The Demon Lord's Mate

The Black Candle

It had been five years since Ali had gotten the black candle from that strange old woman on the bridge. Five years since she’d walked home with it in her pocket, feeling its weight against her leg with every step. She’d thought, at the time, she might light it that very night. Or maybe the next. Or the one after that. But she never did.

Instead, the candle sat on the top shelf of her small wardrobe, wrapped in the same black cloth it came in, untouched. She told herself she’d forgotten about it, that she didn’t believe in it anyway. But she never moved it, never threw it away. Sometimes she caught herself glancing at the shelf without meaning to.

Her life since then had been anything but perfect. In truth, it had gotten worse.

Her family lived in a cramped apartment two train stops away. She still visited every week, and each time, it was the same. Her mother would greet her not with warmth, but with demands. Her father rarely looked at her unless it was to ask for money. Her younger brother, twenty and perfectly capable of working, sat in the living room glued to his phone, only speaking when he wanted something.

Ali was the breadwinner—had been for years. Her family was far from wealthy, and she knew if she didn’t send them money each month, they’d sink even further. Rent, utilities, food—it all fell to her. And no matter how much she gave, it was never enough.

When she couldn’t hand over as much as they wanted, the verbal abuse started. Sometimes it was worse than words. A shove when she refused to argue. A slap across the face when her father was drunk enough.

It was the same at work. She was employed as an assistant at a shipping office—a job she’d only taken because it paid slightly better than retail. The pay wasn’t worth it. The hours were brutal, her boss barked at her like she was a child, and her male coworkers made jokes at her expense when they thought she couldn’t hear. One of them had cornered her in the break room once, pressing too close until she shoved him away hard enough to spill coffee down his shirt.

She’d gone home that night with bruises on her arm where he’d grabbed her. She’d wanted to scream. She’d wanted to take the candle down from the shelf, unwrap it, and strike a match. But she didn’t.

For five years, she didn’t.

Not the night she came home with blood on her lip after her father hit her. Not the week she had to choose between paying her own electricity bill or sending enough money so her family wouldn’t “go hungry.” Not the day she found her rent overdue because her mother had “borrowed” from her account without asking.

She endured it all. The candle remained untouched.

It was late one night in early autumn when she came home exhausted from work. The office had been chaos all day—a shipment gone missing, paperwork scattered, her boss snapping at her as though she were the one who lost it. The train ride home had been standing-room only, and by the time she reached her apartment, her feet ached so badly she barely managed to take her shoes off.

She dropped her bag on the couch, her jacket slipping halfway to the floor before she left it there. The small living room was dark except for the weak orange glow from the streetlight outside.

Ali trudged into her bedroom and froze.

The wardrobe door was open.

She didn’t remember leaving it that way.

She stepped closer, her exhaustion briefly forgotten. The black candle sat exactly where it had always been, wrapped in its cloth. But the cloth looked… looser. As though it had been touched.

Her heart gave a single hard thud.

She shut the wardrobe, telling herself it was nothing. She hadn’t wrapped it as tightly as she remembered, that was all.

But that night, she dreamed of shadows in the corner of her room. Not moving. Not breathing. Just watching.

The days blurred after that. Work. Family. Sleep. Repeat.

And then came the Sunday that nearly broke her.

She had just gotten paid on Friday, and after rent and bills, she’d barely had enough left for groceries. But her mother called in the morning, voice sharp and insistent.

“You didn’t send enough this month,” she said.

“I sent everything I could,” Ali replied, still half-asleep.

“Then get more. You think we can survive on scraps? Your brother needs new clothes. We’re out of rice. And your father—”

“I can’t,” Ali interrupted. “I don’t have anything left. I’m sorry.”

The silence on the other end was heavy and dangerous.

Her mother’s voice dropped into that cold, deliberate tone she hated. “You ungrateful child. After everything we’ve done for you—”

The words didn’t stop. They cut and cut, until Ali hung up mid-sentence.

The guilt came immediately. It always did.

She sat at the kitchen table for an hour, staring at the wall, trying to figure out how to make more money before the end of the month. Every option felt impossible.

By evening, she had given up trying to eat. She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

Her eyes drifted to the wardrobe.

She told herself she was just thinking. Just wondering. She wasn’t going to touch it.

But her legs moved anyway.

She opened the wardrobe.

The candle sat there in its black cloth, small and harmless.

Her fingers hovered over it. She didn’t pick it up. She didn’t even unwrap it.

But for the first time in five years, she thought about what she might say if she did.

What her wish would be.

What price she’d be willing to pay.

She shut the wardrobe and walked away.

Two nights later, she came home from work limping. Her boss had sent her to carry a heavy crate down to the storeroom—a job that should have been for one of the warehouse workers. The crate slipped halfway down the stairs, and though she caught herself, her knee had twisted badly.

She hobbled through her apartment door, nearly tripping over her own shoes in the dark.

The wardrobe was open again.

This time, the black candle wasn’t on the shelf.

It sat on her nightstand.

Unwrapped.

Her mouth went dry. She reached for it slowly, half-expecting it to vanish under her touch.

It was warm.

Ali set it back down as though it had burned her and stepped away.

She didn’t sleep that night.

In the days that followed, she began to notice other things.

The shadows in her apartment seemed to fall differently, gathering in corners where no light reached. Sometimes she swore she saw movement in them, the faint ripple of something shifting out of sight.

When she passed mirrors, she thought she saw another figure standing just over her shoulder—tall, draped in black, unmoving. Always gone when she turned.

At work, her coworkers seemed to grow quieter when she entered the room, glancing at her like they knew something. Once, when she looked up from her desk, her boss was staring at her from the doorway—not in anger, but with something almost like caution.

The family phone calls didn’t stop, but her mother’s voice had an edge of hesitation now, as if speaking too sharply might provoke something neither of them could name.

And always, the candle stayed on her nightstand. She didn’t move it back.

One Friday evening, she came home late. The train had been delayed, the station packed, and she’d been jostled enough times to feel bruises forming on her arms.

When she entered her bedroom, the candle’s wick was blackened.

She hadn’t lit it.

Her hands shook as she reached for it. The wax was still faintly warm.

She set it back down and whispered into the empty room. “What do you want from me?”

The answer came not in sound, but in the sudden stillness of the air, the faint scent of something burning that vanished as quickly as it came.

She told herself she was imagining it. That there was no one there.

But that night, she dreamed again—of a tall figure with burning eyes standing at the foot of her bed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

And yet, somehow, she knew he was waiting.

Five years she had resisted. Five years she had endured every cruelty life threw at her.

But the candle was no longer just an object.

It was an invitation.