QSFer Devorah Leah Barrocas has a new FF dark sapphic fantasy out: Demonic Reign.
Nyx was not raised to be merciful. She was forged in the dark, made into a weapon, and taught that obedience was the only thing standing between survival and slaughter.’
When she enters a brutal series of trials to prove herself, survival becomes more than simply winning. Every victory demands a price, every alliance carries a risk, and the mysterious woman she should keep at a distance becomes the first to make her question what she has spent her life becoming.
To stay alive, Nyx must decide what she is willing to lose.
To stay free, she must decide what she is willing to become.
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Excerpt
Ah, yes. The killing hour has reached us again.
Cloaked in invisibility, I run across the city’s heights, drifting with the dusk like smoke upon the wind. Few men or women expect to see a figure clad for a bathhouse leaping rooftop to rooftop, and best it remain so. Unnecessary inquiries lead only to complications.
Ready, Wisp? I ask, within the confines of our shared thoughts.
I was a breath from sleep and set to wake in a hundred years when you finally readied yourself, she retorts, lifting tiny fingers from around my arm to show me just how little patience she has.
I huff a quiet laugh and force my mind back to my footing. These treacherous, flowing silks conspire against me at every step, turning each movement into a wager. All it would take is a single stumble, or a hem snagging on stone, to dash me upon the cobbles below. The dagger secured snugly against my thigh is the only sensible thing about me this evening.
The scarf is another curse: breath comes thin through its weave, and it narrows my vision to slits. Still, the discomfort hides my face, a small, unmistakable hint that I’m not here to offer a relaxing soak and a pleasant ending.
But fear not, darling. An ending is certainly in store.
I reach the bathhouse rooftop and slide my satchel off, tucking it away in the corner with Mal, Kal, and Raz’s belongings. Then I quietly drop into the side alley, where they await.
I fade into view behind Raz and give her a quick jab between the shoulder blades. “Were I a simpler soul, I’d suggest we open our own bathhouse. We’d be drowning in gold.”
Raz nearly sends a basin of water clattering to the ground. “Nyx!” she hisses, clutching her chest. “Must you always appear so suddenly? One day, you’ll scare the soul out of me!”
“Do Shade demons even possess souls?” I murmur, glancing between them. “The attendants?”
Mal smirks. “Sleeping off a little something we gave them . . . in a storage chamber.”
“Good,” I say, tugging my scarf tighter. “Then we mustn’t waste time. Remember, you are now Maren, Cora, and Lila.”
They nod in unison, and I melt back into invisibility, trailing the trio toward the bathhouse’s nondescript entrance, a plain stone building with nothing more than a wooden door. At a glance, one might mistake it for a butcher’s shop, yet beyond that threshold lies another world entirely. Not a place for common folk, but a haven where criminals, or nobles, as they prefer to be called, come to indulge their various appetites.
We brush the sand from our feet, step inside, and the pungent fragrance of lemon and rosemary blesses my senses. Steam clings to marble pillars carved into statues of voluptuous, naked women. One figure’s stone arms reach up to brace the ceiling, as if she alone holds it in place. Another is caught mid-gesture, her hands wandering across her own body in a frozen act of self-indulgence.
A green mosaic cools beneath my feet, but it’s the walls that truly hold the eye. Dark gods take their lovers with one hand and carve them open with the other, spilling blood down their painted bodies, passion and violence rendered as one.I turn to see Mal, Kal, and Raz already in position, seamlessly embodying their roles as bathhouse attendants. They glide across the room and no one spares them a second glance as they go about their duties.
We saunter into ‘our’ designated bathing chamber, the room reserved for more private encounters. At its heart lies a large scented pool, the water lapping against smooth, dark stones lining its edges. To the left, plush lounge pillows are arranged around a low table, laden with an array of exotic oils and lotions in crystal bottles. Once the door closes behind us, I let my invisibility fade and step fully into view, while Wisp remains unseen around my arm.
A soft tune rises in my throat as Mal begins arranging a tray of fruit, preparing the Jackal’s wine goblet with meticulous care.
“I’ll have you know, I only took this assignment because the theater turned me away. Claimed I dominated the stage so completely it embarrassed their leads.” She lifts her nose as though the insult were praise.
“Well then, let us put that vaunted talent to use and give our patron the performance of a lifetime.”
Just as my patience begins to wear thin, slow, heavy footsteps sound through the steam. A large figure crammed into too-tight robes emerges, a true brute in form and manner. And of course, like any brute worth his salt, his soul creature is a Bovikar.
This one is massive, even for its kind: twelve feet tall, with the head and hooves of a bull and the body of a seasoned fighter. Its eyes burn a fiery orange, and two horns, sharp enough to skewer a man, crown its skull. This particular Bovikar wears gold hoop earrings and a wide, intricately decorated belt over sleek black trousers. He has a certain flair. I will grant him that much.
The Jackal strides in with a dozen guards around him, while his Bovikar lumbers to the corner and folds its muscular arms across its broad chest. Its stare fixes on us with unsettling intensity.
My attention shifts to Jackal as he waddles toward us. Candlelight glints along the oily sheen of his skin, and the effect brings a walrus to mind. His guards linger behind him with their eyes sweeping the room, yet Jackal dismisses them with a loose wave of his hand, much like a king sending away a tiresome jester.
Author Bio
Devorah Barrocas was raised in a religious Jewish community where Kabbalistic mysticism was part of daily life, teaching her early that the universe was layered, and that beneath every word and symbol lived something older and more powerful than the surface suggested. Though she no longer practices those beliefs, she remains deeply drawn to the lore, symbols, entities, and cosmology of Kabbalah, which became part of the foundation for her debut novel, Demonic Reign.
A lifelong artist, Devorah first understood herself through image, atmosphere, character design, and visual storytelling. Because of her dyslexia, she never imagined writing would become part of her creative life. It was only later that she discovered a love for fiction and began bringing both sides of her creativity together, incorporating her own art and illustration into the worlds she creates.
Demonic Reign is an adult sapphic dark fantasy that reimagines mystical tradition through a lens of power, myth, violence, identity, and moral complexity. Her stories are built for readers who want worlds that feel genuinely other and characters who feel painfully real. As a member of the LGBTQIA+ community, she writes queer lives and sapphic arcs not as subplots, but as the heart of the story—creating the characters she once needed to find on the page.
| Author Website | https://demonicreign.com/ |
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| Author Facebook | https://www.facebook.com/devorah.barrocas.3/ |