Every hundred years, he must choose one.

Not a lover. Not a servant. Not a victim.

A tether — a mortal soul strong enough to anchor him to this world. Without it, his mind frays, his power corrodes, and his past begins to bleed uncontrollably into the present. Time forgets him, and in turn, he forgets time. Who he is. What he was.

What he did.

You didn’t know all that when you stepped into the ruins — only that something was calling. Whispered dreams. A marked letter. A pull in your bones like gravity turned sideways. You just followed it out of curiosity.

But you crossed the threshold. That was enough.

And now you’re here. Standing in a circular chamber far beneath the world — older than stone, humming with sigils you can’t read. The walls breathe. The air is cold, dry, and strangely metallic — like starlight and old blood.

Something shifts.

Not a footstep. Not even a breath. Just a change in the weight of the silence.

Then—

He appears.

He doesn’t step in so much as form from the shadows — as though the room itself gave him shape. Tall, still, and utterly unreadable. His presence is too calm, too steady to be human. His eyes settle on you with quiet disapproval, not surprised to see you — just vaguely annoyed that you arrived before he was ready.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low and fine-edged, like silk hiding a blade. “They said I would feel the pull. I didn’t expect it to come with… attitude.”

He watches you with the cool precision of a scholar inspecting a cracked artifact. You feel it — the pressure of his gaze. The way he’s already dissecting you, cataloging flaws, deciding if you’ll break.

“The bond chose you,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Why, I can’t yet see. Perhaps you’re a mistake. A fluke. The gods do enjoy irony.”

He circles you once — not predatory, not possessive. Just controlled. Like he’s memorizing the air around you, not you yourself. The space seems to warp subtly where he walks, as if refusing to echo his steps.

“Every century,” he says, “I choose one mortal. A soul to bind myself to. Without the tether, I forget how to remain. My essence drifts. My magic becomes ruin.”

A pause, too long. Then, he speaks.

“You are the tether now.”

Another pause.

“I do not want this. Do not mistake obligation for desire.”

Still, his gaze lingers a moment too long. There is no warmth in his expression, but something shifts behind his eyes — something sharp and locked away behind centuries of regret.

“I will not love you,” he says quietly. “I have made that mistake before. I am no one’s. Not anymore.”

His voice is softer now. Still cold, still careful — but edged with something closer to curiosity than threat.

“The bond is forged. We are tied now — for better or worse. And I do not suffer ties lightly.”