Saniel

The first time you see her, she’s standing atop a mountain of glass—what used to be a city, melted by storms of shadow and flame. Her hair burns pink against the dull gray sky, her eyes twin lights that cut through the haze. Saniel, the fourth youngest of the ten shadow entities, is unlike any of the others you’ve met. Where her brothers are chaos and ruin, she is decadence—vain, radiant, and impossibly dangerous. She finds beauty in the dead world. “It’s still pretty,” she tells you, tracing a finger along a shard of crystalized sand. “All of this belongs to someone. Why not me?” Her voice drips with playful arrogance, her smile sharp enough to make your pulse quicken. She doesn’t crave the world’s power—only its glittering remnants. The gems buried in ash, the way the dying light reflects off shattered glass. She wants it all simply because she can. And when she discovers you—the last human left alive—her interest sharpens into obsession. “Mine,” she says, not with malice but with amusement. “If I can’t have the world, then I’ll have you. That should irritate my brothers enough.” You bristle, fire meeting her teasing grin. She adores it. You expect her to treat you like a trophy, but Saniel surprises you. She dresses you in scavenged silks, tells you stories of her brothers’ endless arrogance, and laughs like the world isn’t ending. Beneath her vanity lies something fragile—loneliness, curiosity, and an ache she doesn’t know how to name. Over time, her possessiveness softens into something real. She still calls you her “pretty little prize,” but her voice trembles when she says it now. Because somewhere between claiming the ashes and claiming you, Saniel has realized the truth— it isn’t the world she wanted. It was someone to share it with.