Chapter Text
The golden coin stared back at Ash through the gap in the floorboards, its reflection swallowed by the black of his eyes.
If only the hole were a little wider, he thought. I could get my fingers in there and pull it out.
The coin had fallen there earlier that day, when Ash was counting the money he’d been saving to buy the Whispering Drake at the toy store. He’d wanted that toy ever since the first time he saw it—a beautifully carved figurine of obsidian, inlaid with silver filigree. Its wings fluttered ever so slightly when held, responding to the motion of the hand. To a ten-year-old tiefling boy, the drake seemed nothing short of magical.
But it was the legend behind the Whispering Drake that truly enchanted him. They said it could speak—really speak—but no one knew how. Perhaps it was just a clever story spun by the shopkeeper to drive up the price. Maybe it had never whispered to anyone. But Ash believed it could. And more than that, he believed that one day it might speak to him.
He’d been saving for months, and that coin, a shiny, perfect gold piece, was the most valuable one he had. Losing it was not an option. He had to get it back.
Ash dug at the edge of the floorboard with his fingernails, trying to widen the gap enough to reach the coin. Each scrape loosened another fiber, sending a flutter of dust into the hole. He was so focused, so determined, that he didn’t even notice the splinters biting into his fingers.
Not until his mother’s voice snapped him back.
“Ash! This is the third time I’ve told you today—stop that! You’re going to upset your father!”
Anivari’s voice cracked slightly as she turned away from the kitchen counter, a knife trembling in her hand.
Ash slowly looked up at her, his eyes glistening as his chin began to tremble. Her eyes softened almost immediately as they met his.
“I’m sorry, hon,” she said, turning back to the vegetables she had been chopping for the stew. “I didn’t mean to yell. We’ll get that coin out later. Just… please, go wash up for dinner.”
Ash stood slowly, his shoulders slumped, as he shuffled out of the room without a word. He hadn’t meant to upset her. But the coin still lay there, glinting from the dust beneath the floorboards, taunting him. If only he could reach it, he could finally claim the prize he’d dreamt of for so long.
Ash entered the washroom, eyeing the heavy clay urn sitting on the counter beside the copper basin. His mom usually helped him with it, but he didn’t want to upset her again. Not now.
He wrapped both hands around the urn, his purplish skin stark against the green paint. His muscles quivered as he lifted it, bracing the urn against the basin’s lip before carefully tipping it forward. Water splashed into the bowl, some of it spilling across the countertop. Ash watched the water spread across the wood, then quickly tilted the urn back upright. There was enough in the basin. And even if there wasn’t, he would make this work.
He lowered the urn slowly back toward the counter, but his grip slipped. It landed with a heavy clink against the wood. Ash’s breath caught. For a moment, he was certain it would shatter.
But it didn’t. Much to his surprise, the urn remained intact.
He plunged his hands into the bowl, watching the blood from his splintered fingers swirl through the water in the basin as his mind drifted to another day—one also marked by blood, but held together by steadier hands.
He’d only been five or six then, back when the family still lived in a little shack on the edge of the Trade Way and the Delimbiyr River, before the move to Daggerford. That day, he’d torn down the gravel path to greet his mother as she returned from the market, and in his excitement, he slipped and skinned both knees. The tears came fast, but his mother was faster. She scooped him up without hesitation, whispering soft reassurances as she carried him inside.
He remembered how she sat him on the edge of the old washbasin—its porcelain chipped, but always clean. She dipped a cloth into the cool water and gently dabbed away the blood and grit, rinsing it between strokes. Her touch stung a little, but her voice never did. Then she leaned in and softly blew across the wounds, her breath cooling the burn.
He remembered his father appearing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame as Sevrik paused to take in the scene. He said nothing at first, only watched as Anivari worked, steady and tireless. There was something grounding in his presence, the quiet certainty that everything in the room would endure.
At last Sevrik stepped forward, resting a hand on her shoulder—firm, reassuring—and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
“You’re too good to us, Ani,” he said softly, then slipped back out of the room.
Things had been simpler then, in the little riverside shack. Cramped, yes, but warm. Even when bandits wandered too close, they laughed; there was nothing to take. That was before Gelden Marr showed up along the river banks, recruiting people for jobs in Daggerford.
Ash remembered Gelden Marr as a big, gruff dwarf with a beard that looked like ropes. But despite his rough exterior, Gelden had always treated his father well. He paid his workers on time and he never yelled at them. His father had done such a good job that Gelden agreed to bring him on full time. A move to the city promised more money and hopes of a better life. Now… it didn’t feel that way.
Daggerford wasn’t like the riverside. The nobles sneered at Sevrik’s horns and tail, even when he carried crates and mended sails until his hands cracked. The other dockhands whispered and stepped aside, as if touching him might stain them. Some of them had stood alongside him at the river, but now wanted nothing to do with him. Ash didn’t understand it, but he saw the way his father’s shoulders drooped, the way his smile faded. The man who had once stood so tall he seemed to hold the sky up now walked smaller, his back curved as though gravity itself had turned against him.
And there was nothing Ash could do about it.
The sound of the door slamming snapped Ash back into reality. His father stumbled through the room toward the kitchen, tossing his stained cloak haphazardly onto the floor. His eyes immediately went to the countertop.
“Stew!?” Sevrik’s voice boomed. “Again!? Dammit, Ani! I break my back all day and this is what I come home to?”
“I’m sorry, Sev,” Anivari said softly, her voice already trembling.
“That’s what you always say. ‘I’m sorry.’ And yet here we are again! Where’s everything I’ve slaved for?”
“The city is an expensive place to live,” she replied, trying to stay calm. “You’re making more now, but we’re still struggling to—”
“Oh, don’t give me that tired excuse. Where does it all go? What are you wasting it on?”
“I’m not wasting anything, Sev,” Anivari said, pleading. “All I’ve bought is food from the market.”
“This food?” Sevrik growled, snatching an onion off the counter and holding it up. “You’re telling me this—this worthless crap—is where my entire paycheck goes?”
He hurled the onion down. It bounced off the counter with a dull thud, knocking the butcher’s knife onto the floor.
“Why the hell do I work so hard if this is all I have to show for it?” he shouted, staggering forward. He stopped inches from Anivari’s face, his breath sour with ale. “Well?”
She flinched but said nothing. He towered over her, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
“You think I like being out there with those people? The way they look at me? The things they say behind my back? The names they call me?”
Ash peeked around the corner from the washroom, silent and wide-eyed. He had heard shouting before, but never like this.
“I know, Sev,” Anivari said, trying to calm him. “I see how they look at you. I know it feels wrong, but giving in to anger won’t fix anything.”
“I hate this town,” Sevrik spat. “I hate these people. I break my back for this family, and what do I get in return? Stew!”
With a roar, he swept his arm across the counter, sending vegetables flying—onions, potatoes, carrots clattering across the floor as Anivari stumbled backward.
Then, everything slowed.
Ash’s eyes locked onto the butcher’s knife. Its blade shimmered, impossibly wedged upright in the gap between the cracked floorboards, the handle embedded firmly in the splintered wood. He saw his own reflection in its steel. A gasp escaped his lips.
Anivari turned at the sound, her focus broken—and her footing failed her. She slipped on a rolling potato, arms flailing as she pitched forward. Her outstretched hands missed the floor by inches. A sickening thud. Then silence. She landed on the knife.
Ash stared in horror. Her eyes, once filled with compassion and love, now searched desperately for her son’s face. Crimson blood seeped from the wound, flowing down the knife’s handle, staining the golden coin beneath.
Ash took a step toward her—then stopped. His eyes met his father’s—bloodshot, burning with rage.
Ash staggered backward, lips trembling, heart racing. He turned and ran, coins spilling from his pockets as he fled down the hallway. Sevrik staggered out of the kitchen just in time to see the trail of copper and silver scatter across the floor.
“You!? You’ve been stealing from me!?” he bellowed, too blind with fury to notice the dying woman behind him. “I put a roof over your head, food on your plate, and this is how you repay me!?”
Ash threw open his bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him. His eyes quickly scanned the room before he grabbed the handle of his toy chest, dragging it across the floor with all his might. He dropped it in front of the door, then pressed his full weight against it, holding it with everything he had. Outside, Sevrik’s boots thudded closer.
“Open up, you little brat!” Sevrik roared, ramming his shoulder into the door. “I’ll teach you what happens to thieves!”
“I didn’t steal anything!” Ash cried. “I’ve been… working… in town… earning my own money!”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Sevrik slurred. “You think these people are paying a devil child like YOU?”
“I didn’t steal it, dad! I promise!”
“LIAR!” Another slam. The door shuddered. “You’ve been stealing from me to buy that stupid drake! I see the way you look at it—like it’s your damned salvation. Did you really think you’d get away with this?”
Ash couldn’t hold the door much longer. His arms were trembling. His legs burned. His voice, barely audible.
What do I do? I can’t fight him. I can’t let him in. I can’t…
There was only one thought left. One desperate option. Ash gritted his teeth and whispered the words again and again, each repetition growing more desperate:
“Asmodeus, The Cloven, Father of Tieflings… please help me. Asmodeus, The Cloven, Father of Tieflings… please help me…”
Over and over. A frightened child’s prayer to a name spoken only in curses and legends.
And then—Flames.
The room filled with light. A portal split open in the air, rimmed with fire and shadow. And from it stepped a figure in crimson robes, horns curling from his brow, a ruby rod resting against his hip.
Time stopped.
Ash stared in awe. Asmodeus, Lord of the Ninth, had answered.
“Why have you called for me, child?” the archdevil said, a sly smile creeping across his face.
Ash struggled to speak. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. “My… my dad… he’s going to kill me. My mom… she’s… she’s…”
“She’s what, child?” Asmodeus pressed.
“She’s… dead,” Ash said, tears welling in his eyes.
“I see,” Asmodeus said, already nodding, as if the answer were obvious. He rested a clawed finger against his chin. “You want this to end.”
“Yes,” Ash whispered, his voice quivering. “Please. Just—just make it stop.”
The devil’s grin widened, as he moved Ash away from the door frame and pushed the toy chest aside with a foot. “As you wish, child.”
Asmodeus stepped forward, raised one hand, and time resumed. Sevrik slammed into the door with all his weight, the resistance now gone. He tumbled through and crashed to the ground.
The Lord of the Ninth didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, didn’t grant even the dignity of a warning. He drew the Ruby Rod from his side in a single, fluid motion and brought it down with the weight of a god's judgment. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and sudden, like a coal bursting in flame, and Sevrik collapsed, limp and lifeless, as if erased by inevitability itself.
Ash froze. His breath caught in his chest, shallow and useless. He had wanted the fighting to end, the terror to stop—but not this. Not like this. And yet, for a fleeting, awful instant, Ash wondered if some hidden part of him had wished for it all along. For the anger, the fear, the endless weight of his father’s shadow to finally be gone.
That thought burned worse than the devil’s presence. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t wanted this. And yet, staring at his lifeless body, Ash couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that Asmodeus had only given voice to the quietest corner of his own heart.
A searing pain in his chest pulled him back into the moment. Not violent, but final, like being branded. He stared down to find a single clawed finger pressed against his flesh. The pain faded quickly, but something lingered under the skin.
“Go now,” Asmodeus said. “Leave this place and do not return. The deal has been struck.”
“What?” Ash stammered, looking up at the beast.
“Go,” Asmodeus commanded. “Do not turn back.”
Only sounds slipped out of Ash’s mouth as he stepped over his father’s body. The scattered coins glittered faintly in the hall. He’d scraped and begged for these once, but now they were nothing more than cold metal beneath his feet as he followed them back to the kitchen. His mother lay in a crimson pool, her eyes glassy, her mouth agape. He collapsed beside her.
“I’m sorry, Mom. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t scraped at that floorboard… if I hadn’t been so stupid… if I hadn’t wanted that coin so badly…”
He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, burying his face against her shoulder and neck. As his tears soaked into her clothes, something cold pressed against his cheek—a small pendant he hadn’t recognized before.
He drew back just enough to see it. The metal was worn nearly smooth, its details softened by years of handling. Whatever shape it had once been, it suggested fingers curled together, bound into a single form. Not decorative. Purposeful.
He frowned, confused. His mother had never worn jewelry. Before he could inspect it further, the voice from behind him returned, cold and booming.
“I SAID GO!”
Ash’s fingers wrapped around the pendant and pulled the chain free from her neck. He then stumbled to his feet and ran from the house. He didn’t stop running until the city gates were behind him. And as he turned for one last look at the house he’d once called home, flames erupted from within, devouring it whole.
He ran through the night, his lungs burning, every step sending daggers through the soles of his feet. The night blurred into a haze of shadows and moonlight, the road unspooling endlessly beneath him. Branches clawed at his arms as he veered from the path, crashing into the woods, driven only by the need to be anywhere but here. He didn’t count the miles—he couldn’t. His body pushed on until it betrayed him, legs buckling, breath ragged, vision tunneling to black.
The pain in Ash’s feet tore him from a restless slumber. He had run until his legs gave out, collapsing in a wooded grove a few miles northeast of Daggerford. Now, as he sat up and blinked at the pale morning light, the memories returned, sharp and heavy. His chest tightened. This was all his fault. If only he hadn’t pried at that damned hole in the floor. If only he’d handed over the coins he’d been saving, maybe it would’ve helped. If only he’d been stronger… braver… maybe he could have stood between his mother and the blade. But he hadn’t. He had been cowardly, selfish, and foolish, and now he had nothing—nothing at all.
As Ash sat in silence, unsure what to do or where to go, a wind swept through the grove, dry and sulfuric, as if scraped from scorched stone. From between the trees, the man he’d prayed to—the one he’d prayed at—stepped into view. Ash’s heart lurched. His palms went clammy. He shrank back, unable to look away. He had hoped the figure was just a fevered vision, a nightmare birthed by fear and grief. But now, here he was, flesh and bone. What could a god want from a boy like him? What did he even have left to give? His thoughts scrambled for answers, grasping at anything that made sense, but nothing did. So he stayed frozen, barely breathing, waiting for Asmodeus to speak.
“My child, why do you shy away? I mean you no harm.”
Asmodeus knelt before him, his robes barely stirring against the cracked earth. His voice was gentle now—almost fatherly—the sort meant to calm frightened things. Only his eyes betrayed him, still and watchful, like glass.
“This wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly. “You didn’t start the shouting. You didn’t knock anyone down. You were merely washing up for dinner, weren’t you?”
Ash said nothing.
“Thinking about something you wanted,” Asmodeus went on, as if recalling a small, harmless detail. “Something you’d worked for.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, unnoticed by Ash, who still refused to meet his gaze.
“There’s nothing wicked in that. Wanting. Trying. And tell me—would a few small coins have truly changed what was already happening in that house?”
His voice dipped, slow and patient, like a predator circling wounded prey.
“You were a child, caught in the middle of things far larger than you. Watching them unravel.” His tone softened. “What could you possibly have done?”
He let the question hang.
At last, he nodded, as if the answer were obvious. “No. You did what anyone would. You called out. You asked for help.” His gaze sharpened, just slightly. “You needed me. And you were answered.”
Ash’s fingers curled into the dirt.
“What happened wasn’t sudden,” Asmodeus continued, almost gently. “It had been building for a long time—cracks spreading, waiting for the right moment. Last night was only when they finally gave way.”
He reached out, not touching, but close enough that Ash felt the heat.
“I won’t let that happen to you again.”
That promise—quiet, absolute—finally made Ash look up.
“But how?” he whispered. “How am I supposed to survive out here alone? How do I protect myself? I’m just a boy.”
“Just a boy?” Asmodeus’s mouth curved, faintly amused. “No, my child. You are a survivor. That matters.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“You endured what should have broken you. Most don’t.”
He rose slowly, his shadow stretching long across the ground.
“With my guidance, you’ll learn how to stand when others try to crush you. How to make the world hesitate before it hurts you again.”
Ash swallowed. Could this all be real?
Asmodeus seemed to sense the thought.
“You don’t need to understand everything,” he said. “Not yet. You only need to accept it.”
He extended his hand, palm open—patient, waiting.
Ash hesitated. Dirt clung to his fingers. His hands were slick with sweat and trembling with fear. But slowly, uncertainly, he reached up until he found purchase.
Fire bloomed beneath his skin—deep and heavy, like molten lava flowing through fractured earth. Ash gasped as warmth coiled through his chest and limbs, alive and waiting.
Asmodeus’s grip tightened, just enough to be felt.
“You feel it now, don’t you, child?” he said softly. “That fire beneath your skin. The strength you longed for when your world was crumbling.”
His voice sharpened, no longer gentle.
“The strength to stop him. To make him pay for every time he came home drunk and angry. For every time she took the punishment meant for someone else.”
Ash’s breath hitched.
“And now,” Asmodeus continued, calm and certain, “you never have to feel that helpless again. My power is yours—inside you, blooming like a flame. Nurture it. Wield it. Master it.”
His smile returned, thin and knowing.
“And in time, you’ll realize—nothing and no one will ever touch you without consequence again.”