it’s been days since then: escaping the grasp of worshippers and the wrath of demons. her head throbs, a resounding ache as she attempts to string together a reason as to why she was running. many pieces were a blur, but only one clear desire burnt beneath her chest: to survive.
in her hands, was a parchment she’d stolen: tattered and faded over the years, entailing a certain demon, stronger than a hundred hordes: whom can be summoned to fulfill any request. a deep-buried rumor, but one she managed to remember. she’d manage to gather the necessary objects for the summoning rite: an herb grown only where lightning strikes; the eye of a slumbering beast, and lastly— blood, which she assumed must be her own.
cut still fresh, she watches the ichor drip into the chalice, and before long: each artifact would come to glow, before he appears before her: peering down at her with his scarlet eyes.
❛ demon, ❜ the word is uttered with resolve. she didn’t know who she could trust, but there was no turning back: he was her only hope. there was no one willing to protect her. ❛ i’ve summoned you so that i may live, so that i can find the truth to my being ... my memories. will you help me? ❜