Page 27 of The Devil's Canvas

And that thought scares me more than anything.

Chapter Five

Julian

IwatchOphelialeaveforthe 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.

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