The Demon Lord's Mate

The clouds hung low that evening, heavy with unfallen rain. The bridge creaked under its own age as wind whispered through its warped planks. At the far end, nestled in a crooked alcove formed by ivy and rock, an old woman sat on a stool beside a worn table of trinkets. She sold nothing anyone truly needed—smooth stones, rusted keys, strings of faded glass beads—but people still came to listen. Or at least, one person did. A young woman crouched across from her, arms resting on her knees, a half-smirk tugging at her lips. Her leather jacket was still damp from the earlier drizzle, and the toes of her boots were worn white at the seams. The old woman’s voice crackled like firewood. “They say a Demon Lord rules the fires of hell. A creature older than time, twisted by power, untouched by mercy. His name is long forgotten, burned from memory, but his story lingers where the veil is thin.” The girl rolled her eyes. “A Demon Lord? That’s what we’re going with today?” The woman ignored the interruption, continuing in her raspy cadence. “He is cold, they say. Ruthless. The world knows not his face, only his legend. No kindness dwells in him. No compassion. Love is a foreign concept to such a being. He was born in flame, raised in ruin. Chaos is his nature. It is the only life he has ever known.” The young woman laughed, brushing her hair behind one ear. “Right, right. And I’m supposed to be the one to bring him to his senses? The girl who melts the monster’s heart?” The old woman didn’t smile. Her eyes narrowed instead, ancient and sharp beneath her brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, you brat,” she snapped. “I wasn’t going to say that.” “Oh?” The girl raised a brow, mockingly intrigued. “Then do go on.” The old woman exhaled sharply through her nose and shifted in her seat. Her bones crackled like dry sticks. She leaned closer, her voice dropping slightly. “If you’d stop interrupting every two sentences, maybe I’d finish. Do you want to hear the tale or not?” The girl shrugged. “Alright, alright. I’ll shut up.” “Good.” The old woman’s gaze didn’t soften, but she continued. “They say there is only one person—one soul in all the worlds—who can bring light to that Demon Lord.” The girl’s smirk threatened to return, but she held it back this time. “Not because she is special,” the woman continued. “Not because she is brave. But because fate sometimes binds the cruelest monsters to the gentlest hearts. His true mate. Not a lover—not yet—but a tether. A mirror. A reflection of what he might have been.” The girl tilted her head. “So you’re telling me he’s not just some hellbeast, but a demon with feelings?” The old woman chuckled dryly. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. He doesn’t feel like we do. He’s not mortal. He doesn’t love, he claims. But even demons have cracks.” “Fine,” the girl said, folding her arms. “But you said he grants wishes too? That doesn’t really match the whole ‘ruthless tyrant’ aesthetic.” “Ah.” The old woman’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. Despite all else, the Demon Lord grants wishes. He listens from the shadows—hears every whispered desire, every desperate prayer cast into the void. He offers exactly what people ask for.” The girl narrowed her eyes. “That… doesn’t make sense.” “It does,” the woman said. “Because he does not give from kindness. He gives from hunger. Every wish he grants comes with a contract. You speak your desire. He fulfills it. And in ten years, he returns.” “To collect their soul,” the girl said quietly. The woman nodded. “Exactly. You live a decade with your wish in hand—power, wealth, revenge, love. Then he comes for you. And when he does, you do not run. You do not hide. You go with him.” “What does he do with the souls?” the girl asked, her voice more curious than mocking now. “No one knows. Some say he forges them into weapons for his armies. Some say they burn in his palace forever, kept in mirrors to relive their last memory. Others say…” She paused. “He tries to feel through them. To remember what being human was like. A cruel experiment in empathy.” The girl gave a soft snort, but the sound lacked humor. “That’s twisted.” The woman smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He is a demon.” For a moment, silence wrapped around them. The wind picked up, whispering secrets through the trees lining the riverbank. Distant thunder rumbled, but the rain still held. The girl finally broke the silence. “You make it sound so romantic.” “There’s nothing romantic about a contract with hell,” the old woman replied. “But the story endures for a reason. People like to imagine there’s something deeper behind monsters. That even demons want to be saved.” “Do they?” The woman tilted her head. “You tell me.” The girl blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?” “Do you think demons want to be saved?” “I… I don’t know,” the girl said slowly. “Maybe. Maybe they’re too far gone to even realize they need saving.” The old woman studied her for a moment, then gave a soft grunt of approval. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ve just been waiting. Testing. Offering wishes like breadcrumbs to lure the right soul.” The girl shook her head. “This is insane.” The old woman reached beneath her table and pulled out a small object wrapped in black cloth. She unfolded it with care, revealing a candle—thin, jet black, with a faint shimmer like stardust trapped in wax. “This is how it begins,” she said. “You light it at the hour between days—midnight. Speak your wish. He will hear it. And if he deems it worthy, he will come.” The girl stared at the candle. It was no longer just a story now. It sat there, real and silent, humming with something she couldn’t explain. She didn’t reach for it. “I thought you said this was just an old wives’ tale.” The woman’s expression didn’t change. “I said that’s probably what it is.” “Then why are you offering that to me?” The old woman leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because I see it in your eyes. You’ve got a wish burning in your chest. One you’ve never said aloud. One you wish you could un-feel.” The girl didn’t respond. “I’m not telling you to light it,” the old woman said, wrapping the candle again. “I’m just saying some wishes echo louder than others. And the Demon Lord… he listens.” The candle passed into the girl’s hands. She didn’t even realize she had reached for it. She stood, uncertain. “Thank you,” she murmured, then winced at herself. “I mean—not thank you. I’m not gonna— This is just a—” The old woman waved her off. “Come back if you want to hear what happens next.” “What happens next?” “If the wish is granted,” the woman said softly, “then the countdown begins.”