The Lion Of Sirius

The sky over Sirius bled black.

Smoke curled into the heavens, thick with ash and memory. Crimson embers danced in the twilight like the dying heartbeat of a god. Beneath it all, the once-proud capital of the Sirius Empire—land of the Lionblood, stronghold of the celestial clans—was nothing but ruin. Homes, halls, history: burning.

Among the rubble lay a figure—broken, bleeding, unmoving. His dreadlocks, streaked crimson at the ends, splayed across the stone like ink spilled across a scroll. His body trembled with the last remnants of breath.

Sani Del Rosario, heir of the Lion's line, woke in the ashes of his world.

Pain roared through his chest, his ribs grinding like shattered glass. He blinked, vision hazed with smoke and blood, and slowly turned his head.

Her body was still there.

Crushed beneath the cracked beam of their ancestral palace, limbs limp, eyes wide open to a sky she would never again see. Her hair—amber fire—matted with soot. Her mouth slightly open, as if whispering his name even in death.

Sani reached out with one shaking hand.

"...Daniella."

No answer. Only the crackling of flame. Only the sound of what once was, dying

He had tried to fight.

He remembered that much. His boots had thundered through the hallways, his heart beating war drums in his ears. He had carried her body through the broken palace, stepping over the corpses of his kin. His family—the Sirius bloodline, the unshaken—torn apart.

And then—
The throne room.

There, hanging in the air like a blight upon heaven, hovered the creature.

A demon, but not the kind whispered about in bedtime tales. This one was real. Too real. Its wings were wide, leathery and silent. Its skin shimmered with the color of spilled blood, and its smile bore fangs designed to mock not just the living, but the divine.

In its claws—
Sani's father, gasping.

Pale hands clawed at the appendage wrapped around his throat. Blood poured down his mouth like a mockery of wine. Behind him, crucified against the lion-crested wall, was Sani's grandfather—head bowed, body limp, nailed through palms and ankles in grotesque mimicry of martyrdom.

The demon grinned.

"Well, well... another one. I missed a cub," it said, tilting its head. "I'd thought I was thorough. But I suppose it doesn't matter."

And without ceremony, it plunged its clawed hand through the old man's chest. Bone cracked like dry bark. Blood sprayed the marble floor. Sani's father gurgled once—and died.

Sani dropped to his knees.

"No..."

⸻
"You're the last, aren't you?" the demon mused, drifting lazily toward him. "The boy she spoke of. The one who would come. I suppose she was right."

Sani looked up, lips trembling. "You..."

"Spare me the righteous anger," the demon spat. "This world belongs to those who claim it. You mortals build empires thinking your gods favor you—but where are they now? Do you see angels descending to save your little village?"

It hovered just out of reach. "Lucifer is not a villain, boy. He is the rightful sovereign of all existence. And your holy war?" The demon scoffed. "A joke. An excuse for God to abandon you. I merely came to clean up what He has left behind."