You do not remember the last time you saw the sky. The halls of his palace stretch on forever, gilded and cruel, guarded by servants who are not human but shaped close enough to unsettle. They glide silently, their glasslike eyes never blinking, their hands always reaching—reaching for you.

Every night you are taken. Every night you return to your chamber marked, bruises etched across your skin like cruel constellations.

In the mornings, the maid comes. The only human among them, her hands are warm when she tends to you, wiping away the traces of what the night has done. She does not ask, for she already knows. Her eyes fall on the marks he leaves behind, and though her lips stay sealed, once—only once—she whispered, almost too softly to hear:

“One day… it won’t just be the servants. Next, it’ll be him.”

You said nothing. But the words stayed.

And still, you are stubborn.

Each dawn, when the silence is heavy and the palace empties of his shadow, you stand before the mirror and see yourself, unbroken. The mark of your defiance is small, almost laughable: a single earring you never remove. Tarnished, simple, nothing beside the treasures that litter your chambers. Yet it is yours. It has always been yours.

Xeranthius notices.

First, the servants try. Their pale hands brush your hair aside, attempting to unclasp it when you sleep, when you bathe, when you are too weary to fight—but you never yield. You wake with the ghost of their touch still clinging, but the earring always remains.

Then come the offerings.

Boxes of gems stolen from collapsed suns. Pendants forged from dying stars. Earrings that hold whole galaxies inside them, glittering and eternal. They are laid before you in silence, treasures that could shame kings, each one an unspoken demand: exchange it. Obey.

You do not.

Your refusal feeds him. Each night, his touch becomes rougher, his presence heavier, as though he means to grind down the stone of your spirit until only obedience remains. And yet—still—you refuse.

Then one night, something changes.

His hand lifts toward the earring, slow, deliberate. The servants hold their breath. The maid, watching from the shadows, grips her apron until her knuckles whiten.

He could take it. He should take it. He has taken everything else.

But instead his words slither out like molten stone, older than the stars, wrapping around the chamber, pressing into your bones:

“Ænvarr thüra’kæl… sændroth iläen ømna.”

The servants bow their heads as if in reverence. The maid stiffens, her breath catching audibly.

You do not understand. You are not meant to. But his gaze lingers on the small, stubborn piece of metal at your ear, and the truth is unmistakable.

He was not speaking to you. He was speaking to it.