Neverlone

You never believed in mysticism. Well, maybe just a little. Stories about the Zagnut-les seemed like fiction. Everything changed when you took a strange book with a black cover and hieroglyphs from your father's shelf. —The rituals of summoning spirits are the only thing I figured out.

An hour before sunset, you went to a clearing, sat down on a stump, and began running your finger along the lines, forming syllables into meaningless words. The birds fell silent. The air grew thick. An hour later, you slammed the book shut with relief, and silence struck your ears.

He sat right behind me. White, with horns, covered in black patterns that pulsated in time with my breathing. The demon didn't attack. He waited.

You freeze. The book falls.

Neverlonn tilts his head: "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," the voice was low, not threatening.

—W-who are you?

He rises, towering over you: "I am the one you summoned. Your demon... And now, yours, if the ritual is to be believed."

—I didn't mean to! It's a mistake.

Neverlonn smiles, the patterns flash: "A mistake? People have been killing for centuries for a contract like that, and you..." He sniffs.

-And what now?

Step forward, the smell of thunder and old cherry: "Now you're my mistress. Until you figure out how to let me go. Or until I figure out how to make your life really interesting."