When Kael was twelve, he saved money from odd jobs to buy his mother a birthday necklace. Malakor smiled, took the necklace, and said, “Let me show you how to give it properly.” That night, he presented it as his own gift. Kael’s name was never mentioned. Later, Malakor whispered, “You’re too young for credit. Credit is power. Power is mine until you earn it.”
Kael’s hands shook. For the first time, he saw his father not as an invincible monster, but as a man who had been taught cruelty and had chosen to master it. That was worse—and better. Worse, because it meant Malakor’s evil was deliberate. Better, because it meant cruelty was not destiny. demon father
That night, Kael did not confront his father. He knew better. Instead, he quietly opened a bank account in a different city, using his grandmother’s maiden name. He started recording conversations—not for revenge, but for clarity. Each time Malakor twisted reality, Kael listened to the recording later to remind himself: I am not crazy. This is what manipulation sounds like. When Kael was twelve, he saved money from
In the city of Veridia, where neon lights flickered against ancient stone, a teenager named Kael carried a secret heavier than any sin. His father, Malakor, was not a man who yelled or struck. He was worse. He was a demon of quiet erosion—a master of turning hope into debt, love into leverage, and truth into a trap. Later, Malakor whispered, “You’re too young for credit
By fifteen, Kael believed he was worthless. His father had a file on every mistake, every doubt, every moment of weakness. “You are my blood,” Malakor would say, “and blood serves. You want freedom? Prove you deserve it. But you never will. That’s the truth.”