The Demon King Chronicles Demon Named

Leila's POV

Veridia never slept-but it had no use for dreamers.

The city groaned and breathed around her as Leila Reynolds sat curled up on the cracked windowsill of her studio-slash-home, legs tucked beneath her oversized sweater, her breath fogging up the glass. Outside, neon lights blinked through the mist like dying stars. Inside, silence smothered everything-except for the dull rattle in her lungs and the sharp, stabbing pain behind her ribs.

The dark circles underneath her eyes, a permanent fixtures in these days. Her body wracked with pain from the debilitating illness that had stolen her dreams.

At just 25 years old, she felt like her life was slipping away quicker than she could grasp it. What use had all her talents as an artist been when the medical bills had drained her of all her savings to the last penny? The money she's managed to save from dead-end jobs is barely enough to cover her painkillers, not to mention a roof over her head. She'd skipped her antibiotics again. Third day in a row.

Not by choice.

She'd had to trade the last dose for food. A bruised apple. Half a loaf of stale bread.

Her sketchbook lay open beside her, smeared with charcoal and blood from a coughing fit she hadn't noticed until after the damage was done. On the page, the drawing stared back at her: a man cloaked in shadows, his eyes like glowing coals. She didn't remember sketching him. But he kept showing up. In her dreams. In her hands. On every page.

She didn't know his name.

But every time she drew him, she felt less alone.

Thunder cracked overhead, echoing through the warped walls. Rain followed, harsh and unrelenting-slamming against the leaky roof, dripping onto the floor where buckets and bowls waited like open mouths.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Her stomach growled, sharp and empty. Her chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside. She coughed again, muffling it into her sleeve, and tasted iron.

Leila pressed a shaking hand against her chest.

It's getting worse.

A knock at the door made her leap. It was Mrs. Romano, the kindly landlady, peering in with heavy eyes.

"I hate to do this, dear," the elderly woman said, her voice laced with pity. "But your rent was due three months ago. You're going to have to find another place to stay." Tears stung Leila's eyes. She pulled herself off the windowsill, limbs aching, and shuffled toward the door.

"Please, just give me a few more days," she pleaded, hating how desperate she sounded. "I'll get the money, I promise!."

But they both knew that was a lie. With no circle of relatives and friends to turn to, nobody was left to help pay for her mounting medical fees; she was out of options. As understanding as Mrs. Romano had been, her hands were tied.

Pushing back the wave of despair, Leila straightened her shoulders. "Okay, I understand," she said, looking to inject some energy into her trembling voice.

Mrs. Romano gave her one last look of sympathy before closing the door, leaving Leila on her own with her grief. Where would she move to after being evicted? She had nowhere to go and no loved ones to take her in. There is no one but herself to count on.