Padmus and the demon

The night was a tapestry of static, the kind you find between television channels that never aired. I stood on a broken marble floor, its veins glowing faintly with a phosphorescent blood‑red, as if the stone itself remembered some ancient wound. Across from me, a demon rose—its form a collage of cracked obsidian and tangled roots, eyes like molten coal that burned away any thought that tried to linger near them. The creature’s wings were not wings at all, but splintered shadows that whispered in a language older than the wind.

It was ancient, the way a mountain feels when it has watched continents drift and crumble. Its breath was the smell of dry ash and wet stone, a scent that pressed against my throat and seemed to tug at memories I never owned. When it lunged, the air itself rippled, and the ground shivered under every footfall.

Instinct drove my hand to the hilt of a sword that had never existed in the waking world—a blade forged from the night sky, its edges humming with a soft, electric violet. I raised it, and the demon snarled, a sound that cracked the very marrow of the void.

The clash was a symphony of soundless thunder. My blade sang, cutting through the demon’s essence like a comet through a storm cloud. Each strike sent shards of its darkness spiraling away, only for them to coalesce into new tendrils that lashed at me. I could feel the weight of centuries pressing down, as if the demon was not just an entity but a vault of forgotten histories that had been summoned to defend itself.

Then, amid the chaotic dance, a ripple of light slipped through the cracks of reality. It was not a flash, but a slow unfurling—a pale, almost translucent figure that hovered just beyond the periphery of the demon’s reach. The figure was draped in a robe woven from the same marble as the floor, yet it moved with a fluidity that made the stone appear supple. Its face was a mask of smooth alabaster, featureless save for two deep-set eyes that seemed to contain entire galaxies.

The spirit did not speak. Instead, the word “padmus” glowed in the air, hovering between us like a mantra written in ember. The letters were not ordinary; each stroke pulsed with a rhythm, as if they were being breathed into existence by an unseen lung.

I turned my head, half expecting the demon to snarl at this intrusion, but its attention was suddenly torn away, its focus fractured like glass under a hammer. The spirit’s gaze fell on me, and in that instant the world narrowed to a single point of contact: the eyes of the ancient being meeting mine.

It smiled. Not a grin of malice or pity, but a quiet, knowing curvature of the mouth—one you might expect from someone who has watched the birth and death of stars and found humor in the fleeting drama of mortals. The smile seemed to carry a thousand unspoken promises, a recognition that the battle I fought was not merely against an enemy but against the very notion of being bound by time.

“Padmus,” the word resonated again, this time not in the air but in the marrow of my bones. I felt it as an echo of a name, a key, a password to something beyond the veil. My sword trembled, not from fear but from an awakening. The demon’s darkness recoiled, as if the syllable itself cut through its ancient armor.

With a sudden surge, I thrust my blade forward, not at the demon, but toward the spirit. Its hand—if it could be called that—reached out, and the blade passed through it as through water, leaving a luminous ripple on the marble floor. The ripple spread, and the word “padmus” flared brighter, expanding like a sunrise over a black ocean.

The demon let out a howl that was less a sound and more an implosion of memory. Its form began to disintegrate, each fragment dissolving into dust that swirled into the marble, binding itself into the floor’s veins. The ancient spirit watched, its smile widening just a fraction, as the demon vanished into the stone.

When the last ember of the demon’s presence faded, the marble floor steadied. The spirit’s robe fell away, revealing a figure that was both human and something else—its skin bore the faint, iridescent patterns of a seashell, and its hair flowed like liquid mercury. The word “padmus” lingered in the air for a heartbeat longer before melting into nothingness.

The spirit stepped forward, its hand extending toward me. I felt the heat of a thousand suns and the cold of a thousand winters in the same breath. When my fingers brushed its palm, a cascade of images flooded my mind: cities that never existed, languages that had never been spoken, and a single phrase that seemed to tie them all together—“Remember what you were not meant to forget.”

Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the spirit turned, its smile still there, and stepped into the marble’s depth, becoming one with the stone. The floor beneath my feet felt solid, but I knew it was now alive with a memory that would not fade.

I awoke with the taste of ash on my tongue, the echo of “padmus” reverberating in my skull. In the early dawn, as sunlight sifted through my curtains, I caught a glimpse of the marble floor in my bedroom’s reflection, its veins faintly glowing. And somewhere, deep inside the stone, a smile lingered—ancient, patient, waiting for the day I would remember again.