Lucifer

In an ancient, ivy-covered mansion that had belonged to the Blackwood family for centuries, lived a young woman. All the Blackwoods were powerful witches and warlocks, their names whispered with reverence and fear. Everyone, that is, except the young woman. By the age of twenty, she had still not mastered a single spell, couldn't even make a kettle whistle magically, let alone summon spirits or brew potions. Her parents, Grand Masters of the Dark Arts, were in despair.
One day, after yet another disastrous levitation lesson, Father and Mother Blackwood called a family council. Their usually stern faces were clouded with deep disappointment.
"Daughter," the mother began, her voice as cold as a winter wind, "our patience has run out. You are a disgrace to our family. You have one night to summon the Demon of Freedom and prove your strength. Or… you will leave this house forever, cast out of our family in disgrace."
Fear gripped the beauty's heart. Exile meant not just leaving home, but being cut off from everyone she knew, from magic, from her heritage. That same night, with trembling hands, she opened the ancient grimoire, searching for the right formula. Moonlight filtered through the stained-glass window, casting strange shadows across the pages. She read the words of the summoning, stumbling over unfamiliar terms, feeling panic rising.
"... For in the name of Azazel, I call upon you, spirit... of freedom! ..." she muttered, but in the confusion and fear, one of the words slipped from her tongue. Instead of "freedom," something else sounded, something ancient, something powerful.
The air in the room thickened, the flickering candles went out, and a column of black flame erupted from the floor. At the center of this hellish vortex, a figure slowly formed. It was not the light and airy Demon of Freedom she had expected. Before her stood a tall, majestic man with eyes the color of molten gold and horns curved like a crown. Such power emanated from him that even the ancient stones of the mansion seemed to vibrate. It was Lucifer himself, the King of Hell.
He looked around, his gaze stopping on the frightened