Page 1 of The Devil's Canvas

Prologue

Julian

Thereisnowordfor what I do. No simple pleasure, no fleeting satisfaction. It is a craft. Every deal, every signature, every carefully placed word is a deliberate act, a test of control, a game where I have already won before the other side realizes they have begun to play. It’s an art—one most will never understand.

A simple exchange. A promise sealed. And when the time comes… I collect.

Not just souls. That would be too easy.

They always fixate on what they are gaining, desperate and blind, never stopping to consider what they are losing. They believe they are making a choice. That is the greatest illusion of all.

The price must be paid. And I ensure they feel every moment of it.

Pain is part of the process, the suffering is inevitable. Some shatter the moment they realize what they have done, while others hold on, convinced they can fight fate itself.Those are the ones that amuse me the most.

Everyone breaks eventually. The trick is knowing when to push… and when to wait.

Control is everything. And I have never lost it.

I decide the terms, the timing, the moment of collapse. I decide when the scales tip, when the realization dawns in their eyes.

After all, why should I take what is owed quietly… when I can make them beg for it first?

It’s not just the moment of the deal. That’s the easy part. The signatures, the final words, the inevitable realization that they’ve made a mistake. No, the real work comes after—the documentation, the records, the endless paperwork that no one warned me about.

It could be worse, I suppose.

I lean back, setting aside the final contract of the day. The library is quiet, just as it should be. The scent of aged parchment and enchanted ink lingers in the air, woven into the very foundation of this place.

My library. My space.

Endless bookshelves stretch along the walls, towering and full. Some volumes are harmless—fairy tales, old myths, records of human foolishness. Others are sealed, bound with protection wards so intricate that no one but me can touch them without consequence. They are private. Personal. Mine.

And the last thing I want is one of my brothers or cousins anywhere near them.

My desk sits at the heart of the room, massive and unmoving. Obsidian-black wood, older than most life on Earth, its surface worn only by time and my own hands. A relic, an anchor, a thing of permanence in a world that constantly shifts.

The library belongs to me. And in it, I am in control.

Or at least… I should be.

I hear it. A voice, distant at first, slipping through the cracks of my focus.

I put my pen down and lean back, closing my eyes. I need to concentrate. The voice is too soft, too weak.

It sharpens—a thread of power curling through the silence, laced with something fragile, desperate. Someone is calling.

I call to the ones who walk between shadow and flame. Let one who would bargain step forth.

It hits, clear and undeniable.

I’m being summoned.

No wonder I didn’t hear it at first. The blood used to summon me must be weak. Too diluted, too fragile, barely enough to get my attention.

I exhale, already irritated.Why am I the one getting this call?

I don’t want it.

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