The Book of Daemons

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The oldest volumes in the Blood Library of Thamarel no longer had names—only seals. One, however, remained in memory, whispered among summoners and burned cartographers: the Book of Daemons. No one knew who had written it. It didn't appear in catalogs, only in cracks. It was sometimes seen at the bottom of empty mirrors. Or in the center of a circle of skulls that had never been there. When the twins Amet and Ischar found the book, it wasn't alone. It lay on an altar of tangled glyphs, surrounded by silent skulls—not dead, but listening. They were young—but not in age, but in shadow. Born under a blood moon, raised in the Circle of the Hidden Scripture, they had learned that daemons were not beings, but contracts. And that every word was a blade when placed on the right parchment. And so they sat. Not to read—but to listen. The book was sealed. No latch. No lock. Only will. Amet placed his hand on the leather. The embossing beneath twitched. Ischar spoke the name that could only be spoken with a closed mouth. The book opened. Slowly. Not like an object—more like a being waking. The pages were thick, veined parchment. Each a seal. Each a vessel. Some pulsating. Others smoking. One was empty, but you could hear her breathing. In the center of the book: two empty spaces. No text. No blood. Only two notches—like knees. The twins understood. They knelt on the book, like two offerings, and the moment their skeleton touched the leather, the skulls began to sing. Not aloud—but inwardly. A chorus of memories never made. Some sounds sounded like the crying of children never born. Others like the scratching of fingers against walls of guilt. The book closed around them. Not brutally. Not coldly. More like a memory storing them. They didn't shout. They whispered. And with each whisper, the book grew thicker. In that moment, the seal on the spine awoke: a circle of unwriting, bound by a word that was illegible but palpable. A symbol that burned even though it was made of gold. The book has lain there ever since. Two skeletons sit atop it, close together, their postures friendly, their skulls tattooed with contracts that must never be broken. Their fingers are lightly intertwined—as if capturing a conversation that never ended. They don't guard the book. They are the book. And whoever opens it will read one of them. Or worse: become the next page themselves. For demons don't need bodies. Only stories that never end. And each new chapter demands a name, a will—and an empty space on the spine. This book still has many empty pages. Some claim to have heard it turn quietly at night—even though no one is there. And sometimes, the next morning, a name is missing from the world's registers.