The vaulted hall was steeped in the glow of late afternoon, its stained glass windows burning with the red-gold fire of the setting sun. Patterns of light and shadow sprawled across the polished stone floor, shifting as though alive, reaching toward the dais where you stood. Servants lingered like ghosts at the edges of the chamber, their whispers hushed, their movements deliberate. It was not only the air of courtly ceremony that pressed down upon you—it was expectation, heavy and unyielding, the sense that a single moment was about to alter the shape of your life. And then, the doors opened. Prince Kieran entered not with fanfare, but with the measured quiet of a man who did not need to demand attention to command it. His dark attire was traced with intricate embroidery of gold, chains draped across his shoulders catching in the dimming light as he passed beneath the windows. He was tall, his presence both elegant and unapproachable, as though carved from some severe vision of nobility. His eyes found yours almost at once—sharp, assessing, a gaze that seemed to search deeper than the courtesy of first impressions allowed. Your heart stirred with a pang of betrayal, unbidden. For years, you had thought your fate promised to another, a man you had grown to admire, perhaps even to love. And now here stood Kieran: stranger, betrothed, a puzzle laid at your feet without explanation. He stopped before you, the hall falling into stillness as though it too held its breath. His hands folded behind his back, his posture precise, his expression one of quiet gravity. Yet there was a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that mirrored your own unease—a recognition that he too had been thrown into this binding without consent. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, though it did not reach his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice carried low and resonant, velvet drawn across steel.

The great hall, heart of the Beastmen’s kingdom, was a marvel carved from living stone and crowned with banners dyed in the deep gold of the pride. Pillars shaped like rearing lions and clawed beasts guarded the vast chamber, their shadows long in the glow of torches and braziers. At the far end sat a throne of onyx veined with gold, austere yet regal, designed less for comfort and more to remind all who approached of the king’s weight of rule. The air smelled faintly of smoke and sandalwood, warm yet edged with the tension of ceremony. The floor beneath you was polished to a dark sheen, reflecting wavering tongues of firelight that made the chamber feel alive with restless movement. High above, narrow windows let in threads of moonlight that mingled with the torchglow, casting the hall in a strange, dreamlike twilight. It was there you first saw him. He stood apart from his throne, arms crossed, sleeves rolled up to reveal skin marked by golden filigree as though molten light had been etched into his very flesh. His long silver hair spilled over broad shoulders, catching the firelight like moonlight on water, framing a face sculpted with both strength and melancholy. His gaze was lowered, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, his brow furrowed in thought. There was a weight in his posture, a restless brooding, yet even in stillness he radiated command—too refined to be savage, too untamed to be courtly. They had matched you with him, and though the courtiers whispered it was a union of destiny, you felt none of the warmth those words promised. He looked at you at last, and in his eyes was a quiet storm—loneliness, curiosity, and the reluctant acknowledgment of duty. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, not mocking, but tinged with resignation, as though he knew this arrangement was a burden to you both. When he spoke, his voice was deep, velvet threaded with iron, carrying easily through the silence of the hall.

The timber beams groaned as fire crept steadily along the rafters of the inn, the air thick with smoke and sparks that stung your skin like burning gnats. Each breath seared your lungs, but you dared not cough, dared not move. Around you, chaos reigned—the scrape of armored boots against floorboards, the crash of glass shattering under steel gauntlets, the ugly laughter of men drunk on blood and plunder. Someone cried out—a desperate plea for mercy—cut short by the brutal clang of steel striking flesh, swallowed by the roar of fire and jeers of soldiers numb to suffering. And yet, amid the ruin, one figure stood untouched by the frenzy. His presence was a gravity unto itself, a furnace of command that bent the room to his will. His armor was gilded in flame’s reflection, every carved line alive with the glow of destruction. Where his knights raged like beasts, he moved with the cool precision of inevitability. He was victory incarnate—merciless, unwavering, absolute. From your hiding place beneath the counter, you clutched the wood so tightly your fingers ached, as though you could melt into the grain itself. The soldiers tore open the last of the barrels, filling their sacks with stolen wine and bread, while the air shimmered with the heat of spreading flames. Then his voice carried across the hall, deep and resonant, every word deliberate. “Collect what you can. Leave nothing behind.” Sparks drifted down onto his shoulders, hissing against his armor like molten stars. He did not flinch, did not even look up. Instead, he lifted his chin toward the rafters, jaw set in quiet command. “When you are done…” his voice lowered, like steel drawn from its sheath, “burn it all.” “Yes, your majesty!” his men chorused, voices feverish, drunk on his authority. But his eyes—sharp as a blade’s edge—were no longer on them. They were on the counter. On you.

The path to him was not one you stumbled upon—it was chosen, as though the world itself bent to lead you here. For days the horizon had glowed faintly red, the sky smeared with smoke that never cleared, until finally you reached the valley where nothing human dared remain. The earth was cracked and scorched, the bones of old armies half-buried in ash. Even the wind carried no relief, only the acrid taste of brimstone. At the valley’s heart rose the fortress, impossibly vast, its black spires clawing skyward as if to wound the heavens. The walls pulsed faintly with molten veins, a slow rhythm that made you think of a sleeping beast breathing in the dark. The gates did not creak or groan—they parted silently, like jaws easing open, awaiting prey that walked willingly into the maw. Inside, silence reigned, broken only by the low thrum of fire. The hall stretched out endlessly, the floor black glass that mirrored the burning braziers set into carved skulls along the walls. Shadows slithered across the ceiling, too purposeful to be tricks of light, and the air was thick, heavy with power—each breath tasted of old iron and charred incense. Upon his throne of onyx and silver, he waited. His mantle of white was pristine, mocking the ruin he commanded, and the armor clinging to his form was no mere steel but grown from him, living obsidian marked with veins of crimson flame that beat like blood. His hand, open and beckoning, held fire not as a weapon but as a birthright, flickering lazily in his palm as if daring you to deny his dominion. His gaze caught yours the moment you crossed the threshold. Red as burning coals, it pinned you in place, stripping you bare of fear, defiance, even thought. The corners of his lips curved, slow and deliberate, as though he had been expecting you for longer than you could comprehend.

The ruins were not on any map. You found them by chance, following a trail of crimson blossoms that had no place blooming in late autumn. The deeper you went, the thicker the air became—cool, damp, clinging with the scent of moss and iron. The forest pressed in heavy and still, as though holding its breath, guiding you toward the heart of its silence. And then, the roses began. There, tangled in a cathedral of thorns, he lay. A figure caught in the embrace of living brambles, each black vine studded with cruel barbs that pulsed faintly as if they carried blood instead of sap. The thorns grew from the very ground, coiling up his body, rooting into the stone beneath him like chains. Roses—blood red, impossibly fresh—spilled between the spikes, crawling across his chest and armor, framing his stillness in terrible beauty. their thorns piercing his skin and anchoring deep. Roses bloomed along the wounds, their petals bright against pale flesh. His chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of someone locked in a dream too heavy to wake from. His face was carved in anguish and grace alike, every line touched with the weight of centuries. Silver hair spilled over his shoulders in disarray, strands gleaming faintly in what little light reached this forsaken place. Around him, the air shimmered—not with magic cast in malice, but with something older, something that bound and guarded all at once. The vines reacted to your presence, twisting subtly, their thorns rising in warning. Yet they did not strike. Every instinct told you to step back, to let the curse keep what it claimed—but your hand lifted instead. The roses trembled as your fingers brushed their petals, soft as silk, though barbs waited just beneath. A sting bloomed on your skin, sharp and hot, and drops of blood welled where the thorns bit deep.

The forest of autumn was alive with fire and breath, every tree wearing its crown of scarlet and gold. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in molten shafts, igniting drifting leaves until they seemed to burn midair before settling onto the earth. The air was crisp, touched with the scent of damp bark, wild berries, and the faint smoke of faraway hearths carried on the breeze. It was a season of endings, but here, beneath the canopy of flame-colored branches, it felt timeless. Embren walked with a grace that barely disturbed the ground, each step as soft as falling leaves. His cloak of red foliage trailed like living flame at his back, the maple leaves twined into his garb shifting with the faintest motion. Bronze ornaments glimmered faintly in the dappled light, etched with old runes that pulsed gently as if in rhythm with the heartbeat of the forest. His silver hair caught the sun like frost kissed by fire, and his ember eyes lingered on every detail with quiet, reverent attention. He often paused along his wandering—sometimes to watch a squirrel dart across a branch, other times to marvel at the fragile gleam of dew clinging to a spider’s silken web. The forest was never merely scenery to him; it was a companion, every sound and scent something he cherished. He walked as though it were a conversation, each step a reply to the whisper of the trees. It was in the midst of this serenity that something unusual caught his gaze. Not the flutter of wings or the sudden dash of deer—but the unmistakable sight of a pair of legs, dangling lazily from the lower branches of an ancient maple. The figure was sprawled across the branch as if the forest itself were a bed, boots swinging idly, utterly at home in what should have been Embren’s quiet solitude. The sight drew him still, his breath catching for just a moment. Intrusion was rare, and so brazenly casual rarer still.

The ballroom of his estate was a cathedral of shadows masquerading as splendor. Chandeliers of black crystal hung from vaulted ceilings, each one burning with pale witchlight that cast the dancers in hues of silver and blood. The floor beneath your feet was polished obsidian, so smooth it reflected the swirl of gowns and capes as though another ball was happening in the depths below. Tapestries draped the walls, depicting angels and saints locked against writhing horrors—but the faces of the righteous seemed strangely… uncertain, almost fearful in the dim glow. The air was thick, perfumed with wine, incense, and something sharper underneath. Iron. Old and sweet. The guests were beautiful—too beautiful. Their laughter was lilting, their smiles wide and gleaming, but their eyes lingered too long on throats, wrists, pulses. A court of predators dressed as nobles, each one masking hunger beneath silk and civility. You began to realize: there were no servants, no guards, no common folk. Only them. And you. At the far end of the hall, beneath an ornate arch framed in runes glowing like smoldering embers, he stood. His presence silenced the room without a word. He was dressed in pale linen opened at the chest, where red veins traced fire across his skin, pulsing faintly as though alive. Silver crosses hung mockingly from his ears, and a gilded medallion rested against the hollow of his chest, shifting with every measured breath. Rings of skulls, claws, and ancient silver glinted on his fingers, one hand resting idly over his heart as if in oath—or perhaps invitation. Golden eyes fixed on you, burning not with cruelty, but with interest—intimate, invasive, as though peeling away every pretense you carried. His lips curved into the faintest, knowing smile, the kind that promised danger yet tempted you closer all the same.

The docking concourse of Citadel Arkess was alive with movement, its vaulted glass canopy flooding the space with golden light from the twin suns drifting low over the curve of the station. Shuttle lanes glittered far above, streams of civilian and trade craft weaving between the towering spires of the city’s upper wards. The air was thick with the scents of alien food stalls, coolant vapor from departing ships, and the faint ozone bite of active mass transit rails. Vendors called out from bright holo-kiosks, haggling over gear, spices, and strange curiosities from across the worlds. A trio of armored security officers moved in sync through the crowd, their gaze scanning for trouble. Port crews shouted over the roar of cargo loaders, their voices competing with the hum of idling freighters and the musical chatter of a dozen alien tongues. Amid the crush of travelers and merchants, one figure stood apart. He leaned casually against the ramp of a gunship whose hull was a sleek marriage of matte black and molten gold, its lines sharp enough to cut the light into pieces. The craft was docked in a prominent bay, not hidden away, but positioned like a statement—daring attention rather than avoiding it. His armor was practical but unmistakably custom, segmented plates fitted for speed and movement, laced with glowing golden conduits that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. A vibroblade rested at one hip, a heavy sidearm on the other, balanced by a harness loaded with compact, well-used tools—half pilot’s kit, half mercenary’s cache. Sharp, angular ears framed his face, one marked with an ornate gold filigree earring cradling a shard of blue crystal. Faint golden lines traced along his jaw and temple, glowing like living veins. His molten-gold eyes tracked the flow of people around him without ever seeming hurried, cataloging faces and movements with the ease of someone used to reading a crowd for danger—and opportunity.

The dungeon was a labyrinth of stone and shadow, its air heavy with the damp musk of centuries-old confinement. Water dripped in slow, echoing intervals from the vaulted ceiling, each drop vanishing into the black between the flagstones. Torches sputtered in their sconces, throwing ragged light across iron bars that seemed to drink it in rather than reflect it. Somewhere deep in the corridors, a rat skittered, claws scratching against stone. Corin’s boots struck the worn spiral steps with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat—unhurried, deliberate, a predator descending into its lair. The golden runes carved into his skin caught the firelight with every step, flaring and dimming like the molten veins of some ancient god. They were not mere decoration; the air seemed to hum faintly around him, heavy with the kind of magic that pressed against the bones. Before he even reached the lowest level, the noise rose to meet him—shouts, raw with fury, followed by the metallic crash of chains whipping against bars. The guards had formed a wary half-circle around one of the cells, keeping their distance from the prisoner within. One had a swollen jaw; another’s armor bore a fresh dent in its breastplate. The scent of sweat and iron mingled thick in the air. Corin stepped past them without so much as a glance, his presence cutting through the room like a blade. Inside the cell, you were still on your feet, chest rising and falling with the force of your anger, wrists raw from the shackles that tethered you to the wall. Dust clung to your clothes, and yet your posture was unbroken, your gaze fixed forward like someone who would rather burn alive than bow. He stopped just beyond the bars, the molten light from his markings spilling across the stone floor between you. For a long moment, the dungeon fell silent, the world holding its breath around the two of you. His eyes—sharp, unblinking—traced over you as if measuring the shape of your defiance.

The war camp stretched across the frosted meadow like a sleeping beast, its many fires glowing dimly under the shroud of night. The banners of his house hung limp, their crimson and gold dulled beneath a cloudy sky, the golden eagle’s silhouette visible in the pale wash of moonlight. Beyond the ring of tents, the forest loomed—dark, tangled, and heavy with the kind of silence that felt like a held breath. The air was sharp with mingled scents of smoke, damp earth, and steel. Horses shifted restlessly at the edge of the camp, their breath curling into mist. The low murmur of guards at their posts carried in the stillness, punctuated by the occasional pop of burning wood. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf—or something larger—howled, the sound rolling across the frozen ground before fading into black. His tent rose at the center of it all, a fortress of heavy canvas reinforced with wooden beams, its interior warm with braziers and draped in furs. Within, maps and battle plans lay scattered across a long table, the edges weighed down by daggers and goblets. He had been bent over them moments before, eyes narrowed in thought, when the shout tore through the night. It was the kind of alarm that made even veteran soldiers go still. He stepped into the cold, the shift from firelight to moonlight sharpening the edges of his expression. His polished armor caught the torchlight in gleaming flashes, the deep red of his cloak stirring in the breeze. The golden eagle upon his breastplate gleamed with a predatory shine. The camp quieted at his presence, conversations dying mid-sentence. All eyes tracked his measured steps as he moved toward the source of the commotion. Beyond the flickering torchlight, the treeline crouched like a living thing, the black spaces between branches seeming deeper than they should have been. The soldier who had called out stood stiff, eyes fixed on the shadows, knuckles white on his spear.

The forest stretched endlessly under the pale wash of moonlight, a shifting tapestry of shadows and silver. The wind moved through the treetops in whispers, carrying the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. He walked with deliberate silence, his dark coat blending seamlessly into the night, gold-embroidered patterns catching the light only in fleeting glimmers. The faint rustle of his cloak brushed against his legs as he moved, every step measured and certain, as though he owned every inch of the ground beneath his boots. Tonight was not a night for politics, court, or the suffocating press of people who called him “Your Highness” with rehearsed reverence. Out here, there was no throne—only him, the wild, and the quiet solace of the hunt. The weight of his sword at his hip was familiar, grounding, a constant reminder he was never truly unarmed. He relished this solitude. A sudden sound broke the rhythm of the forest—a subtle shift of leaves, a breath out of place. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing, senses sharpening in an instant. Another rustle, this time closer, quick but unsteady. His hand went to his sword in one fluid motion, the faint ring of steel cutting through the night as the blade left its sheath. The air around him seemed to cool, the shadows tightening like a noose. He moved toward the sound, boots sinking into the moss-soft ground, his footfalls nearly silent. His golden eyes caught the moonlight as he scanned the undergrowth, their glow sharp and unyielding. The trees seemed to lean in around him, their branches reaching like skeletal hands, the night holding its breath in anticipation. Then he saw you. Half-hidden among the low branches, your stance was tense, a mix of defiance and caution. The flicker of recognition never crossed his face—only a steady, predatory focus. His grip on the sword didn’t loosen; his body was a line of cold readiness, poised to strike if you so much as twitched.

The ocean was a black mirror that night, its surface glassy beneath the light of a bloated moon. A stillness hung over the water, unnatural in its perfection—no gulls, no lapping waves, only the slow, rhythmic heartbeat of the deep. Your skiff drifted without the aid of wind, its hull groaning as though it knew it was somewhere it didn’t belong. The smell was the first thing—salt so sharp it burned your lungs, laced with something metallic, like the scent of blood from a freshly caught fish. Then came the glow. It began as a faint shimmer far below, a pulse of blue-green light that flickered like a dying lantern. The glow grew stronger, casting liquid ribbons of color across the water’s surface until they climbed the sides of your boat, bathing everything in ghostly hues. The sea beneath you churned, not with waves, but with something alive. A shadow rose from the abyss—tall, elegant, and terrible in its beauty. The creature broke the surface with barely a ripple, his skin gleaming with shifting patterns of scales, hair curling like black seaweed around sharp, fin-like ears. Water ran down the ridges of his shoulders and chest, catching the light in a thousand prisms. His eyes, slit-pupiled and ancient, locked on you with a predator’s focus. You could feel the weight of him in the air, a subtle shift in the world—as though the tides themselves bent to his will. The boat rocked slightly, not from wind or current, but from the sheer presence of the being before you. He was both man and myth, sea and storm, and as he closed the distance between you. The water lapped lazily at the edge of the boat, as if even the sea itself held its breath. Droplets slid from his jaw and fell into the sea with soft, deliberate splashes, each one marking the silence between you. Somewhere deep below, you thought you heard movement—a slow, massive stirring, as though something else waited in the darkness for his command.

He had just gotten back from an exhausting day—two lectures, an intramural basketball game, and a group project meeting that ran too long. His dorm room still carried the faint scent of laundry detergent from the load he’d thrown in that morning, and the late-afternoon sunlight was filtering in at a sharp angle, painting warm streaks across his desk. His sneakers were kicked carelessly to the side, and his hoodie hung half off his shoulders, the cool spring breeze from the cracked window drifting in. He was halfway through pulling out his laptop when the sound reached him. Faint at first, muffled through the air, then louder as the music swelled. A familiar beat—upbeat, dramatic—and then your voice, belting the lyrics with no hesitation or restraint. Leaning back in his chair, he turned toward the window, and sure enough—there you were. Curtains wide open, hair bouncing as you danced like your room was a private stage. Except, of course, it wasn’t. Not to him. He had the perfect view from across the narrow gap between your buildings, the evening light catching in the windowpane like a spotlight. When he had first moved in and discovered your nightly performances, he’d found it irritating. Trying to study with a full-blown concert happening twenty feet away was impossible. But over time, the annoyance had worn down into something else—something more entertained, more… curious. The way you danced wasn’t for anyone but yourself, there was a freedom in it he couldn’t look away from. Even your terrible singing—off-key in a way that should’ve been unbearable—was starting to grow on him. A gust of wind drifted in, carrying the faintest trace of your music to his side of the dorms. He rested his head in his palm, watching the way you twirled in your socks, oblivious to his gaze. He wondered if you’d ever catch him watching. If you did, he wasn’t sure whether you’d laugh, blush, or shut your curtains for good. A part of him almost wanted to find out.

For the past year, you and Jay had shared an apartment. It wasn’t ideal—two people crammed into a space barely big enough for one—but rent had gone up so high you didn’t have much choice. The arrangement worked because you almost never saw each other. You were in class or the library most of the day, and he worked late into the night. Passing in the hallway was rare, and actual conversation was rarer still. Most of the time, the apartment felt like yours alone. It was well past midnight when you woke, groggy and bleary-eyed, padding softly across the cool floor toward the bathroom. The apartment was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator. But on your way back to your room, something caught your eye—a sharp, unnatural brightness spilling into the hallway. The kitchen light was on. You slowed, almost without meaning to, peering into the doorway. Jay stood at the counter, a glass in hand, his back to you. His black hoodie was pulled up, shadowing his face, but his posture was tense—shoulders slightly hunched, one hand braced on the countertop like it was the only thing holding him steady. He wasn’t moving. Just… staring down at the glass, as if the water inside held an answer he couldn’t quite find. The light overhead made the scene almost too sharp—silver edges glinting off the faucet, the faint sheen of condensation on the glass in his hand. For a moment, it didn’t feel like you were looking at your roommate, but at a stranger occupying the same space. You lingered longer than you meant to, caught somewhere between curiosity and unease. The apartment felt different in that moment—quieter than usual, heavier somehow, like the air had shifted while you slept. Then his head turned slightly, and you knew he’d felt it—your gaze on him. His eyes, dark and unreadable beneath the hood, met yours for only a second before he looked away. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

The late afternoon sun spilled in through the blinds, painting the room in narrow, uneven stripes of light and shadow. Dust drifted lazily in the golden beams, hanging in the air as though time itself had slowed. He sat hunched at his desk, his notebook open, the margins filled with careful notes. The faint hum of his computer was steady in the background, joined by the occasional sigh of the old ceiling fan overhead. It was quiet. Peaceful. Predictable. Until his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. A pause. Then again—three quick pings in a row. He ignored it at first, forcing his pen to keep moving. But the interruptions kept coming. A reel. A photo. Another reel. Then a blurry clip of flashing lights and laughter, your voice tangled in the chaos. A flood of texts followed, each one arriving before he could set the phone back down. He set the pen aside with a sharp exhale, his jaw tightening. You’d been doing this for nearly an hour—sending little snippets of your night at the party, stacking his notifications until his screen lit like a beacon in the dim room. Another ping. And another. By now, the phone seemed louder than the fan, louder than the hum of the street outside, as though your messages were the only thing alive in the stillness. He could almost hear your laugh in the back of his mind, teasing him for ignoring you. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the blinking phone. The light cutting through the clutter on his desk—open books, a half-empty coffee mug, a crumpled sticky note he’d meant to throw away. His hand hovered over the phone for a long moment, as though answering you might commit him to something he couldn’t undo. Finally, he dragged his hand down his face and snatched it up, muttering under his breath, “This idiot…” as his thumbs moved over the screen. *do you plan on spamming me all night?* Almost before his message had time to deliver, your reply came through. One line. No emoji. No teasing follow-up.

The snow fell in slow, soundless sheets—flakes catching in your lashes, clinging to your cloak like pale ash. The forest was nearly silent, muffled beneath winter’s heavy breath. Trees towered on either side of the narrow mountain path, their dark limbs swaying in the wind, whispering secrets older than you could guess. The only sound beneath your feet was the crunch of fresh snow, rhythmic and steady, as you climbed higher. At the path’s end, the trees parted, revealing the temple. The temple emerged from the rock face like it had grown from the mountain itself—massive and silent, its entrance framed by ancient stone and burning braziers. Warm light flickered against the snow-dusted stone, casting long, wavering shadows. Wind stirred the silence, curling around you like a breath held too long. You hesitated at the threshold. This was sacred ground—protected, watched. The air changed immediately—warmer, heavier. The temple’s interior was wide and open, its walls carved with coiling dragon motifs, their eyes set with faintly glowing stones. The scent of burning incense mingled with the distant crackle of flame. You moved forward slowly, past pillars and altars worn smooth with age, until you saw him. The eldest of the four Dragonborn. He stood still, tall and broad-shouldered, framed by firelight and shadow. His bare torso gleamed with the light—powerful, marked with the faint shimmer of ancient blood. Scars and strength sat side by side across his skin. White hair fell around his face, long and wild, braided loosely to one side. From his brow curled dark, gleaming horns, smooth and sharp, like polished obsidian. And his eyes—violet, sharp as steel—locked onto you the moment you entered. He said nothing at first. He didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze held you still. You explained—your village, the raiders returning, stronger than before. The broken wards. The pleas that had gone unanswered elsewhere. You asked if he would help.

The temple was quiet. Golden light streamed through tall lattice windows, casting shifting patterns across the polished stone of the main hall. The scent of incense lingered in the air—warm sandalwood and faint floral smoke—woven into the centuries-old wood and dragon-carved pillars. You moved quietly with your broom, sweeping scattered leaves brought in by the morning breeze. Your footsteps were soft, the only sound beneath the hush of the high ceiling and the distant call of mountain birds. It had been a week since you arrived. A week of silence and sweeping, of hushed lessons from the monks and empty hallways echoing with the weight of legend. The Dragonborn temple stood as high and still as the mountains around it, and despite the grandeur, you had yet to meet all who called it home. Especially him, the second of the Four. The reclusive one. The one they never spoke of directly. You’d caught fragments of rumor—of a blade sharp enough to slice through thought, of a presence so cold the fires dimmed. No one had pointed to his chambers. No one had dared mention his temper. Until now, you’d assumed he wasn’t even here. Then came the scent. Not incense. Not wax or wood. Alcohol. Sharp, heavy, sour-sweet. It hit your senses like a slap. You turned, confused—then startled. He was there. He stood in the center of the hall, tall and far too close. His robes hung open, shadows carving deep across his chest and stomach, skin shimmering with sweat beneath the golden light. His white hair was tousled, silvered with motion, and his long black horns curved from his skull like obsidian daggers. His violet eyes—dull, half-lidded—stared straight through you, burning with some mixture of contempt and fatigue.

The battlefield still pulsed with heat. Ash floated through the scorched air, mingling with the crimson glow of sunset and the flickering breath of dying flames. Trees at the edge of the clearing leaned away from the blaze, leaves curling, blackened at the edges. The ground beneath your boots was torn and stained, slick with soot and blood—both mortal and something older. Yukio lay beneath you, pinned, your dagger pressed to the delicate hollow of his throat. His grin was defiant, teeth bright even through the dirt and sweat smeared across his face. But before the blade could sink in, a blur of red and black streaked past your vision. You didn’t see the strike—only felt it. A force like a thunderclap slammed into your side, lifting you off the ground. Your body collided with the trunk of a tree hard enough to rattle your vision. Bark cracked beneath your weight as you crumpled to the ground, breath knocked from your lungs. The world tilted. Heat pressed against your cheek. Boots crunched against the earth. Then came the laughter—deep, amused, cruel. Third of the four Dragonborn. He stood above you, posture relaxed, like a performer between acts. His white hair gleamed in the firelight, braided and bound, falling behind shoulders draped in black. His skin shimmered with heat, and his violet eyes glowed faintly beneath arched brows. Horns curled from his head, sharp and regal. He was like his brother in form—but the atmosphere around him was colder, sharper, more dangerous. His smile was slow, serpentine. "A mortal knocks down a dragon," he said, voice rich with mockery. He turned slightly, casting a sidelong glance toward his fallen brother. "Brother," he drawled, eyes gleaming. "You should be ashamed." Yukio groaned and rolled onto his side, still grinning despite the blood on his lip. “They cheated.”

The battlefield burned red with dusk and blood. Ash drifted like snow through the ruined valley, settling on the scorched ground and broken blades. Smoke curled from shattered siegeworks and splintered trees, painting the air in streaks of gray. Here and there, armor gleamed dully beneath fallen bodies. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the distant cries of the dying and the low roar of distant fire. You lay on your back, breath sharp and shallow, your blade lost somewhere in the mud. The world tilted slightly as your head swam—but you stayed conscious. Just barely. Then he appeared. The youngest of the four Dragonborn. He stepped lightly over the wreckage, each footfall casual, unhurried. His skin glistened with sweat and blood—none of it his own. A sword rested lazily over his shoulder, its curved blade still slick with crimson. His hair was wild silver, braided to one side, and his curved black horns shimmered like polished obsidian. Violet eyes locked onto you with dangerous amusement. “Still breathing?” he asked, smirking as he brought the blade down—slowly, deliberately—until the tip rested just against your throat. You could feel the pulse in your neck hammer against cold steel. “I’m surprised,” he drawled, voice smooth and arrogant. “I figured someone like you would’ve died with a little more style.” He crouched slightly, grin widening. His ego filled the air around him like heat off flame—radiating confidence, carelessness, victory. He relished the moment, basked in it, basked in himself. But he lingered too long. With a snap of motion, your leg shot out, striking his knee. His balance faltered. His blade jerked. He stumbled back—just enough. You surged forward, tackling him to the ground. Dirt and ash kicked up around you as you landed atop him, straddling his chest, your dagger drawn and pressed hard to his throat. Now it was his turn to go still.

The rain turned the city into a smear of light and shadow—towers dissolving into mist, traffic bleeding into ribbons of red and gold. You had no reason to be in this part of the city, except that desperation has a way of pulling you toward doors you’d rather never open. The message had been simple: an address, no name, no sender. You wouldn’t have gone if it hadn’t arrived exactly when you’d run out of people to call, favors to cash in, and time to waste. It was either walk into the unknown… or be swallowed by the mess you were already in. The building was all glass and steel, the kind of place you’d only seen in magazine spreads. Yet security didn’t stop you—no front desk, no questions, just an elevator that opened the moment you stepped inside. It carried you to the top floor, the ride soundless but heavy, as if the air itself knew where you were going. The penthouse was vast and immaculate. Every surface—marble, black glass, polished steel—reflected the cold light of the storm. Wall-to-wall windows framed the city like a painting, each pane streaked with rain. The air smelled faintly of something expensive and unplaceable, like the ghost of a forgotten cologne… and beneath it, something metallic, sharp, unsettling. It was quiet. No sign of life except the man standing at the far window. He didn’t turn at first, only stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the city like it was a memory instead of something real. The space around him felt hollow, as if this sprawling penthouse was less a home and more a cage with an exquisite view. You were there because someone said he could help you. Not in the way people normally help—but the kind of help that leaves you owing more than you bargained for. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth but carried the weight of centuries, each word deliberate. His reflection in the glass showed eyes that caught the light a fraction too long, like they remembered a thousand nights more than any human should.