Page 122 of The Devil's Canvas

Summoning a Specific Demon.

The words below it aren’t just instructions—they’re obsession. Precision etched in ritual and consequence.

Know the Demon’s True Name.

Provide a worthy offering—blood, memory, soul.

Speak the invocation with intent: “By oath and fire, by shadow and will, I call upon [Name]. Step forth and heed this summons.”

Draw the circle. Blood, ash, chalk—whatever binds the edges of power.

My pulse roars in my ears.

I know I'm calling someone's name.

I’ve bled for him. I’ve died in pieces for him. And if I have to offer what’s left of me to bring him back, I will.

I wipe my nose on the sleeve of the oversized sweater I haven’t taken off in days—weeks, maybe. The journal lies open on the floor beside me, the pages warped and stained with something that might be blood, or just the echo of everything I’ve lost.

Summoning a demon isn’t something you do casually. It’s not lighting candles and whispering into the dark. It’s sacrifice, precision, and intent. And I have all three.

I grab a piece of chalk from one of the old moving boxes, the kind I used to mark canvas edges. It feels wrong to use it like this—but everything about this feels wrong. That’s the point.

I clear a space in the middle of the floor and begin to draw. The circle is messy at first, but my hand steadies with each stroke. Symbols, runes, the binding points—it all comes together like muscle memory I shouldn’t have. Like something buried inside me finally waking up.

I light the candles—each one flickering with a life of its own.

The blade trembles in my grip as I drag it across my skin. Blood wells and drips onto the floor, slow and deliberate. And now the invocation. The book lies open beside me, the words ready.

“By oath and fire, by shadow and will, I call upon Owen Duvain. Step forth and heed this summons.”

The air tightens. The blood begins to sizzle. And the summoning circle pulses, like a heartbeat not entirely my own.

Owen doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares. Not at the circle, not at the blood smeared across the floor—but at me. And something in his expression fractures. “Gods, Ophelia,” he says quietly. “What happened to you?”

I don’t respond.

“You’re… different. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks. Your face, your body—there’s no light in you anymore.” His voice dips, low and raw. “You look like someone who already died and forgot to lie down.”

I force myself to stay standing, even though every word cuts like glass. “I’m here to make a deal,” I say, steadier than I feel.

“How did you even know how to summon me?” he asks, ignoring everything else.

“I found a journal,” I say, hesitating just enough for it to matter.

“What journal?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“I don’t know whose it was,” I say. “It wasn’t mine. It was in one of the boxes by the door.”

“Who told you to look there?” he asks, stepping closer, tension drawing his shoulders tight.

My pulse stutters. “...A voice.”

His gaze narrows. “What voice?”

“I don’t know. I just heard it. It told me to check the journals.” My arms tighten around my middle like I’m trying to hold something in. “It felt... familiar. Like someone I should trust.”

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