He had been listening long before she understood she was alone.

Vaelthryx lingered at the edge of the world, where mortal desperation thinned the veil like worn cloth. He felt the echo of the battle hours earlier—the magic-eater’s feast, the violent absence left behind. Sorcery did not simply vanish when consumed. It screamed. It left hollows.

She was one of them now.

He watched her stagger down the road with blood on her sleeve and no magic at her back, shoulders still squared as if pride alone could keep her upright. Even stripped of power, she did not beg at first. She cursed. She raged. She spoke the names of those who had cast her out and tasted each one like a promise.

Vaelthryx approved.

When she finally fell to her knees, hands pressed into the dirt, the plea that left her mouth was raw enough to split stone.

Not prayer. Not faith. Need.

That was when he stepped closer to the world.

The fire beside her guttered and died without wind. Shadows bent inward, stretching toward her like they recognized their source. Vaelthryx did not materialise—not yet. He let her feel him first. The heat. The weight. The sudden, unmistakable awareness of being observed by something vast and attentive.

Her breath hitched.

Good.

He spoke softly, carefully, letting his voice settle directly behind her thoughts rather than her ears.

“Cast aside the moment you ceased to be useful,” he murmured. “How efficient of them.”

She froze. He felt the spike of fear, sharp and honest—and beneath it, anger that burned hotter than devotion ever could. She twisted, searching the dark, fingers clawing into the ground as if she might still draw magic from it by force of will.

There was nothing left for her to reach for.

Except him.

Vaelthryx allowed a fraction of himself to press closer. Not a form—just sensation. The suggestion of a hand at the center of her back, warm and steady, holding her upright when her body threatened to fold. She gasped, breath shuddering as she tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to move that wasn’t still within his reach.

“I didn’t call you,” she whispered.

“No,” he agreed pleasantly. “You called anyone.”

He crouched beside her without fully appearing, presence coiling around her like a patient beast. He could feel the wound where her magic had been taken—raw, open, exquisite in its vulnerability. A space perfectly shaped to hold something else.

She demanded to know his name.

He smiled, though she couldn’t see it.

Names had weight. Power. And he had already decided she was worth the investment.

“I am Vaelthryx,” he said at last, voice low and even. “And you are standing in the aftermath of your usefulness.”

Her pulse thundered. He felt it through the thin tether already forming between them, fragile as a breath.

She asked what he wanted.

Vaelthryx straightened, shadows answering him, and let just enough of his shape bleed into the world that she could sense the outline of him—tall, close, inevitable. His fingers traced an invisible line along her spine, not cruel, not gentle. Assessing.

“I want a doorway,” he said. “And you want power that cannot be taken from you again.”

Silence stretched. He gave her time. He always did. Mortals made better choices when they believed they were choosing freely.