Demonic Corruption
The palace had forgotten how to breathe.
For seven days, the royal physicians had remained inside the crown prince's chambers.
For seven days, they had failed.
The corridor outside the room was crowded with healers, priests, royal guards, and frightened servants, yet no one dared to speak above a whisper.
Everyone already knew.
The Crown Prince was dying.
And no ordinary illness was responsible.
Something dark had entered his body.
Demonic corruption.
It had begun as a small black mark beneath his chest and throat, spreading a little further every passing hour.
Now, dark veins crawled across his chest and throat, spreading a little farther with every passing hour. His body burned with fever one moment and turned ice-cold the next.
Every spell used against the corruption had failed.
Every sacred blessing had been rejected.
Every potion had done nothing.
Behind the chamber doors, the prince suddenly cried out.
The sound echoed through the corridor.
His father flinched.
The old king stood outside the room, frozen.
His fingers were clenched so tightly around his cane that they trembled.
Another cry came from inside.
The king's eyes closed.
His son.
His only son.
The future king.
The child he had once held in his arms.
And now he could do nothing but listen to him suffer.
The door opened.
The royal physician stepped outside.
His face was pale.
The king immediately turned toward him.
"How is he?"
The physician lowered his eyes.
The king already knew.
Still, he asked again.
"How is my son?"
"Your Majesty..."
The physician swallowed.
"The corruption has reached his heart."
The king's face went blank.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Then he whispered,
"How long?"
The physician hesitated.
"Perhaps until tomorrow."
The king's cane slipped from his hand.
It struck the marble floor with a sharp crack.
"No."
"Your Majesty-"
"No."
The king shook his head.
"You told me yesterday that you could stop it."
"We tried."
"You said the sacred ritual might work."
"It didn't."
"You said the royal healers could-"
"We have exhausted every possibility."
The physician's voice broke.
"There is nothing more we can do."
The king stared at him.
Then, very quietly-
"Leave."
The physician bowed.
"Your Majesty."
"Leave!"
The man hurried away.
The king stood alone.
His breathing became unsteady.
He looked through the small glass window in the chamber door.
His son was lying motionless on the bed.
The king pressed his palm against the door.
"Please..."
His voice barely existed.
"Don't make me bury you."
---
That night, the king did something no ruler before him had ever dared to do.
He entered the forbidden archives beneath the palace.
Dust covered the ancient shelves.
He searched through books that had been sealed for centuries.
Books about demons.
Ancient magic.
Curses.
Forbidden rituals.
Anything.
Everything.
Until he found a name.
A name written in black ink across a page so old that the parchment nearly crumbled beneath his fingers.
Pluto.
The Lord of the Abyss.
The king stared at the name.
Every warning he had ever heard came rushing back.
Do not summon him.
Do not bargain with him.
He does not give without taking.
The king closed the book.
His hands shook.
Then he opened it again.
His son was dying.
He had already lost his fear.
