The Summoned Demon: 8. The Breaking Point

Mara’s hands trembled as she spread the old, stained pages across the dining table. The inked sigils were smudged at the corners, the paper soft from repeated touch; it felt more like a confession than a spellbook. Her apartment smelled of coffee gone cold and the copper tang of old blood. The demon’s presence had become a constant pressure at her ribs, a heat she could neither quell nor ignore. Tonight, she told herself, tonight she would end it.

She read the incantation once, twice, feeling the syllables like keys sliding awkwardly into locks. This time, she’d prepared—salt lined every threshold, mirrors covered, candles placed at precise intervals. She’d written her name on the final circle in ink mixed with ash from the one place she thought might answer: her grandmother’s frozen altar, the wax and prayer always at her hip. She had to believe there was a way out.

When he appeared, he was the same impossible thing as always—beautiful, dangerous, the air around him a static h