Russia, three months ago.
The night sky was blood-red, pulsing like a heartbeat. The aurora that should have danced above the tundra was gone, devoured by the infernal light of the rift that hung above the ruined cathedral.
The villagers had fled long ago. Only snow remained—blackened and hissing as it melted beneath demonic heat.
And standing at the edge of that ruin, alone against the void, was Alisa Novikova. She had been sent by the authorities to deal with the mess.
Her cloak whipped in the wind, frost crystallising at her boots. She looked impossibly calm, the way she did only in the face of demons—utterly still, but the air around her hummed with restrained power.
Before her, a vast shadow moved. Two wings of molten metal unfurled from its back, sparks cascading with every motion. Its horns glowed faintly, runes of command pulsing along their surface.
A Prince of Hell. Asmodeus. The Lord of the Hells. The god demons.
"A mortal welcomes me to their world?"
The voice rumbled like thunder under ice, shaking the cathedral's broken walls. The ground split, runes of fire crawling from the rift as dozens of smaller demons clawed their way out—demon knights, clad in black armour, and lesser demons.
Alisa took a slow breath. Her gloved hands stayed at her sides.
"I told you last time," she murmured in Russian; the higher demons could understand most, if not all, human languages. "Earth is not Hell's feeding ground."
The demon prince laughed, each note a shiver through the world. "And yet it bleeds. Your kind is weak. You hide behind circles and sticks of wood, thinking them powerful."
He leaned forward, enormous face lit by molten veins. "But you… I remember you. The wandless witch of the Siberian wastes. That's what my kin has taken to calling you."
The wind whipped harder. Snow spiralled around her like a veil.
"You should have stayed in hiding, little one."
He raised a clawed hand. The sky ignited.
Hellfire rained down, scorching the ground, melting the snow into steaming rivers. Alisa moved—not running, but gliding, her boots never touching the surface as she wove invisible sigils through the air.
Each line of motion sparked a trail of blue-white light, forming translucent barriers that shimmered for a heartbeat before being consumed. She didn't resist the flames—she redirected them.
The infernal fire curved midair, forming a vortex of burning crimson that circled back toward the prince.
He roared in fury, swatting the inferno aside. The redirected fire crashed into his own soldiers, reducing them to slag and ash.
Alisa's eyes glowed faintly silver. Her hair lifted in the growing wind.
"Even demons can burn," she said softly.
Asmodeus may have been a fucking sin—Lust—but he was Lucifer's weakest creation.
And Alisa? She wasn't weak at all.
The prince raised his arm again, fury distorting his monstrous face. "Arrogant mortal—!"
He never finished. Alisa moved faster than him—her hand slicing through the air. A ring of white light formed around the demon's chest, constricting instantly. The air rippled with pressure as the binding sigils bit into him.
The prince screamed, his roar splitting the clouds.
He tried to break free, muscles bulging, the ground splintering beneath him. But the runes tightened—chains of pure energy binding his demonic essence.
He staggered, sinking to one knee. "You dare use Hell's own language against me?"
Alisa's voice dropped to a whisper. "Magic is magic."
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Return to Hell."
The sigils flared, white light piercing the crimson sky. The demon's body began to collapse inward, dragged toward the rift that birthed him. His armour started cracking, and his wings began burning away.
But as the light consumed him, something else moved in the shadows—a smaller figure among the fallen knights.
It crawled, unnoticed, dragging its shattered body across the ground. Its armour was cracked, its sword broken, but its eyes burned with hateful cunning.
A demon knight, one of the prince's vassals.
As the prince's scream faded, the knight whispered words in the dead's language. Its voice slithered through the air.
Alisa turned too late.
The curse was supposed to turn her into one of its brethren, but she managed to undo most of its magic before it struck her like a spear of shadow, burying itself in her side.
For an instant, nothing happened.
Then the world tilted.
Pain, unlike anything she had ever known, spread through her veins, and she felt something growing between her legs.
The knight laughed weakly, coughing ash. "You sealed our prince, witch… but his gift remains. Let it eat you from within. Let Hell claim what it has touched."
Its laughter turned to dust as Alisa's magic body crumbled its body, leaving only scorched armour.
She gasped, sweat freezing on her skin. The curse flared, its tendrils sinking deeper.
The curse was fusing with her essence.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, summoning what little focus she had left. Her own energy responded, surrounding her in a dome of pale light that barely kept her consciousness intact.
Think. Don't panic.
She forced her breathing steady, but couldn't help the tears that flowed freely down her face. Her mind, analytical even in agony, dissected the curse's structure: layered runes, infernal recursion, anchored not to her flesh, but to her soul.
It couldn't be removed.
Oh no.
She whispered a stabilising sig, barely audible through clenched teeth.
The pain dulled—faintly—but the feeling between her legs remained.
She fell backwards into the snow, the cold biting into her fevered body.
The sky above was clearing, the infernal rift closing slowly. For the first time in hours, she could see the stars again.
But they looked distant, almost mocking.
She had won. The prince was gone.
And yet—
Something was terribly wrong with her.
龴ↀ◡ↀ龴
When she woke the next morning, the snowstorm had passed. The cathedral was gone, only a crater of glass left in its place. Her cloak was torn, her body aching—but she was alive.
Barely.
Alisa felt wrong, though…
She slipped a hand under her clothes and felt it.
Oh no. No, no, no, no!
From that day forward, she could feel it—pulsing and twitching at random times.
龴ↀ◡ↀ龴
Now, sitting in her cabin in the Scottish Highlands, Alisa opened her eyes.
She looked at her pants. Even now, covered away from sight, she could feel it.
And the only person rumoured to have ever broken a soul-binding transfiguration was Professor Minerva McGonagall, who was inside Hogwarts.
She sighed softly, rubbing the… thing. It was getting up again, and she knew what would follow.
"Russia took my decency," she murmured. "Maybe Britain can give it back."
Outside, the wind howled across the moors.
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I'll update the fic every 2 days.
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Thanks for reading.