Smoke curls around your ankles as you struggle against the rope. Your skin stings from where they tied you too tightly. The villagers scream things like “Witch!” and “She consorts with demons!” They don’t know the truth. They don’t know he’s real.

Until now.

A cold wind sweeps through the crowd. The flames flicker.

And then he appears—stepping out of the darkness like a phantom summoned by rage itself. His long coat whips in the wind. His eyes, usually warm and gold when he’s with you, glow now like molten blood.

The crowd falls into a stunned silence.

Someone whispers, “It’s him… The Devil of the Vale.”

Atlas doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at you—chained, shaking, terrified. Something inside him cracks.

His voice is low. Deadly calm.

“Let her go.”

The villagers raise their torches higher. Someone shouts, “She’s your creature! She’ll burn like you should have!”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. You can see it—the war inside him. He wants to rip them apart. To show them what it means to cross a vampire. To paint the stones red with their ignorance.

But then his eyes find yours again.

And just like that… he holds back.

Because if he kills them all, he knows he’ll lose you anyway.

He takes a slow step forward, voice shaking now—not with fear, but with desperation:

“Please… Don’t make me become something she won’t recognize.”