Hate by K.A Knight
My resting place is sealed with the strongest magic on Earth to protect us from those who mean us harm. A last defence while we slumber. I can’t break it, so I simply bypass it.
“Sire?” comes a trembling voice, as the servant flattens himself onto the cold, stone floor where our sleeping bodies are housed and protected beyond anything else in this world. He must have been the one tasked with watching us on this day, ensuring our bodies remained secured and our surroundings cleaned. He lowers his face, unable to look at me as I float through the cracks and fill the room like black smoke. I know what he will see—nothing but bright red eyes flaring in the dark. A nightmare beyond anything this world is accustomed to.
And I am awake again.
“Sire?” he whispers, undoubtedly feeling my malice. “Y-You are not to be awake for another two hundred years.”
“I am aware,” I reply, my voice floating around the room, making him shiver and compress himself further.
“Sire, would you like me to fetch Master Xaph?” he inquires with a whimper.
Of course it is that winged bastard who is awake and in charge right now, the only one of us whom I hate. Not that we care for each other, we are simply together due to power and position, but that goddamned angel and I have always butted heads. Probably due to what we are, it is ingrained into us to detest one another. He will not take this lightly, he will see this as a slight against his power.
I sigh at the discussions that are to come, aching to race into the world and locate the female whose call awoke me, but this must come first.
“Go,” I order, and he scrambles up, still bowed and not looking at me he goes to fetch the angel.
I reform myself as I wait, holding out my arms to watch as they fade from black mist to a corporeal body. Cracking my neck, I confirm I am all there, my golden and black armour in place—another thing the angel hates about me. He thinks gold should be his colour and red mine.
I walk across the floor on bare feet, passing the burial areas where the others are still sleeping, and settle into the throne. Throwing one leg over the golden arm, I lean back and wait, preparing myself for the imminent argument.
I wonder idly what year it is. I keep up to date for the most part with the knowledge funnelled to us, but the last time I was truly awake and in charge, the Romans were in power. They were quite amusing, so much anger. I did like the Vikings best though, easily feeding from their battles. So much hate and rage, not to mention blood. I almost shiver at the memory of how much power I syphoned from them.
The angel felt otherwise, and where I tried to start wars, he attempted to stop them. You see, the world can be nothing without balance, just as an angel sits on this throne, so do I.
A demon, one of war and pain. Not just any demon.
The demon.
Most supernaturals are created through their bloodlines and reproducing, but I wasn’t. I was simply here one day when this world was first created. Called by the need for balance. I have walked through the ages, seen it all, always alone. Constantly feared, the very ground burning under my feet, and the stories of my power spread and were repeated, sometimes in different names.
My favourite is that of the ruler of the underworld. Though the pictures of me were eerily close sometimes—my own fault, I find amusement in scaring the humans of this world.
I go by many names.
Lucifer.
El Diablo.
Hell Spawn.
Evil.
The Snake.
What will she call me?
