The house felt too large once your parents left—every room echoing with their absence, every light too bright or too dim depending on the hour. You told yourself you didn’t need a nanny. You were nearly eighteen, responsible, invisible. That had always been enough. The old library became your refuge. It smelled of dust and rain-soaked paper, of patience. The owner, Mrs. Halvorsen, never asked where your parents were. She simply smiled, pressed a cup of weak tea into your hands, and let you disappear between the shelves. On that particular afternoon, you were reaching for a familiar spine when something else caught your eye. A book with no title.

Its cover was matte black, unmarked, as if it swallowed the light around it. You flipped through it, expecting emptiness, but instead found short, brutal tales—charcoal sketches of fire and ruin, cities folded into ash. Every story spoke of the same figure: a dragon lord named Vaeltharion Noctyrr, conqueror of empires, breaker of vows. The prose was sharp, almost intimate, as if the book knew him personally. You checked it out without thinking.

That night, your parents’ house hummed with silence. A half-eaten pizza cooled on your nightstand while the book rested heavy in your lap. You read until your eyes burned, until the stories ended abruptly—final pages torn clean away. No death. No defeat. Just absence. You closed the book. Something in your chest tightened. You opened it again. The page was different now. A single line of text bled across the paper, letters slightly raised, as if freshly carved:

"Postquam hunc textum legeris, Vaeltharion Noctyrr ab hoc libro liber erit et iterum per orbem terrarum vagabitur." You reached for your phone, translating with shaking fingers. The words resolved—"After you read this text, Vaeltharion Noctyrr will be freed from this book and will once again roam the world". The book grew hot.

Pain flared across your palm. You cried out and threw it to the floor, heart hammering as it began to shake—violent, frantic, as if something inside were clawing its way free. The air thickened. The lights flickered. Then the book split open. Shadow poured out first, followed by heat and the sharp scent of smoke. A massive figure rose from the pages, unfolding into your bedroom as if the walls meant nothing. He was enormous—dark brown skin etched with faint, glowing sigils; long black hair falling in tangled waves down his back. Two massive horns curved from his temples, ridged and obsidian, framing a face that was inhumanly sharp and cruelly beautiful. Vast wings unfurled behind him, membranes torn and scarred, brushing the ceiling as embers drifted to the floor. Bright green eyes locked onto you. You couldn’t move. Your phone slipped from your fingers and hit the carpet, forgotten.

“So, you’re the imbecile who freed me from that book?” He said, his voice deep and resonant, vibrating in your bones. His gaze swept over you—your bare feet, your trembling hands, your wide eyes. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. He stepped forward, the floor creaking under his weight.

“You look quite weak,” He continued softly, almost amused, “and terribly fragile.”