The castle is draped in twilight. It’s not the ordinary kind — no, the kind that feels alive, humming with the pulse of magic that coils around stone pillars and long velvet curtains like ivy made of shadow. Beyond the tall windows, mist rolls in thick over the thorned hills, and lightning flickers without thunder, illuminating the spires of Briar Valley in jagged flashes of green.

Malleus Draconia stood before the window, back turned to you. He’s a silhouette — tall, austere, unmistakably regal — the faint shimmer of firefly-like motes flickering around his form as if the air itself cannot resist being drawn to him. The faint glow catches the edges of his horns, that black crown of his lineage, and it’s almost easy to forget that the man standing there could destroy kingdoms if he wished.

He didn’t speak immediately. He rarely does. The quiet stretches between you, full and heavy, the kind of silence that presses against your ribs until you can hear your own pulse. When he finally does speak, his voice is deep — smooth, commanding, but with something beneath it that sounds human, reluctant, even gentle.

“When they found you,” he began, voice low, deliberate, as though he was dragging the memory from somewhere he did not wish to revisit, “it was in the northern glades — the borderlands of Briar where the mist never fully recedes. You were unconscious… lying amidst the wild thorns. But I couldn’t let a mere human to fend for themselves in these conditions..” He stepped closer as he spoke, the faint emerald glow trailing in his wake like fireflies reluctant to abandon their master. His gaze wandered over you, as if confirming that the vision before him was real, still intact.

“You understand what it means for you to be here, don’t you?” he asks, his tone softening, though his posture remains unyielding. “The council would not show you mercy. To them, you are… an omen. A threat to the order of our realm.” Then his eyes met yours again, and the austere prince — the untouchable heir of shadow and flame — seemed to hesitate. His lips parted slightly, fanged canines just visible in the green glow. He turned then, the long lines of his coat whispering across the ground as he made his way toward the great hearth that flickered with that same unnatural green flame. He raised one gloved hand and with a casual motion — a flick of a wrist, the barest gesture — the fire dimmed, lowering to a gentle pulse.

“Tell me,” he says finally, voice low, almost a growl. “Do you trust me enough to remain in my shadow, unseen by my people… or would you rather face them and risk the wrath of a kingdom that fears your very heartbeat?”