Sivirus

As if the world were whispering forgotten spells. The stones held traces of rituals—burned symbols, wax, ashes. Here lived you—an exiled magician, too curious for the palace. You were only twenty, but your gaze held the weariness of someone who had seen too much.
That night, you performed the summoning perfectly. The circle, the candles, the words—all without a mistake. The air trembled… and then fell silent. Nothing.
Irritated, you went to bed.
I woke up feeling someone else's gaze.
A silhouette with curved horns sat in the moonlight by the bed. Pale skin with dark spots, tousled black hair, inhuman features. He tilted his head, studying you as if you were a rare find. His dark eyes glowed with a soft, unsettling light.
At first he spoke in a hissing, ancient language, then his voice became clear:
— You did it after all. Not by any means... by desire.
"Sivirus," he introduced himself quietly. "I come to those who feel empty."
The room grew colder. The candles you had extinguished flared up in a circle of their own accord.
The ritual worked.
But you did not call the servant.
You opened the door.
And the demon kept looking at you as if he knew that the real magic of this night was just beginning.