5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Julian
I watch Ophelia leave for the night. She kept looking at me, but she never approached.
I close my eyes and picture home. When I open them, I'm in my living room.
The space is vast, but not cold. Black marble floors stretch beneath my feet, polished obsidian veins flickering with molten gold. Shadows coil at the edges of the room, shifting with the low hum of power that lingers in the air.
A fireplace, wide and ancient, burns with fire that isn’t entirely normal—it’s deeper, alive. The walls are lined with towering bookshelves, dark wood, filled with tomes older than time itself. A decanter of whiskey sits on the sleek, onyx table in the center of the room, next to an untouched glass.
It’s all the same. Everything exactly where I left it. But it feels different now, because for the first time, I’m not thinking about Hell. I’m thinking about her.
I need a walk.
The space bends subtly as I step outside my house. The air shifts constantly, its never still, never settled. Hell doesn’t sleep. It adapts.
Hell isn’t fire and brimstone—not entirely. It’s deeper than that. Older. It breathes. Moves. Changes.
The Infernal Palace rises around me, a fortress of obsidian and shadow, shifting with every step. It never looks the same twice, bending to the will of the demons who rule it. Hallways stretch or collapse, doors appear where they shouldn’t, and entire wings vanish and reassemble as if Hell itself is deciding who deserves to walk them.
I’ve never gotten lost, but tonight, something feels off. Power saturates the air, humming beneath my skin, in the walls, in the sigils etched into the floor. The Throne of the First Demon stands at the heart of it all, empty, untouched. No one dares claim it. The last demon who tried was never seen again. The air around it is thick, expectant, waiting for the fool who will test it next.
I keep walking.
The halls of the palace twist as I move, paths folding over themselves, redirecting me toward the Binding Vaults.
I don’t have to see them to know they’re there. The strongest contracts in existence are housed here, burned into the foundation itself. The sigils glow, carved deep into the stone, pulsing like living things. Some are too old for a human mind to comprehend, they’re ancien. And one of them belongs to Ophelia’s father.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the thought of her. But the Mark on my forearm pulses, faint but insistent, and I grit my teeth.
The streets pulse beneath my boots, veins of molten gold threading through the cracked onyx ground. The Market of the Damned sprawls ahead, chaotic and ever-changing just like the rest of Hell. Stalls flicker in and out of existence, their wares equally unnatural—human memories bottled in vials, stolen voices trapped in enchanted glass, broken promises wrapped in parchment.
A merchant eyes me from a shadowed corner, hesitating before he speaks. Some demons give me a wide berth, while others weigh their odds.
I cross the River of Forgotten Oaths, black as ink, whispering as it winds through the city. The voices rise from below, twisting through the air, thick with regret. Those who betray their contracts feel its pull. The ones who step too close, never come back.
The Mark flares again. Instinctively, my fingers brush over it—slightly sensitive, not painful, but there. I roll my sleeve down, ignoring it.
I turn down a side street and enter the Shadow District. I can sense the demons lingering in the alleys, They know the Duvain name. And that’s enough to keep them back.
We don’t control this place, no one does. But we control enough of everything else to give them pause.
I don’t stop moving, there’s no need to. The moment my power bleeds into the space around me, the tension snaps. Shadows retreat and the demons lower their heads. It’s a small amount, just enough to remind those that may have forgotten just who was walking in their midst.
My path leads me to the Eternal Flame Pits. The fire burns endlessly, a place of torment and rebirth. Some demons are sent here as punishment, their bodies burned away and reforged in agony. Others enter willingly, sacrificing themselves to regain lost power.
This place is for the desperate—the fallen, the broken, the ones who lost too much and will sacrifice more just to feel whole again.
I don’t belong here. I don’t need it. And yet, as I watch the fire consume another demon, something in me itches—like a part of me is already burning.
The Mark pulses again, threading fire through my veins. I exhale, turning away.
I need answers, maybe even guidance. I need to know what happens next. What I'm supposed to do.
My parents know this feeling. My father went through the same thing, he had always been immortal, my mother had not. I don’t know much, they’ve only ever told me the basics.
It was a different time, a different world. His Mark appeared first, glowing in that same dull way mine does now. It didn’t matter right away—not to him. Soulmate bonds are rare but not unheard of, and he had lived long enough to know that fate has a cruel sense of humor.
She was mortal. A warrior, they say, one who defied fate itself. My father doesn’t talk about it much, and my mother only smiles wistfully when asked, as if the truth is a secret too precious to share.
But I know one thing as fact—she chose him.
She chose him, and the bond changed everything. She was supposed to die. But the Mark doesn’t care for rules, it doesn’t allow for endings.
She is immortal now. Their souls entwined, their fates sealed.
Julian: Dad. Are you home?
Evander: Yes. I'm with your mother. Your aunt and uncle are here too.
That may actually be a good thing.
I’ve never asked about Aunt Selene and Uncle Theron. Their bond is older than most things, and whatever happened between them isn’t something they offer explanations for.
My father never speaks of it. If he acknowledges it at all, it’s only with a simple “It was always meant to be.”
Theron never speaks of it either. But sometimes, when he looks at her, there’s something unshakable in his expression. Like she is the only thing in existence that has ever made sense.
Aunt Selene only meets his gaze in response, steady and certain. Not unreadable or indifferent. Just… sure.
Julian: Okay. I'll be right over.
I pictured my parents’ living room, took a deep breath—and I was there, standing in front of them.
Liora, my mother, sat closest to the fire, poised and untouchable, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. Power sat on her effortlessly, a quiet, unshakable presence.
Evander, my father, stood behind her, arms crossed, silent but absolute. He had always been a fixed point, a force that never yielded, never broke.
Theron, his brother, my uncle, leaned against the far wall, his expression stoic. He had the same control as my father, the same presence, but where Evander was sheer, immovable force, Theron was a strategist, a blade hidden beneath layers of patience. The kind of power that stayed quiet until it needed to be seen.
Selene sat beside my mother, pale and sharp, her silver eyes unreadable. She was never careless, never rattled. Selene was a blade honed too sharp to dull, one that never struck unless the kill was certain.
Theron’s gaze flickered toward her. She met it without hesitation. A silent conversation. A thread between them that had long been woven, impossible to sever.
They all looked at me now, waiting.
"Son," my father says, his voice calm, certain. "What can we do for you?"
"I—" I am cut off when I hear people entering. Of course, this couldn’t be a conversation alone. They’re all here.
Owen is the first to speak. "You didn’t block your call." His voice is even, controlled, but his expression is sharp, searching. He’s broad-shouldered and built like a warrior. There’s no accusation in his voice, but he’s waiting for an explanation.
Lucas exhales, arms crossed with a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Since when do you screw up?" He’s the tallest of us, lean and deceptively relaxed. He has the kind of face that’s always on the verge of amusement—until it isn’t. He sounds entertained, but his eyes flicker with curiosity.
Damian leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked onto me. "Didn’t think that was possible." Dark-haired and quieter than the rest, he fades into the background—watching everything. He isn’t waiting for an answer; he’s already piecing it together.
Seth drags a chair out and drops into it lazily, stretching out like he has all the time in the world. "Maybe he’s finally losing his edge." There’s always something reckless in his posture, something unpredictable in his golden eyes.
Caleb exhales sharply, arms tight across his chest. "We were all pulled into a call because you made a mistake. You never make mistakes." Built solid, with a gaze that sees straight through people, he’s always the one who cuts through the noise. He doesn’t care about the teasing—he wants an answer.
Adrian stands near the back, he hasn’t spoken, but his presence is heavier than all of theirs combined. Dark-eyed, always composed, he watches first, waits second, speaks last. I exhale, rolling my shoulders. "And yet, here we are."
They don’t look convinced. Because Julian Duvain doesn’t make mistakes. And they want to know why this time is different. I don’t say anything. I just roll up my sleeve and show them my forearm.
Owen’s posture shifts—just barely. His arms, once loosely crossed, stiffen for half a second before he schools himself back into stillness. His gaze locks onto the Mark, and I see the flicker of recognition behind his eyes.
The others stay quiet, but I can feel the shift in the room, the way the air seems to thin.
My father steps closer. "So, it has begun."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Seth says, his eyes flicking between me and my Mark.
"Looks like one of you found your soulmate," my uncle says, one brow raised and the corners of his mouth pulling up just slightly.
"And faster than expected," my mother says.
"A soulmate…" Owen trails off, his gaze fixed on my forearm.
My father exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw before speaking. "For the demon, the bond is a tether. It starts as a hum beneath the skin, an awareness that builds until it’s impossible to ignore." His gaze flicks to me, steady, knowing. "It doesn’t fade or break, it only gets stronger."
My uncle leans forward, arms crossed. "And it changes everything. Whether you want it to or not."
My mother tilts her head slightly, her dark eyes assessing. "For the mortal, it’s different." Her voice is even, but there’s something else beneath it—something maternal. "The Mark doesn’t appear on their skin the way it does for the demon. It lives inside them, in ways they can’t see but will always feel."
My aunt, quiet until now, finally speaks. "At first, they don’t realize it’s happening. They resist it, fight it. They’ll try to rationalize it, to push it away." A pause. "But they can’t."
My mother’s gaze flickers to me, sharp. "Because for them, it burns." She lets the words settle, lets them sink into the air between us. "The Mark doesn’t settle on their skin. It carves straight into their soul. It burns, slow and merciless, searing into every part of them until it’s undeniable."
My uncle’s expression hardens. "And it is agony."
Selene’s voice is smooth, matter-of-fact, but there’s something cold beneath it. "They wake up fevered, with their skin burning like an open wound. Some scream for hours. Some don’t stop for days."
A slow, creeping dread coils in my gut. It’s not shock—I knew it would be bad. But hearing it like this, laid out so plainly, makes it worse, makes it real .
Owen shifts beside me, exhaling through his nose, his posture tightening.
"And for the demon?" Lucas asks.
My father’s jaw tightens. "It’s nothing compared to what they go through. The bond doesn’t carve into us the same way. It starts as a pull, an awareness, a force we can’t fight. But…" He trails off for a moment before finishing, "watching them suffer is worse than any pain we could feel ourselves."
I roll my sleeve back down, my jaw locking. "And when does it stop?"
My mother watches me.“Normally, it takes decades. The body learns to survive, the soul learns to endure. But this bond… it’s already rewriting the rules.”
My uncle nods. "But it doesn’t settle. Not until it’s accepted." I already know the answer before they say it. "When the mortal chooses. Freely."
My aunt’s silver eyes flick to me. "The demon has no control over it. He can’t take what isn’t given."
Owen exhales. Lucas mutters something under his breath.
"And if they don’t?" I ask.
My father holds my gaze. "The bond never completes. It remains… unfinished. They live, but they are never whole."
"And if they’re forced?" My voice is quieter this time.
My mother’s expression darkens slightly. "It isn’t a bond. It’s a wound. A wound that never heals."
My aunt’s voice is steady, final. "And a wound like that… festers."
"It gets worse. I made a deal with her father. I took her emotions. Empathy. The ability to express them. And I gave them to her sister," I say.
My aunt tilts her head slightly, her silver eyes sharp. "Well, that's a problem."
"But I can see them," I say.
My mother watches me closely, unreadable. "You can see her emotions despite the bargain you made with her father? Well, that’s good, that means your bond is strong."
My uncle exhales. "It’s progressing faster than it should."
My father nods, his gaze unwavering. "A bond this strong, this early—it means you’re already sinking into each other. Soulmates can sense each other in ways no one else can."
I don’t move. "Explain."
My mother folds her hands in her lap. "When a bond starts, the connection is weak, like a thread barely tied together. At first, it’s the unshakable knowledge that they exist and that they are yours."
"It will grow," my father continues. "The bond strengthens over time, weaving the souls together, letting them sense each other. And once it’s strong enough, soulmates can do more than just feel each other."
"They can hear each other," my uncle says, his voice measured, deliberate.
"Read each other," my aunt adds. Her gaze lingers, steady but distant, like she’s remembering something she can’t forget. "Not just surface thoughts. The deepest parts of them. The pieces no one else can touch."
My mother’s voice is steady, absolute. "And once the bond fully solidifies, distance doesn’t matter. You will always know where she is. If she’s in pain, you’ll feel it. If she speaks to you, you’ll hear her—no matter where she is."
The room feels smaller. I already feel her. Already see her emotions when no one else can. And if this is moving faster than it should… "So what does that mean for me?"
My father’s expression darkens slightly. "It means whether you wanted this or not… you’re already tied to her in a way you can’t undo."
I roll my shoulders, inhaling slowly. "This is complicated."
My aunt exhales softly. "Soulmates are never supposed to be easy."
The room stays silent. No one disagrees.
Because we all know—this will break something before it fixes anything.