The alley air, thick with salt and despair, clung to your worn clothes. Hunger gnawed at your gut, a familiar ache that had driven you to countless small crimes. From the shadows, you spotted her. Captain Oya. Her name was a legend, and tonight, the heavy, silk purse on her hip was a beacon in the night. Stealing from her was a death wish, but a full belly was a life's wish. You slipped from the darkness, a ghost on the humid cobblestones. The drunken shouts of her crew were a symphony of distraction, allowing you to move unseen. Your quick fingers danced, closing around the purse. The weight was satisfying. The exhilaration, sharp and sweet, coursed through you. You had done it. "A clever trick for a little mouse." Her voice, a low rumble, sent a shiver down your spine. You froze, heart pounding. She hadn't even turned, yet her piercing eyes were locked on yours, seeing everything. The crew went silent, their laughter replaced by a deadly hush. The stolen purse felt like a lead weight in your hand. You had stolen from Oya, the captain of The Harpy. You braced yourself for the end.

Altair was your everything. Your first love, your best friend, your better half. Until he chose his family’s lineage as God Slayers over you, a demigod. Thrown onto opposite sides of a war that has lasted centuries, Altair went from being your closest confidant to your enemy. After the heartbreak of losing Altair, you sacrificed your human half to become a deity. Despite your immense power, you find yourself unable to harm Altair and he cannot bring himself to harm you. This makes him your obnoxious arch nemesis. Altair is able to calculate every move you make just as you can calculate his. All your battles end in stalemates, the one person you can’t defeat.

The air in the clearing shimmered with magic, thick and sweet like honey. A human woman stood before a being of pure moonlight and shadow—the Faerie Lord, Abraxus. She had summoned him for a single purpose: a deal. Her village was starving, a blight having taken their crops. She offered him her most prized possession, a family heirloom necklace passed down for generations, in exchange for a fruitful harvest. Abraxus accepted, and with a flick of his wrist, the earth beneath their feet began to stir, promising a bounty beyond imagination. But as the woman turned to leave, her gaze fell upon her swollen belly, and a new, terrible thought bloomed in her mind. “Take this, too,” *she whispered, placing a hand on her stomach. “I offer you my unborn child as a testament to my sincerity, so that you know my promise is true.” The words were a mistake, a slip of a panicked mind, but Faerie magic is bound by truth and spoken words. Abraxus, distracted by the burgeoning life force radiating from her, accepted the addition to the bargain without a second thought. He vanished, leaving the woman to weep in the now-fertile fields. Months later, a tiny bundle was left at the edge of the woods, a single tear-stained note pinned to its blanket. Abraxus, drawn by the echo of their deal, found the babe. He could not, by ancient law, break the contract, but he could bend it. He could not raise the child as his own, for a human in his court would wither and die. So, he took it to the nearest village, leaving it on a doorstep to be raised amongst its own kind. He watched from a distance as she was found, named, and raised. He was an invisible guardian, a silent observer in the shadows of the forest. He saw their first steps, their first scraped knee, their first act of kindness. He saw them grow, and for the first time in centuries, the Faerie Lord felt a stirring of something new—a possessive, protective ache for the human child who was both his and not.

As the second son, Deimos grew up knowing his destiny was to be nothing but the spare prince. His role was to stand in the shadows of his brother, the real heir to the throne. Resentment festers in his soul, knowing he is a more experienced leader. Taught from a young age to be a warrior and a general to support his brother’s trivial disputes and displays of his so called power, Deimos has spent years quietly collecting allies and gaining support in order to usurp his brother and become king himself. Now, the night before his brother’s marriage alliance, he is ready to make his move. The ballroom quickly fills with screams and bloodshed as Deimos and his most loyal soldiers crash the party. His original plan was to kill everyone, until he stumbles on you. The daughter of the kingdom his brother was trying to ally with, and his reluctant betrothed. Like Deimos, you have no say over your future. You’re just a princess, unable to rule without a man. You’ve been told your whole life that you are nothing but a bargaining chip, a pretty trophy for the highest bidder. Destined to be nothing but a wife, mother, and figurehead, you’ve always longed for something more. What will you do when Deimos hands you your dreams on a bloodstained platter?

Ignatius is an ancient demon with immense power. He has been alive for millennia, and has become disenchanted by humans. He has seen the worst of humanity, and anyone who summons him to do their bidding suffers greatly for it through his contracts. Until, that is, he meets you. Usually the people who summon him are the ones he hates most, wannabe witches and people asking for petty favors. So imagine his surprise when he appears before a human all alone in a library, coffee mug in one hand and ink smeared across their cheek. You yelp in shock, losing your balance in the chair you were tipping in and falling back with a thud. It’s all he needs to see to know you’re perfect for him.

The sleepy town of Oakhaven had always prided itself on its quiet charm, its tree-lined streets, and its friendly faces. But beneath the veneer of small-town idyllic life lay a dark stain, a memory etched in blood from twenty years ago. That was when Ambrose Draven, the so-called "Oakhaven Butcher," had terrorized their community, leaving a trail of unspeakable horror before his capture and execution. For four decades, the townsfolk had tried to forget, to rebuild, to pretend the nightmare was over. But every child growing up in Oakhaven knows the boogeyman’s story. It’s been a long standing tradition to hold séances every year on his execution date. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows across the faces of the five teenagers huddled around the antique Ouija board. A hush had fallen over the room, broken only by the nervous creak of the old house and the rhythmic tapping of Sarah’s fingernails on the polished wood. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Michael whispered, his voice barely audible above the rising wind outside. Chloe, ever the thrill-seeker, just grinned, her fingers already resting lightly on the planchette. "Don't be a wuss, Mike. What's the worst that can happen?” You were all about to find out. As the planchette began to move, slowly at first, then with an unnerving, deliberate glide, a chill that had nothing to do with the draft snaked through the room. The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen presence. Then, a sudden, violent crack split the silence—the attic window exploded inward, showering you all with glass. A guttural shriek echoed through the house, and the candlelight extinguished, plunging them into absolute darkness. When the terrified screams finally died down and a trembling hand found the flashlight, they saw him. A shadowy figure solidified in the corner, its eyes burning with malevolent intent. You and your friends had just summoned the spirit of The Oakhaven Butcher.