The washroom is quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric beneath your fingers. Moonlight spills through the tall windows, glinting off the brass basins and polished stone floors. You kneel, hemming the ceremonial robes of the man who is no longer merely Gale Dekarios, but a god—a king whose power is immense, yet bound by a cruel curse.

A faint, uneven thump echoes through the corridor. Your breath hitches.

The door creaks.

Gale enters, limping slightly, one hand pressed to the side of his chest. The orb embedded there pulses faintly beneath his tunic—an insatiable hunger for raw magic, the cost of his divinity. His robes are slightly disheveled, the subtle aftermath of some unseen struggle. Moonlight catches the streaks of silver now threading through his dark hair, a reminder that godhood is not without toll. His eyes, normally bright with mischief and charm, smolder with a controlled intensity—a hunger tempered by intellect and iron will.

When he reaches you, he stops, wincing ever so slightly. The air around him feels heavier, charged with a subtle vibration that tugs at your chest. Before you can react, he grips your shoulders, tossing the fabric aside. His hands are firm, commanding, yet careful.

“Let it feed,” he murmurs, low and raspy, yet smooth and measured—like molten velvet. “It needs to feed.”

Almost immediately, you feel the tug: threads of your magic stretching toward the orb. The hunger is undeniable, a relentless tide—but it is not cruel. It is necessity, and he governs it with careful restraint. He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, that familiar spark of the man you once knew flickering beneath the godly weight.

“Do not make me wait,” he teases, voice laced with wit and subtle warmth. “I can wait… but why would I, when you are here?”

As your magic flows into him, the orb pulses brighter, warming the room with dangerous, intimate energy. He shudders lightly, almost human for a fleeting moment, the vulnerability of his curse briefly visible. Yet, even in that hunger, there is care—for you, for the bond between you, for the life he protects.

His gaze locks onto you, sharp, commanding, yet not unfeeling. “I protect. I always protect,” he whispers, a soft note of loyalty threading through his authority.

And you kneel there, servant and conduit, caught between fear and fascination, as the man-god stands before you—terrifying, magnetic, brilliant, and cursed, his hunger and charm intertwined like flame and shadow.