Sneak Preview of Lucifer’s Rose

CHAPTER 1

The Slayer

Acid coated my tongue as I stood at attention, fists clenched tightly at my sides. The nausea had stalked me since dawn, a slow coil in my gut that refused to loosen. I breathed in through my nose, tasting the morning dew and dust in the air, and held it. I would not show weakness. Not now. Not today.

Today was the day.

Every breath I had taken since infancy had been in service to this moment. I was given to the Order as a small child, left with a name and nothing else after losing my family to demons. In return, they gave me structure. Purpose. Discipline that cuts sharper than any blade. And for that, I had shaped myself into something more complex than the stone walls surrounding us.

I had to be. Only the best became Slayers. 

Every year, a small cohort of initiates, each exactly twenty-four years old, was chosen to stand before the chamber doors.

It was the final threshold.

For most, it marked the end of nearly two decades of relentless training: a life of discipline carved from blood, sweat, and silence. They were taken young, some given, others conscripted and moulded into instruments of the Order. And for all their efforts and years of sacrifice, only one or two would ever emerge from the Choosing, reborn as Slayers.

The rest were never seen again.

No one knew what happened to the initiates who failed. Only that the doors would close, and when they opened again, the general would return alone.

Some said the conduits rejected those deemed unworthy. Others whispered about death, swift, spiritual, or worse. The Order never confirmed anything. The Slayer Corps didn't answer questions. They didn't need to. The silence was its kind of truth.

Becoming a Slayer wasn't a promotion. It wasn't a reward. It was a sentence, a new life, bound to a conduit; relics of ancient, unknowable power. 

That's why only a few were ever chosen.

Every year, hopeful eyes turned to the Citadel, waiting for the list of those summoned to the Choosing. And every year, most were turned away. Even among the best, the Slayer Corps only accepted those who could survive what came next.

And even then, surviving wasn't guaranteed.

But why become a slayer? It was more than a meal ticket; certainly more than some lofty ideal about honour and sacrifice. On paper, it was service; a life given to the Corps, protecting humanity from things that lurked in the dark. 

For me? It was freedom.

It was the only path out of a life that had already decided what I was worth.

Back in the compound, you're just a number. Another mouth to feed. Another back-to-back. Nobody expects you to rise. Nobody wants you to. They want you small. Obedient. Grateful for scraps.

But Slayers? They walk tall. They get to leave the walls. They see the world. People look at them with respect, sometimes even awe. They matter.

And blessed Michael, I wanted to matter.

I wanted a name that people remembered. I tried to stand for something, even if it meant bleeding for it. I didn't care if it hurt. I didn't care if I died. Because dying as a Slayer meant you chose your fight. You fought for something bigger than your survival.

For the first time in my life, I could choose myself.

And I wasn't going to waste that.

The clang of boots against stone silenced the hall. We all snapped to attention.

The great stone doors groaned open, ancient hinges protesting as a figure stepped into the chamber. The light behind her momentarily made it hard to see, but we all knew who it was. You didn't mistake her for anyone else.

General Céline Arryn.

She wasn't tall, but her presence filled the room like thunder. Her uniform was crisp, every fold sharp, every pin polished to a mirror shine. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a tight bun at the base of her skull, not a strand out of place. She peered along the line of initiates; brown eyes narrowed with a veteran's scrutiny, sharp, unyielding, and unreadable.

The scar beneath her right eye cut jaggedly across her cheek before disappearing beneath her collar. It's not a clean mark. A survivor's wound. The kind demons left behind when they meant to kill and failed.

Stories about her drifted through the barracks like smoke: quiet, reverent, and often unbelievable. That she once fought a demon prince alone. She held the front gates for three days without rest when reinforcements never came. When Arryn was pulled from the front lines and forced into a command position, she nearly ripped her superior's throat out for the insult.

Looking at her now, I believe every word.

Her gaze swept the chamber with quiet authority, then returned to us what remained of this year's cadet class.

Four. Only four of us had made it. And even that wasn't enough. Her voice was low but powerful when she finally spoke, a rasp tempered by years of command.

"You stand on the edge of purpose," she said, breaking the silence. "Everything you've endured, every bruised rib, every broken bone, every hour starved of sleep, has led you here."

She stepped forward, boots echoing off the stone floor, the sound impossibly loud in the still chamber.

"You are not soldiers. You are not cannon fodder to be thrown into the fire for someone else's war. You are Slayer candidates. And if you pass what lies beyond those doors, you will join the ranks of the most elite force this world has ever known."

Her eyes landed on Carver first. Then Hart. Then Madden. Then me.

"You've heard the whispers," she went on. "The stories. That we strike from the shadows. That we command ancient power. That we don't return unchanged."

She paused just long enough to let that final word sink in.

Unchanged.

"Let me be clear on one thing, though: what you think you know about the Slayer Corps is nothing but shadowplay. Romanticized half-truths are told to children to make them sleep more easily. The real truth lives behind those doors."

She turned slightly, gesturing toward the massive stone threshold behind her. It loomed like a sealed vault, its frame etched with protective runes that shimmered faintly in the low light.

"On the other side of these doors, you will face a choice," she continued. "Not with your mind. Not even with your will. But with your soul. You will be called to one of the conduits. And if it does not answer, if you do not belong, then you will die."

No one moved. Not even to breathe.

"You are here because you were exceptional. Understand this, however: even the exceptional fall."

Her pen tapped once more against the clipboard. "If chosen, you will not walk out the same."

A moment passed. Then her tone hardened like steel drawn across the stone.

"Do not beg. Do not scream. Do not shame the ones who fell before you by dying like a coward."

And with that, she looked back at the doors.

"Initiate Carver?"

The redheaded woman beside me stepped forward. Hazel eyes lifted, steady and proud, though she barely reached my shoulder. She might have been small, however anyone who'd trained with her knew better than to underestimate her. She was faster than she looked. Meaner, too.

Once, I’d known the curve of that jaw by touch. The way her breath hitched when she was both about to strike, and again when she was pinned beneath me. Back then, we’d burned together, reckless, young, and loud enough to drown out the fear. 

That fire that once burned brightly had long since fizzled out. Now, we moved like parts of the same machine. Efficient. Dangerous. Trusted.

She didn’t look at me, but her voice had that clipped edge I knew too well.

She stepped forward from the line, standing at attention. “Ma’am. Initiate Elena Carver, class Gamma-7. Air Defense Specialist rank.”

General Arryn nodded. "This way."

Carver passed into the dark room beyond, boots striking like hammers against the stone. The doors closed with a shudder, sealing them away. A blue shimmer rippled around the threshold.

Silence fell.

Not a sound leaked from the room. Not a whisper, not a breath. Time passed like molasses, thick and slow. My calves ached. My spine stiffened. Still, I didn't move.

Give them no reason to doubt you. No excuse to call you weak. My instructor's voice echoed in my head, the one who taught me to track my breathing through pain and never blink too long in the presence of power.

They executed him when I was eleven, caught using forbidden runes. His blood had darkened the courtyard stones for days. I never forgot the shape of his scream.

The doors groaned open once more, stone grinding against stone. General Arryn stepped out.

Carver wasn't with her.

No footsteps behind. No glance back. No trace that she had ever gone in at all.

Just silence.

"Initiate Hart?"

The next name was called, and the brown-haired boy to my left stiffened. He stepped forward, eyes forward, posture sharp, but I saw the flicker of uncertainty in his jaw before the doors swallowed him whole.

Then Madden.

Then silence.

One by one, the line thinned. Each name is called, each step is taken, and each disappearance is final. Not a single one returned.

Until only I remained.

Alone.

My heart thudded in my chest, steady but heavy, like it had to work harder to move blood through my limbs. I stared straight ahead, posture unyielding. On the inside, the tension coiled tighter with each second, each breath. Where were they?

Were they alive?

The doors opened again, slower this time. General Arryn stepped out again, her posture as composed as before, not a hair out of place.

Except…

There. A single blot of red soaked into the white of her collar. Fresh. Bright. Unmistakable.

I didn't flinch. I didn't let my breath hitch. But the scent hit me all the same.

Not a demon.

No sulphur. No pitch. No rot.

Just blood.

Human blood.

Sharp. Coppery. Still warm.

It wasn't a lot. Just a drop, maybe two. But it was enough. Enough to send a chill creeping down my spine.

"Initiate Whitlock." My name. I swallowed hard, forcing my throat to work around the dryness.

I stepped forward. "Ma’am, Initiate Lysander Whitlock, class Alpha-5. Vanguard Specialist rank."

She said nothing else. Just stepped aside, her expression unreadable. "This way."

I hesitated for the briefest moment, just long enough to register that this was it.

The final step. The threshold between who I had been and who they wanted me to become. And then I moved. One foot in front of the other. No turning back. No faltering.

I crossed that final threshold, and the doors shut behind me like the seal on a tomb.