The forest was a living hush at dusk, its canopy catching the last embers of sunlight before swallowing them whole. The sky beyond the branches burned in streaks of rose and amber, fading into blue. A cool dampness clung to the air, carrying the scents of pine resin, crushed leaves, and the faint tang of earth. You had chosen your campsite in a clearing, a circle of stones guarding the fire whose flames licked upward, throwing wavering shapes into the dark. The stream you’d passed whispered nearby, its trickle a counterpoint to the crackle of wood. You had just begun to settle into the stillness when it came—the sound that didn’t belong. A frantic crashing through the undergrowth, uneven but urgent. The rhythm spoke not of an animal’s foraging, but of something larger, heavier, forcing its way forward. Every instinct sharpened. You rose in one motion, bow in hand, string pulled taut until the fletching brushed your cheek. The arrow gleamed faintly in the firelight as you held it steady, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flame. The forest seemed to pause. Cicadas hushed their droning, the wind stilled as if the world held its breath. Then, breaking the silence, a figure stumbled into the light. He emerged like a shadow torn from the trees, tall even in his staggering weakness. His steps faltered, dragging one foot as though the earth pulled at him. One hand clutched his side in a grip so fierce it trembled, blood seeping between his fingers and painting his skin darker in the glow of the fire. The other arm swung out, catching the trunk of a tree to steady himself as his knees threatened to give. The fire cast his features into sharp relief—eyes wide, unfocused, burning with pain and defiance. Blood ran in rivulets down his leg, dripping into the dirt, each drop darkening the soil where it fell. His breath came ragged and harsh, echoing unnaturally loud in the clearing, every exhale edged with the strain of holding himself upright.

The war was over, yet its shadow followed him as he crossed the threshold of the capital. The streets had been dressed in celebration—banners of crimson and gold hung from every arch, garlands of flowers draped from balconies. The air smelled of incense and roasting meat, a city alive with triumph. Bells tolled from high towers, their echoes rolling over rooftops, and the cheers of the people rose to meet them, a tide of voices surging the closer he came. The king received him in a hall ablaze with light. Torches burned in tall iron sconces, chandeliers glittered overhead, and long tables groaned beneath the weight of feasts prepared in his honor. Toasts rang out, goblets raised in salute to the man who had delivered them from their enemies. Music filled the chamber, yet every note seemed to pause on a single question—the promise made before he marched away. A reward, freely chosen, granted without hesitation. When the moment came, the court leaned forward. The king smiled, confident in his generosity, and nobles shifted eagerly in their seats, each imagining how his choice might benefit them. Lands, titles, gold, even a princess’s hand—such were the expectations for a man who had given everything to crown and country. But he did not name estates or treasures. He did not seek power or elevation. Instead, his voice carried steady through the hall, and he spoke your name. Confusion rippled through the hall; whispers turned sharp and incredulous. You—the child of a house so small, its name barely clung to noble registers. You, who had stood in the background of gatherings, overlooked and forgotten. You remembered no secret meeting, no tender glance, no reason at all why the greatest knight of the realm would choose you above all else. The king himself looked startled, but his promise was iron. A vow once made could not be broken, and so his consent was given.

The fields stretch on forever, pale and endless under a sky the color of ash. No sun, no stars—just a dim glow that offers neither warmth nor direction. The ground is soft, almost like ash as well, and it shifts underfoot with each step you take. Around you, thousands of other souls drift without aim, their outlines blurred and pale like smoke. They don’t speak. They don’t look at one another. The silence is heavier than stone. Now and then, a faint whisper drifts through the air—broken fragments of memory carried on the wind. Far off, the horizon is broken by a jagged black range of cliffs. At its base, a river winds through the wasteland, black and soundless, glinting faintly like oil under the dead light. Its banks steam faintly with some unseen current, though no breeze stirs the air. The wind carries no scent, only the faint echo of something you can’t name—like memories slipping through your fingers. This is the underworld. A place without time, where even longing is muted. And then—he appears. He towers at the edge of the field, a figure cut from shadow and flame. His presence parts the crowd of lost souls as if the very air obeys him. When he moves, it feels as though the ground itself leans toward him, and the sky deepens to a darker shade. The faint glow of the river flickers and twists as if mirroring his approach. His eyes burn faintly, casting a glow that cuts through the gloom, and his very shape seems too vivid for this place—as though he belongs to some sharper, more real world than the one you’ve been wandering. He sees you. For a heartbeat, everything stops—the drifting souls, the sluggish air, the soundless river. Even the endless gray sky seems to tense. The underworld itself holds its breath. And then he’s striding toward you, his gaze locked on yours. Every step sends faint tremors through the field, and the wraithlike forms around you scatter, rippling out like smoke in a strong wind.

It started as nothing more than a walk. The park trail wound lazily through the trees, your sneakers crunching over gravel, earbuds feeding you music just loud enough to blur out the city behind you. A dog barked in the distance, a bike bell chimed, and then—quiet. Not the ordinary quiet of nature, but something sharper, deeper, as though every sound had been pressed flat. You frowned, pulling your earbuds free. The air felt… wrong. Heavier. Cooler. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, even though nothing’s there. You glanced around, and only then noticed you’d stepped off the trail—though you couldn’t remember when. A few paces more and the world seemed to fold in on itself. The light dimmed, filtered through trees that hadn’t been there before, massive and ancient. Their roots buckled the earth, their branches wove so thick overhead they choked out the sky. And yet, just ahead, something glowed—golden, beckoning. You pushed forward and stumbled into a clearing that looked nothing like the city park you knew. Sunlight streamed down as if funneled from another world, gilding grass so green it hurt to look at. At the center lay a pool of water, impossibly clear, reflecting clouds you knew shouldn’t be there. The air smelled sweet, wild, alive with a kind of magic you’d only ever read about. And there he stood. Tall, otherworldly, marked by horns that curled like blackened stone, he carried himself as though he belonged here in a way you never could. His gaze found you instantly, sharp and curious, and for a moment the world seemed to narrow to that alone—his eyes on yours, the weight of it pinning you still. You tried to speak, to ask something—where you were, who he was—but the words tangled on your tongue. Somehow, though, conversation happened anyway. Cautious, awkward at first, then easier, laughter echoing in a place too silent for it. Time slipped oddly here, measured not by minutes but by the quickening of your pulse.

The cave breathed damp and shadow, its stone walls weeping with rivulets of rain that trickled into shallow pools along the floor. Outside, the storm raged—a downpour that hammered the earth, wind howling like some furious beast clawing at the mountainside. Inside, the flicker of firelight painted the jagged walls in restless orange, throwing long, twitching shadows across the rough stone. Smoke curled upward, clinging to the roof before being tugged away by the draft that whistled faintly at the entrance. He sat slouched near the flames, the storm’s roar softened by the cavern’s depth. His tattoos shimmered faintly in the firelight, pale lines and glowing marks crawling over his skin like a living script. The rain drummed louder against the outside rock, masking the soft squelch of your steps as you stumbled inside. Soaked through, trembling, you barely noticed him at first—until his eyes lifted, sharp and weary. He let out a long sigh, voice flat with irritation. “This spot is taken.” But his gaze lingered. Water streamed from your hair, pooling at your feet, your body shivering uncontrollably in the chill. Something in his expression shifted. He muttered, almost to himself— “Well, fuck…” With a reluctant grunt, he pushed himself up, grabbed a blanket from his pack, and tossed it your way. “Strip.” You were too cold to care about pride. Fingers clumsy, you shed your sodden layers and toss them aside with a wet plop. Then wrapped the rough fabric around yourself, the fire’s heat still too distant to stop the shivers wracking your body. He didn’t wait. “Come on…” His hand closed around your wrist, dragging you closer to the blaze before pulling you into his lap without ceremony. His skin radiated an impossible warmth, seeping through the blanket, through your bones, until the trembling dulled. Instinctively, you pressed closer, curling against him.

The bar breathed warmth and shadow, its walls lined with polished wood that glowed softly under the amber light of old sconces. Bottles gleamed behind the counter, their glass catching the flicker of the light, painting everything in shades of gold and red. The hum of conversation filled the air, low and steady, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. You hadn’t planned to drink this much. But the day had already torn something raw in you. You’d left work early, a cake box in one hand, picturing the smile on your boyfriend's face when you got home. Instead, you found the unmistakable sound of heavy breath. Sheets tangled, skin against skin, his voice, whispering sweet nothings to someone else. The cake slipped from your fingers, forgotten on the floor, its sweetness wasted on betrayal. Every glass you emptied only blurred the edges of that image, but it wouldn’t fade. Betrayal struck merciless and fast, leaving you hollow, desperate to fill the void with anything—noise, heat, numbness. So you clung to the haze of firelight and strangers, to the fog creeping into your veins, to anything that wasn’t the truth waiting at home. That’s when he appeared. What began as words—an easy smile, conversation too steady in your unraveling, teasing that brushed too close to your skin—slid into something you couldn’t resist. When leaning toward him became a need, when banter became touch, when your defenses cracked wide open. His arms wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you against him as your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to his with an eagerness that betrayed how badly you needed to feel anything but the ache still gnawing at your chest. He tasted of alcohol, sharp and rich, with a hint of mint, crisp against the burn. Intoxicating in a way that went beyond the liquor already clouding your mind.

(Requested) The hospital corridor was quiet except for the distant squeak of wheels and the muffled chatter at a nurse’s station. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their pale glow flattening every shadow into sterile uniformity. He moved slowly, boots thudding softly against the linoleum. He had only meant to pass through—his cousin was two doors down, recovering from surgery—but something made him stop. He froze mid-step, eyes catching on the open door at his left. Inside, the blinds were half-drawn, cutting the afternoon light into narrow stripes, pale bands that reached across the bed and climbed the wall. Machines hummed softly, blinking in quiet rhythm. And in the bed—someone he knew as well as his own rifle. You. His throat tightened. The sound in his ears rushed like the rainstorms he remembered from overseas—the kind that blurred vision and swallowed sound, leaving only instinct to cling to. Memories came sharp and unrelenting: water dripping down his helmet, mud sucking at his boots, the crackle of your voice over comms, fractured and full of static, before the line went silent. He had buried you that day, though your body was never found. They'd told him you were gone. Declared MIA, presumed KIA. He’d carried that weight for so long, drank it down on sleepless nights. But here you were. Breathing. Alive. He gripped the doorframe to steady himself, his knuckles whitening under the pressure. He stepped inside with caution, as though one wrong movement might shatter the fragile reality in front of him. The smell of antiseptic filled his lungs, mixing with the faint hum of electricity, the soft hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at you, the way the fluorescent light softened the edges of your features. The sight twisted something deep in him—a knot of relief, grief, and disbelief so tight he could hardly breathe, fighting the urge to reach out, to prove this wasn’t some cruel hallucination.

The forest was alive with the hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves in the high canopy. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the green tangle overhead, spilling light onto the rutted road where your carriage had been making its way. Dust still hung in the air from the sudden, violent stop, drifting lazily like smoke in the golden glow. Horses snorted and stamped nervously, their reins pulled tight in the hands of men now pressed against the roadside—your guards stripped of weapons, the footmen bound quickly with ropes that smelled of hemp and tar. The woods themselves seemed to lean in, watching. Every creak of a branch, every crunch of boot on gravel felt too loud in the sharp silence that followed the ambush. Bandits moved like shadows between the trees, their laughter carrying on the breeze, easy and unhurried, as if this were not danger but sport. And then—he appeared. He ducked under the low frame of the carriage door, sunlight catching in his eyes, bright and startling against his sun-darkened skin. Mischief clung to him the way a cloak might cling to another man; effortless, natural, impossible to ignore. His grin curved with practiced ease, equal parts rogue and courtier, and there was a gleam in his gaze that suggested he was enjoying himself too much. His eyes swept over the glitter of jewels at your neck, the lingering tremor of your hands, then rose to yours with deliberate slowness. Steady, certain, and teasing. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as though even his men outside had paused to see what he would say. For a long moment, he simply watched you, one shoulder leaning lazily against the doorframe, his silhouette framed by dappled light spilling through the leaves behind him. The smile tugging at his mouth deepened, unhurried, as though the silence itself were part of the game. His gaze held yours so firmly it was as if the world had gone still, caught in the weight of his amusement.

The day was warm, the kind that made the asphalt shimmer like molten glass. The hum of engines carried over the road, deep and rolling, like thunder that never broke. You followed the sound, half-uncertain, until it pulled you to the edge of town. The shop looked almost abandoned from the outside. The sign over the doorway was weathered and chipped, letters half-flaked from rusted metal. A row of bikes lined the front, their chrome catching the light, every curve polished until it burned against the sun. They weren’t showroom machines—they carried scratches, dents, road dust—but they looked alive, like beasts waiting to be ridden. The air was thick with gasoline and hot rubber, the smell of speed and freedom wrapped into one. Inside, the shop was a world of its own. Pegboards hung with tools, hooks bristling with spare parts, crates stacked with gears and old tires. The concrete floor bore years of stains—oil slicks, tread marks, the black smudges of ash from welding torches. The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, moving air heavy with metal and leather. Somewhere deeper in the shop, a radio crackled with static before settling into a low, bluesy guitar riff, the sound weaving through the silence. Jett leaned against a custom bike parked dead center, its frame matte black, chrome bars flashing under the skylights above. His jacket hung open, collar wide, the glint of a chain at his throat catching stray light. His skin carried the sun, bronzed and cut by long hours on the road. His eyes lifted when you stepped in, steady and sharp, a flicker of amusement tracing across his features before settling into something unreadable. You froze, just for a moment. He didn’t move, but somehow the entire shop seemed to fall into his orbit. The low music, the hum of engines idling outside, even the whisper of the fans overhead—all of it dimmed around the weight of his gaze.

The workshop was buried deep in the old quarter, tucked between a shuttered ironmonger’s shop and a warehouse that hadn’t seen business in years. From the outside it looked like nothing—corrugated steel walls, rusted hinges, a sign with no paint. But when the door swung inward, the air was thick with the tang of oil and scorched metal, a perfume of heated gears and solder that never left once it seeped into the walls. The space stretched wider than it appeared from the street. Chains dangled from rafters like iron vines, their shadows swaying with each draft. Workbenches overflowed with half-dismantled engines, tangled wires, and tools that seemed ancient and new. Every surface bore the scars of work—scratches, burns, dents—yet everything carried a strange order, a rhythm that belonged only to the man who lived in it. Light filtered down from high windows streaked with grime, slicing through dust motes and painting the air in pale golden stripes. It caught the edges of steel and chrome, made the scatter of screws glitter like stray stars. Somewhere deep in the room, a motor purred before dying into silence, leaving only the clink of tools settling. That was when you saw him. He stood in the middle of it all, framed by steel and shadow like the centerpiece of some vast machine. Stripped to the waist, his skin bore the gleam of work and heat, and the muscles across his torso shifted with every movement. His belt sagged heavy with tools—hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers—all lined like weapons of a craftsman-warrior, each one clearly used, each one exactly where it needed to be. Black gloves clung to his hands, their edges frayed, though his grip was steady, confident, as if even the roughest machine would yield if he touched it. You hesitated in the doorway, unsure if you’d stepped into the wrong place, unsure if you belonged in this hidden world of iron and sweat. The scuff of your foot betrayed you. He looked up.

The market was alive that morning, a humming tapestry of sound and color. Stalls leaned into the narrow streets, canvas awnings stretched taut to shield bolts of dyed fabric, crates of figs and dates, and vials of shimmering oils that caught the sunlight like liquid fire. The air was heavy with spice and smoke—coriander, cumin, and roasting meats tangled with the sharper tang of ironwork from the blacksmith’s forge deeper within the quarter. Voices overlapped in a chorus: merchants haggling, children weaving between tables, the rhythmic clatter of wagon wheels against uneven stone. You were at your stall, arranging neat rows of polished glass beads in the small square of space you called your own. Customers lingered nearby, hands brushing over the wares, their chatter punctuated by laughter and sharp bargaining. For a moment, the world felt ordinary, steady—until the noise shifted. A hush, like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Drums rolled low and steady, their beat echoing down the street before the procession arrived. Banners of silver and blue unfurled, rippling above the armored guards who pressed the crowd back with practiced precision. The air thickened with awe and unease, the press of bodies driving closer to the edges of the street. Your stall shuddered beneath the weight of jostling elbows, and before you could brace yourself, the crowd surged. Your balance broke. The cobblestones rushed beneath your feet, hooves striking sharp against the road too near, the roar of drums rattling through your ribs. Then—arms around your waist, a grip steady and strong pulling you back into safety. For an instant, the world narrowed to the heat of that hold, the rasp of chain and cloth brushing against you, the sharp tang of dust rising between you both. The procession thundered past as though nothing had happened, indifferent, its banners sweeping light across the stunned marketplace.

The hall shimmered with excess, a monument to wealth dressed as generosity. Chandeliers dripped crystal light over polished marble, each gleam carefully arranged to flatter diamonds and gowns. Murmurs swirled like smoke—measured laughter, scripted compliments, the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain. The scent of roses, too heavy and perfumed, hung with the sharper tang of wine and roasted meats carried on silver trays. Every detail was meant to dazzle, to conceal the emptiness of the event itself. Wealthy benefactors leaned toward one another with polished smiles, voices lowered in transactions disguised as charity. Behind every toast and pledge was calculation, numbers weighed and traded like currency. He sat amidst it all. His tuxedo fit him with the precision of a weapon, but his posture betrayed nothing but weariness. Reclined in his gilded chair, he held his glass of wine loosely, as though even the effort of drinking had become tedious. His eyes remained half-lidded, his expression carved from stone, as if he were simply enduring the night rather than participating in it. The plate before him was untouched, garnished with care and ignored with equal precision. The din of voices washed around him, yet none of it pierced his silence. He was both present and apart—too powerful to be overlooked, too indifferent to be drawn in. Even the whispers that circled his table—admiration, envy, curiosity—were met with nothing more than a faint curl of his lip. And then, as you approached, the atmosphere shifted. The sound of your footsteps, quiet against marble, was nearly lost beneath the orchestra, yet his gaze caught it instantly. Silver hair glinted under the warm light as he turned, eyes following you with a focus the rest of the evening had failed to summon. He lowered the glass, resting it against his knee, the faintest flicker of interest cutting through the veil of his indifference.

The chamber breathed with the first light of dawn. Sheer curtains, pale as mist, shifted gently at the high windows, letting narrow bands of sunlight slip across the floor. Dust motes shimmered in those beams, drifting lazily above the cold marble that still clung to the night’s chill. From somewhere deep within the palace came the soft toll of bells, their resonance rolling like distant thunder, marking the turn of the watch. The air carried a mixture of scents—polished wood warmed faintly by the sun, the sharper tang of oiled steel, the faint sweetness of wax from candles burned low. Shadows stretched long across the carved pillars and gilt inlay, shifting slowly as the day began its advance. At the edge of it all, near the door, stood Varrow. His figure was fixed in perfect stillness, posture aligned with the same precision as the armor that encased him. The dark plates bore faint, meticulous etchings—symbols of a vow unbroken—each line dulled from use yet tended with care. Across his chest, gems of deep red glowed where the light touched, as though embers lived within the stone. A heavy cloak swept over one shoulder, its folds hanging in unyielding silence. Though he did not move, the weight of his presence filled the chamber more than the sunlight or the sound of bells. It was not the silence of absence, but of intent—a watchfulness so complete that even the smallest stir in the air seemed accounted for. Each faint creak of wood, each whisper of the curtains, each shift of your own movements had already been measured, noted, and dismissed as harmless. Varrow’s gaze did not linger on you, but on the spaces around you—the doorway, the shadows, the unseen corners where danger might one day take root. His stillness was not rest; it was the readiness of steel before the draw, the poise of a shield raised though no strike had yet come.

The alley behind the bar reeked of rain-soaked garbage and spilled liquor, lit only by a flickering neon sign above the warped metal door. The ground shimmered with oil-slick puddles, reflecting fractured pieces of red and blue light from the clubs across the street. The city's pulse throbbed around it—muffled bass lines, shouts from strangers, the lonely wail of a distant siren. Nico shoved the door open with his shoulder, nearly missing the last step down as he stumbled out into the humid night air. The heavy scent of sweat and cheap alcohol clung to him like another layer of clothing. His trench coat flared slightly with the motion, damp at the hem from where it had dragged across the sticky floor inside. His shirt was half-open, stained near the collar, and one button dangled by a thread. He drew a deep breath, or tried to, and nearly choked on it—coughing out smoke from the cigarette clamped between his fingers. It glowed with the last of its life, smoldering faintly as ash flaked onto his chest. He was drunk, but not the carefree kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made the world spin too fast and too close, where every breath felt like it might be your last if you let your guard down for even a second. Rent was late and he had just been fired that morning. His car hadn’t started in two days. Everything felt like it was slipping out from under him, and no one was offering a hand. He didn’t want a hand. He wanted to hit something. Stumbling down the alley, boots splashing through puddles, he barely registered the approaching footsteps until it was too late. His shoulder slammed into someone—hard. The impact sent him reeling sideways, one foot slipping on the slick concrete. The cigarette tumbled from his fingers, a brief trail of sparks flaring before it hissed out in a puddle. He swore under his breath, straightening up fast, muscles bristling with raw nerves. And then he saw you. Just a passerby. Wrong place, wrong time.

The corridors of the foreign palace stretched long and silent, the air heavy with incense and stone polished smooth by centuries of passing feet. Gold sconces flickered with tall flames, throwing restless shadows across carved columns and gilded archways. The deeper you were led, the quieter it became, as though the very walls had swallowed the last notes of music and laughter. Somewhere far off, a harp strummed its final chords, muffled by distance and stone. The celebration carried on, but here in these halls the hush was absolute. Each echo of your boots on the marble reminded you of what had been sealed only hours ago: vows spoken under the eyes of two kingdoms, a truce forged not by trust but by desperation. The feasting hall had been thick with expectation, smiles stretched thin and brittle. Nobles studied every glance, every word, waiting for a misstep that might shatter fragile peace. Rings were exchanged, promises spoken, but they had been vows of politics, not of the heart. Peace was fragile, spun of glass and ceremony, and your union had been chosen as its binding thread. At last, the heavy doors of your new chambers creaked open. The space beyond was grand, yet hollow, its stone walls softened with woven tapestries and velvet hangings. The bed was vast, draped in silks of crimson and gold, the kind of luxury meant to impress but not comfort. The hearth dominated all, flames roaring high, spitting sparks that chased shadows into the corners. The scent of woodsmoke mingled with perfumed oils, cloying in the warm air, as though the room itself was dressed for the night’s performance. The doors closed with a thud, cutting off the world outside. You stood in the firelit chamber for a moment, its silence pressing down with a weight nearly as heavy as the vows themselves. The beginning of your union may be uneasy, you thought, the truth of it settling deep in your bones like a chill that lingered despite the fire.

Snow muffled everything. It blanketed the forest floor in a thick crust, muting the crunch of boots, swallowing the sound of breath, until the world itself seemed to hold its tongue. The pines rose like dark spires, heavy with ice, branches sagging low under the weight of winter. The only movement was the slow drift of flakes falling through the stillness, each one dissolving into the endless white. Through that quiet came the clink of steel. Anders rode at the head of his men, polished armor catching what little light pierced the storm-dark sky. He cut an imposing figure even in weariness, cloak trailing, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow. Behind him, his retinue kept close, voices low, men long on the road but heartened by the thought of their lord’s keep on the horizon. They never saw it coming. The silence shattered—arrows slicing through the trees, steel flashing from the drifts. Shouts, panicked and sharp, filled the clearing. Men fell into the snow, crimson blooming like spilled ink. Anders’s sword was in his hand almost before the first man cried out, its arc bright and merciless, but the ambush closed in from all sides. Steel clashed, the ground churned red, the forest rang with death. You were among them—the hidden blades, shadows moving through the storm. Strike, withdraw, strike again. His men fought hard, but outnumbered and trapped, they had no chance. One by one, they fell, until only Anders remained, staggering beneath the storm of blades. Even then he would not yield. His breath came ragged, his strikes slower, but his eyes burned with fury that would not die. At last his sword slipped from his hand and he dropped to one knee, blood trailing down his armor. The fight was finished. Spoils were taken swiftly—coin purses torn free, blades stripped from the dead, cloaks pulled from cooling bodies. Around him, his men lay silent, the snow already beginning to cover them.

You don’t remember breaking any law. One moment you were free, the next rough hands seized you, dragging you through torchlit corridors that stank of smoke and iron. You fought, every step, but their grip was unyielding, your strength nothing against the armored weight of the palace guards. Shackled in their grasp, you were hauled down into the bowels of the keep. The dungeon swallowed you whole the moment the cell door yawned open. You were thrown inside, striking the floor with a sickening thud. Pain cracked through your skull as it hit the stone, vision shattering into a haze of black and copper sparks. The iron door slammed shut behind you, the echo rattling down the corridor until all that remained was the hush of dripping water and the faint scrape of chains above you. The floor was merciless beneath you—uneven stone slick with moisture, biting into your palms as you tried to push yourself upright. A low groan escaped your throat, swallowed quickly by the dungeon’s suffocating silence. When your eyes finally adjusted to the wavering glow of a torch bracketed to the far wall, you noticed him. A man chained to the stone, arms pulled high, iron shackles biting deep. The firelight flickered across his body, tracing scars and sweat, the weight of years etched into his bowed frame. For a fleeting moment his gaze lifted, tired eyes catching yours through the dim light. There was no recognition there, only the dull weight of someone who had been waiting too long in the dark. Then his head sank once more, chains groaning as he shifted, the sound scraping against the stone. Your breath fogged faintly in the chill air. Somewhere beyond the cell, a door creaked, then slammed shut. Heavy boots struck stone, drawing nearer, then fading again into silence. No laughter followed, no jeering guards—just that echoing absence, making the dungeon feel endless, as though you had been swallowed by a labyrinth of stone.

The city never slept, but it wasn’t alive either—it pulsed, restless, like something that should have died long ago but refused to lie still. Towers of glass and steel loomed overhead, reflecting neon into rain-slick streets. Car horns blared in the distance, but here—in the side alleys where the glow of advertisements didn’t reach—everything felt older. That’s where he fit. Not in the light, not in the noise. In the cracks. You wouldn’t know by looking at him that he had lived through centuries. He wore the modern age well: tailored black suit sharp against his frame, tattoos winding across his hands and throat like whispers of forgotten script. But in his eyes—grey as storms over the sea—lingered a weight, memory of blood spilled on cobblestones before skyscrapers ever touched the sky. The first time you saw him, you didn’t even realize he was watching. He crouched at a rooftop’s edge, smoke of the city curling around him like a living thing. The shadow behind him wasn’t light’s trick—it slithered and coiled, teeth bared, a dragon-shaped silhouette stitched to his soul. You felt it before he spoke. A pressure, subtle at first, then crushing, like the air was too heavy to breathe. People below kept walking, oblivious, though every instinct in you screamed wrong. When his gaze cut to you, it was like being pinned under a blade. He studied you, head tilted slightly, as if weighing something unseen. Then, with deliberate grace, he dropped from the rooftop and landed soundlessly on wet pavement. Up close, the details sharpened: silver hair disheveled yet deliberate, ink crawling along his arms, a faint scent—burnt ozone, iron, smoke. The air around him bent, charged, neon sputtering. Behind him, the dragon’s silhouette coiled tighter, jaws opening and closing in rhythm with his breath.

The city lay strangled under night. Fog crawled along the pavement in coils, slipping through gutters and around piles of refuse, carrying with it the damp reek of oil and rust. Above, fire escapes zigzagged the brick walls like the skeletons of dead ladders, their bolts groaning whenever the wind pried at them. A neon sign sputtered across the street, its glow bleeding into the mist in uneven pulses, more a dying heartbeat than light. From that haze, he emerged. A tall figure in a black coat that swept the ground with each measured step, his hands buried casually in his pockets as though the alley were a red carpet rolled in his honor. The coat parted as he walked, revealing the hard lines of a body sculpted for war. His hair, white as fractured bone, caught the dim light in sharp contrast to his eyes—two embers burning out of a face too still, too precise. The ground itself seemed to recoil from him. Shadows clung unnaturally close, twisting and knotting together until they rose into something alive. Behind him swelled a towering mass of black smoke and muscle, its edges seething like storm clouds in collapse. A face broke through the darkness—horns jagged and crimson, eyes dripping with malice, a grin too wide for the world it inhabited. The demon stalked at his shoulders like a beast barely restrained, its smoke curling around his frame, binding the two into a single silhouette that blotted out the night. The streetlamp overhead flickered, caught in the pull of something vast, and then guttered back to life. A gust swept the alley, tugging at newspapers and peeling paint, but he did not flinch. Each step pressed deeper into silence, his presence swallowing even the distant city noise until only breath and pulse remained. He stopped at the alley’s mouth, red eyes reflecting the faint light, and at last tilted his head back toward the beast looming close behind. His voice was low, deliberate, every syllable like a nail hammered into stone.

The night pressed close as you stepped out of the hospital, you hated workning nightshifts. The streetlamps were dim here, half-swallowed by fog that clung to the alleys, leaving stretches of pavement in darkness. The wind carried the sour tang of exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You kept your head down, but the emptiness felt wrong—like the buildings themselves were holding their breath. The sound came first: footsteps behind you, too quick, too close. Then the sharp rasp of steel. A hand snatched your wrist, cold and unrelenting, dragging you into the mouth of an alley. The mugger’s face was hidden beneath the brim of his hood, but his blade gleamed as he pressed it forward, his voice a low growl demanding your wallet. The walls seemed to lean in, trapping you in the dark with him. The air split apart. Shadows churned, thick and violent, and a figure stepped from the void as if it had been waiting. Azrael’s hand shot out, claws curling around the mugger’s throat. The man’s scream cracked against the bricks, high and desperate, before Azrael swung him through the air like nothing and slammed him down the alley. The crash of metal thundered as the body hit a dumpster and crumpled at its base, silent but for a groan. Now only you remained with him. The air hadn’t recovered—it pressed heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of brimstone and something older, darker, that set your nerves on edge. Every breath carried the faint sting of smoke, the reminder he wasn’t something meant for streets like these. He looked at you as if measuring, weighing not your fear but your intent, like a predator waiting to see whether prey would run or kneel. The wind stirred again, carrying scraps of city noise down the alley, but Azrael didn’t move. His eyes, silver-shot and sharp as knives, fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you to the spot.