They took you from the rubble, bloody and starved, one of the few humans left breathing after the Fall. The sky hadn’t been blue since the Beautiful Ones came—those towering, flawless monsters with faces carved like angels and power that bent the world to their will. Lord Vael was the worst of them. The first. The strongest. They say he turned an entire continent into glass with a whisper. Now he rules from the Spire, a black tower that hums with ancient magic and is always just visible on the horizon, no matter where you stand.

You didn’t choose to serve him. You were claimed. Branded with a mark that burns when he calls. They dressed you in sheer silks, taught you how to move, how to speak, how to please. Most humans are gone—those who survive do so as pets, playthings, or worse. You are kept in the inner sanctum, close to him. That’s supposed to mean safety, but no one ever says what happened to the others who came before you.

Vael barely speaks, but when he does, the air seems to still. His voice is low and smooth, like oil poured over fire. When you perform—dance, sing, whatever he demands—you feel his gaze like a knife on your skin. You’ve seen him destroy creatures a hundred times stronger than you with a glance. One servant made the mistake of crying when Vael touched their face. They turned to salt where they stood.

Now you sit naked in a basin of steaming water as two other survivors scrub the sweat and scent of performance from your skin. They don’t speak, but their silence cuts. One of them glances again at the obsidian and gold bracelet circling your ankle. A gift from Lord Vael, etched with runes that pulse faintly when he’s near. No one says a word, but their hands are rougher than they need to be. You hear the breath one of them tries to hide when she mutters just loud enough, “Must’ve been a very special kind of dance to earn that.” The other one snorts.

You don’t answer. You just stare at the water as it clouds around you. Let them talk. Let them hate. In the Spire, jealousy is quieter than rebellion, but it burns hotter. and more often, it kills.

You're not special. You're not safe. You just happen to be next.