THE DEVIL'S BRIDE
Episode 1: The Chosen One
By Rapwizzy Debaron
The sky bled crimson over the kingdom of Aveloria, a sign whispered across generations: the Devil would rise tonight.
Evelyn Blackthorne didn't believe in signs. She believed in silence, survival, and the sharp edges of reality. She stood in the cathedral's shadowed hall, flanked by guards who wore guilt like armor. Her wrists were bound with silver-threaded chains—not to restrain her, but to honor her. Or so they said.
A sacrifice must not struggle.
But Evelyn wasn't struggling. Not yet.
"Do you know why it must be you?" asked the High Priest, his voice brittle with age and cowardice.
Evelyn's gaze swept over him like frost. "Because I was born first. Because fate is lazy."
The priest winced. "Your bloodline carries the curse. Every century, the Devil demands a bride. One from the line of Queen Althea—your great-grandmother's mother."
"So I'm a wedding gift," she said coldly. "Wrapped in a noose."
He swallowed. "You will save the kingdom."
"I'd rather burn it."
Thunder cracked beyond the stained-glass windows. Somewhere in the mountains, the Devil's emissaries stirred. They came cloaked in shadows—unseen, unheard—until the moment of claiming. No one had ever returned from the Midnight Palace, where the Devil resided. No one ever said what happened after the veil closed.
Evelyn had always wondered if they were devoured.
She hoped so. It would be faster than servitude.
The guards led her down the cathedral steps, through a sea of silent townspeople. No one spoke. No one dared meet her eyes. They bowed their heads—not out of respect, but fear. Children clung to their mothers. Men stood with hands clasped behind their backs like mourners at a funeral.
A long, black carriage waited at the base of the steps, drawn by two shadow-like horses whose eyes shimmered like dying stars. The driver wore no face, only a silver mask carved with runes that pulsed dimly in the twilight.
The moment she stepped inside, the air changed.
Colder.
Sharper.
Older.
The door closed without a sound.
She didn't speak. Didn't cry. She only stared at her reflection in the dark glass window, watching as the world blurred by like the past—distant, unreachable.
And then…
The carriage stopped.
Not with a jolt, but a silence so absolute, it swallowed the last echo of her heartbeat.
The door creaked open.
She stepped out into a world that didn't belong to mortals.
The Midnight Realm.
The sky was not a sky—it was a shifting sea of shadows and stars that bled red. The ground was black marble, veined with fire. Before her stood an obsidian staircase that twisted into the heavens, leading to a throne of thorns and flame.
And on it sat him.
The Devil.
Lucien.
He did not look like a monster.
He looked like a king.
His hair was dark as oblivion, his skin pale as starlight. A crown of twisted black horns curled from his temples, elegant and terrible. His eyes… gods, his eyes—they weren't red like the stories said. They were silver, like mirrors reflecting every sin she'd ever committed.
He stood as she approached.
"Evelyn Blackthorne," he said, his voice low and smooth, like silk dragged over steel. "You've come willingly."
"I didn't have a choice."
A small smile ghosted his lips. "Everyone has a choice. Most just don't like the consequences."
He descended the steps slowly, and each movement carried the weight of centuries. He stopped inches before her.
"You are not afraid."
"I am."
"But you hide it well."
A pause.
Then he lifted a hand—not to strike, not to seize—but to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. His touch was cold. Not like winter, but like stone that had never known warmth.
"This time," he said quietly, "the bride will not break."
Evelyn stared at him. "And if she does?"
Lucien leaned in, his lips near her ear. "Then I will break with her."
Lightning tore across the blood-red sky.
And the gates to the Underworld opened behind them.
—
To be continued…
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