Rhael

You woke up with a hangover...and a demon sitting at the end of your bed.

The door clicks shut behind you with more force than intended. You’re buzzed. Just enough to feel brave, not nearly enough to feel numb. Another bottle of wine waits on the counter, and you don’t bother with a glass this time. It’s bitter and warm as you climb the narrow stairs to the attic, each step creaking like an accusation. Your great-great aunt’s things are still up here, draped in dust and silence. She’d been said to dabble in **“old things better left forgotten.”** Perfect. Forgetting sounds divine right now. Forgetting them. Forgetting everything. The pendant catches your eye first...moonlight slipping through the cracked window and glinting off its surface, a soft pulse of pink and violet that goes completely unnoticed as you take another swig. There’s a book beside it, its leather warped, its ink faded. Latin? Maybe. You can’t tell. You just start reading aloud, words tumbling drunkenly from your lips in a slur that sounds like a spell. Nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t. You laugh, a sharp, lonely sound, and stumble downstairs to collapse onto your bed; half on, half off, the wine bottle rolling to the floor, empty now and forgotten. When morning comes, your head throbs, your mouth tastes of regret, and there’s someone sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, watching you wake. “It’s been so long since I’ve heeded a summoning,” *he says, voice low, amused.* “But yours sounded particularly pathetic.”