She had no name. Not one that mattered, anyway. For centuries, the world had given her different names-Death, The Reaper, The Devil-but the name she chose for herself, the one that felt most fitting, was La Muerte. The Spanish term for death itself. She was both feared and revered, the goddess who ruled the underworld with both kindness and cruelty. The souls she judged could either be shown mercy or condemned to eternal suffering. But in the end, they all had to answer to her, The Ruler Of Hell.
La Muerte did not remember why she had been cursed. Once, long ago, she had been punished by GOD for a crime she could no longer recall. That punishment had bound her to the underworld for eternity, and it had been a thousand years since her reign had begun. In all that time, she had grown in power, becoming not just a ruler, but a legend. The heavens whispered her name in fear, while demons and mortals alike feared and admired her. She was the embodiment of both life and death-just, unforgiving, kind, and ruthless, all at once.
Her appearance was as commanding as her role. Long, raven-black hair cascaded down her back, often illuminated by the eerie glow of her eyes when she summoned her powers. Her presence alone could silence a room, her aura as dangerous as it was captivating. A gift from the gods, or perhaps a curse-she could control fire, manipulate minds with her telepathic powers, and bend others to her will with the mere force of her hypnotic gaze. But for all her power, La Muerte was not without a certain allure. She was sassy, sarcastic, and, in her rare moments of tenderness, full of love.
And sometimes, just to remind herself of the world she once knew, La Muerte wandered the mortal realm. She didn't do it often, but when she did, it was always for a purpose. Often, those purposes involved making deals. Not deals with evil intentions, like the devil was known for, but deals with good causes. She had learned to appreciate the fleeting beauty of human life, and sometimes, in her own way, she indulged in the pleasures of Earth. Tonight was one of those times.
La Muerte stood beneath the pouring rain, her black cloak swirling around her, the droplets glistening in the dim light as they kissed her skin. The palace she stood before was ancient-old as time itself. There were whispers that the Di Carlo family had long been allied with demons, and their estate had been constructed as a gateway between Earth and the underworld. It was not a place meant for mortals; no, it was a place designed for creatures of the dark. The stones of the palace seemed to pulse with an ancient, dark energy, a living memory of the power that had flowed through its walls for centuries.
The Di Carlo family had long been tied to the supernatural, but La Muerte didn't come to the palace to dwell on that history. She came for solitude, to stand in the rain and feel the earth beneath her feet, a rare moment of peace in a world where peace was fleeting. But as she stood there, a faint sound reached her ears-a weak, raspy cough.
It wasn't the kind of sound one heard often in a palace as opulent as this, and it piqued her interest. With a fluid movement, she stepped into the grand hall, the door creaking open as though it had been waiting for her. Inside, a candle flickered weakly, casting shadows on the walls. The dim light illuminated the form of a man lying on a large, ornate bed. His skin was pale, drawn tight over bones, and his breath was shallow and labored. He was the patriarch of the Di Carlo family, Manolo Salvatore Di Carlo-an ancient man on the verge of death.
La Muerte's crimson eyes glowed faintly as she walked toward the bed. Her steps were soundless, her presence unsettling but not unwelcome. Manolo's eyes fluttered open, and he offered her a weak, knowing smile. His voice was barely a whisper, but La Muerte heard every word.
"You've come," he said, his words coated in both resignation and something else-perhaps a hint of satisfaction.
She leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed casually over her chest. Her gaze was cool but intense as she looked down at him. "I felt your call," she said softly, her voice like velvet, laced with power. She didn't need to ask him what he wanted. The old man was offering something, she could tell.
"Tell me, old man," she continued, her tone teasing, "What is it that you want from me?"
Manolo's chest rose and fell with effort as he struggled to breathe. He coughed again, but this time, his eyes never left hers. There was no fear in them, only a kind of acceptance. "I have one final request," he said. "A deal... with you."
La Muerte raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Deals were something she was no stranger to, though they were not always what people expected. She stepped closer to the bed, her presence drawing the shadows of the room toward her like moths to a flame. She gracefully traced the outline of the room with her gaze, studying the details-the old paintings on the walls, the rich tapestries, the scent of decay mingling with the scent of expensive wood and leather. She was patient, letting the old man speak.
"What is it that you seek, Manolo Salvatore Di Carlo?" she asked, her voice carrying both kindness and the threat of finality.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Manolo raised a trembling hand toward the cradle at the far end of the room, where a small child slept, oblivious to the fate about to unfold. "My heir - my Grandson ," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "The child . Protect him. Keep him safe. The world will be a cruel place for him, as it was for me. And in exchange take my life-my soul. Do with it what you will."
La Muerte looked at the baby, her gaze softening for the briefest moment, before hardening again. She could feel the pulse of fate around the child. He was special, destined for something far beyond the ordinary. Her red eyes flickered as she stared at the infant, considering his future, the choices he would make, the life he would lead.
"Hmm," she mused, tilting her head slightly. "A fair trade, I suppose." She glanced back at Manolo, whose eyes were now filled with both desperation and relief. "I will protect him, as you request. I will give him my blaze-a part of my heart -to shield him. But..." she let the word hang in the air, "one day, I will take it back. When he no longer needs protection."
Manolo's lips curled upward in a faint, satisfied smile. She continued " But there is one more thing..."
He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"I want to name him," she said, her voice sweet . "Me, who rule both life and death, want to name him. Give him his identity."
He considered her offer, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something deep in her eyes-something ancient, something that belonged to the realms of fire and fate.he nodded with acceptance and smile. "Very well," she said softly, her voice both final and gentle. "I will name him. Lucifer. Lucifer Salvatore Di Carlo. A name that carries power and promise."
Manolo's smile widened, though it was faint. "Thank you... La Muerte."
She looked down at him, her eyes glowing faintly. "You are welcome. Now... it is time for you to leave this world."
Manolo's chest rose once more, and then, with a final sigh, his body went still. His soul departed, leaving behind only the echo of his pact with the goddess of death. La Muerte, standing above him, gently traced her fingers over the baby's forehead, a promise made in the silence of the room.
The deal had been struck. The child would be protected, but one day, La Muerte would come for what she had given. She turned away, her cloak swirling around her as she left the room, the storm outside still raging.
Lucifer Salvatore Di Carlo's fate had been sealed, and the world would know his name, just as they would know hers. For in the end, there was only one thing certain-death always came for all, but in the end, it was La Muerte who held the final word.