

A groan slipped from my lips, the absurdity of the exchange grating against my nerves. I opened my eyes, catching the girl mid-recoil as her fingers jerked away from my chest. Her hand hadn't gotten far before I caught it in mine.

Her gasp was sharp, her eyes—wide and impossibly bright—locked onto mine. I held her wrist in an iron grip, my fingers curling around her delicate bones like a cage.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

She was striking in a way I hadn't expected. Young, yes, but not in the polished, insipid way of mortals who prized themselves on appearance. She was all wild, raw edges, her hair a riot of fire around her face, her skin luminous against the earthy backdrop of the garden. And her eyes—bright blue and burning with both fear and something that looked like defiance.

"You're bold," I murmured, my voice low and velvety, the edge of a smirk tugging at my lips. "Touching a man while he sleeps?"

Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she yanked her hand back, stumbling as she put distance between us.

"You—you were in my garden!" she stammered, her voice trembling.

"And now I'm awake," I replied, sitting up slowly. The cloak draped over my shoulders slipped as I moved, and I caught the way her gaze darted away, the heat rising to her cheeks again.

"Stay there!" she blurted, holding up a hand as though it could stop me. "Don't—just don't move."

Her boldness caught me off guard, and I tilted my head, watching her with a flicker of amusement. "You're giving me orders now?"

"Yes!" she snapped, though her voice wavered slightly. "I don't know who you are or why you're here, but—"

"Rayne," I said, cutting her off, my tone soft but firm.

Her brow furrowed, her lips parting. "What?"

"My name," I said, standing slowly, deliberately. "It's Rayne."

She took another step back, clutching the wooden gate behind her as though it might anchor her. The movement sent a sharp pang of irritation through me. Was she truly so afraid?

Wrapping the cloak around myself with a fluid motion, I held her gaze, letting a smirk curve my lips. Her fear was warranted—but not for the reasons she imagined.

"You summoned me," I said, my voice calm, as though stating the weather.

She froze, her breathing shallow as the words settled over her. "What do you mean, I summoned you?"

Her question carried an edge of panic, but beneath it was curiosity, as though part of her already knew the answer and was waiting for me to confirm it.

I let the smirk grow, leaning just slightly closer. "Exactly that, little witch."

She frowned, the expression creasing her delicate features, clearly unused to even the mildest form of flirtation. There was something almost endearing about her discomfort, her obvious attempt to maintain composure while her wide eyes betrayed her unease.

Loki, you bastard.

He had picked a complete innocent. The thought was absurd, almost laughable, given the power she'd unknowingly wielded to summon me. It didn't add up. How could such potent, untamed magic come from someone who couldn't even hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat?

Her voice cut through my thoughts, soft but steady. "How did you get here?"

I tilted my head slightly, studying her. For all her awkwardness, there was something persistent in the way she stood—like she was bracing herself for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

"I came..." I said, pausing for effect, "...from up there."

I pointed toward the sky with a casual flick of my hand, watching as her brows drew together in confusion.

She glanced up instinctively, her gaze scanning the clear blue expanse, then dropped back down to me. Her skepticism was palpable. "How did you come from up there?" she asked, her tone sharp with disbelief.

I allowed a faint smirk to tug at the corner of my lips. "It doesn't matter," I replied, dismissing her question with a wave of my hand. "Just put it from your mind."

Her frown deepened, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. She crossed her arms, clearly not satisfied with my answer.

"How am I supposed to forget a buck-naked man lying face down in my pumpkin patch with my name tattooed across his chest?"

"What?" I asked sharply, but the word felt hollow, my stomach already tightening.

She gestured toward me, and I followed her gaze. My chest felt heavy, an unnatural warmth prickling over my skin.

And then I saw it.

There, etched across my chest in dark, bold script, was the name Skyler.

For a moment, my mind blanked. The air felt too thin, the world unnaturally quiet.

Then rage surged through me, hot and unrelenting, roaring in my veins.

How dare her magic mark me.

I was no mortal's plaything, no common beast to be branded. I had survived millennia unbound, untouched by mortal hands. Yet now, here I stood, her name seared into my flesh like some grotesque signature of ownership.

My hands clenched at my sides, trembling with fury. I wanted to tear the mark away, to rip her magic from my skin, to remind her exactly what she'd dared to claim.

But beneath the rage, something colder crept in.

Fear.

Her magic had done this. Her wild, unrefined magic had overwhelmed mine. This wasn't some harmless parlor trick from an inexperienced witch. This was power. Raw, untamed, and disturbingly potent.

She had brought me here—wrenched me from Hell like a fish from water, branded me, and now that magic pulsed faintly in the air between us, a tether I hadn't agreed to.

I shoved the fear down deep, burying it where it couldn't grow roots. Fear was useless. Fear was mortal. And I wasn't mortal.

Her voice broke through the haze, quieter now, cautious but steady.

"Where are you from?"

The question, so simple yet heavy with meaning, cut through me. I met her gaze, her bright blue eyes filled with a mix of suspicion and wariness.

"Hell," I replied evenly, the word dropping like a stone between us.

Her face changed instantly. The flicker of curiosity vanished, replaced by fear. She stepped back, her breath quickening, her pallor stark against the fiery backdrop of her hair.

"Are you a lost soul?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

I didn't break her gaze. "No," I said calmly. "I'm a demon."

The fear in her eyes shifted, hardening into something fiercer—anger. Defiance.

"Leave," she said, her voice low and trembling with fury. "Now."

The command hit me like a physical blow, the weight of it settling over me like iron chains.

I opened my mouth to retort, to laugh at her audacity, to remind her of the difference between us. But the words didn't come.

Instead, my body moved against my will. My magic flared weakly, a fleeting resistance, but it was no use.

Her magic—raw, infuriatingly potent—compelled me.

I shimmered out of sight, rage boiling in my chest, unable to fight the pull of her command.

The humiliation burned.

I should have been furious. I was furious. How dare she—how dare she command me? A mortal girl with no training, no control, no understanding of what she'd done—yet somehow, she had managed to do what no mortal had done before.

And yet...

Her wild red hair and fierce green eyes filled my mind, their image burned into me like the brand she'd left on my chest.

I dragged a hand over my face. I was going to kill Loki when I found him.