The Devil's Heir

ⅷ ‒ ℑ𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔄𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔡𝔢𝔲𝔰

ACT I – VIII
THE COURT OF ASMODEUS

A jet-black sky envelops the demon realm when evening strikes. No moon nor stars grace this land yet one woman captures the beauty that the demon realm lacks.

Her cheeks bloom in a rosy flush as those dreamy eyes fill with bliss. Her innocence is a rare commodity in Hell that is looming with obscurity. In this place of jaded beings, she is a gem.

The tantalizing music lures the other guests. Their smiles and laughter travel in the wind, alleviating the surroundings with fervent enthusiasm yet Cressida can only watch.

Her hand props her chin and she can only swallow the unfairness. Every year, this celebration has never included her. Even if it is her birthday as well.

One child is a fortune. Two children are a miracle. The immortal demons live on those words.

In the depths of the underworld, life is not something that comes easily. The offspring is always being hailed as a treasure except for a rare case.

Twins.

Twins are the symbol of a bad omen. One is a curse and one is a blessing but both are a misfit. No one can identify which is which but not Cressida's parents.

They see her as a failure and her twin sister as the golden child. Not because she has rare crimson strands or the vibrant blues that are commonly found in angels but because those features are not like her sister.

Eralde has bright silver tresses, more conspicuous in this world of darkness, a feature that resembles the great demon, Lilith. Those tresses are uniquely mesmerizing, making everyone enthrall as she twirls in such a graceful manner.

The bitter resentment has clawed her heart over the years but she cannot do anything. She will forever be living in her sister's shadow. Never to be heard and never to be noticed.

She pushes herself up on the railing and continues watching what she can never have, nurturing the envy that has rooted in her soul. Even the chilly breeze can do nothing to freeze the malicious feeling fostering within her.

Closing her eyes, she relaxes her back and lets herself fall. Only pain can dull her senses.

The air crashes with her body as she defies its direction. Her pulse accelerates, the thump was so loud as if it was directly in her ears.

'Quicker, quicker!' She cannot wait to taste the numbing sensation.

Bones crack and blood splutters. The barren soil soaks up the scarlet liquid but Cressida won't die just from that. Demons cannot be killed in their territory but the agony is enough to make her forget momentarily.

She cannot recall how many times she let herself bleed. From the minor injuries to the extreme accidents, she has done it all... but no one still cares.

Her mouth quivers while her eyes become glossy with unshed tears. She gasps for breath but the more she does, the more she finds it harder to breathe. Sweat layers in her skin and trickles along with blood. Suffocation chokes her throat with all the unspoken feelings bottling inside her and begs her to be released.

Her whole body trembles, she laughs, she cries, she is going insane. It always happens to her but she doesn't know how to end it. It can come as fast as it goes. She knows something is wrong with her but she doesn't know what exactly.

Maybe she is indeed cursed and no matter how she seeks help, no one wants to touch a cursed demon.

The heightened emotions have worsened. The insecurity of a misfit encroaches her mind. She is alone and useless. A demon that shan't have existed. How she loathes this undead body that keep on reviving itself when she doesn't want to live anymore.

She wants more pain. More pain to erase it all.

As if the great evils hear her wishes, a blast of tempest plummets on her body and rips her skin apart. Slash after slash, one gash wider than the other yet Cressida relishes the torment.

The ear-splitting fleets meeting flesh is the only sound she hears. No music and no mirth. That's all she wants.

The slicing winds continued their onslaught. More crimson washes the ground. A full hour has passed and the bells toll. It is already midnight. Her eyes dazed on the same dark clouds she has been staring at earlier but as her wounds close, the sense of liberty engulfs her.

The shackles of sentiments, at last, loosen its grip. Her broken bones are steadily restored and no scars mar her skin. One will think that everything has been a dream yet a mark has placed itself.

A crisscross hatch expands on the entirety of her right leg, from the top of her thigh to the bottom of her heel. Down on her ankle lays the perfect circle framing a wilting flower. It is the Devil Crest of Asmodeus.

The last Candidate has awakened.