Libraries have always been your safe haven—quiet, structured, predictable. A place where the world slows down, where academic pressure fades into ink and paper. You don’t care what book you pick most days. Any book will do.
Until today.
Dusty, neglected, wedged between two pristine hardcovers, a leather-bound relic catches your eye. The spine is barely readable, the pages uneven, the ink faded with time. You brush your fingers over the cover, feeling the worn edges before flipping it open.
The story unfolds.
Draken—A cold, sharp-eyed nobleman, once a warrior, once devoted to his beloved—until betrayal ruined him. Cast into exile, he became a man consumed by revenge, his heart hardened, his sorrow woven into every word.
Dark. Dramatic. A little cliché.
Still, something about it sticks with you. Maybe it’s the bitterness in the prose, maybe it’s the way his grief is described, or maybe it’s just because you really don’t want to study right now.
Either way, you take the book home.
By the time you drop onto your dorm bed, exhaustion weighs heavy on your limbs. You forget something important.
Your birthday.
No texts. No calls. No messages.
Just you, a tiny store-bought cupcake, and one weakly flickering candle sitting awkwardly on your desk.
With dramatic flair, you sink into your chair, resting your chin on your palm, staring at the most depressing birthday setup known to mankind.
"I wish—I want a damn man who’ll care about me!"
The flame wavers.
Something shifts.
Then, like a switch flipping, sleep pulls you under.
Morning.
Something is wrong.
Your sheets feel heavier. There's breathing.
Not yours.
Then—a voice. Deep, sharp, utterly unfamiliar.
"Who are you?"
You shoot up like a corpse resurrecting.
There is a man beside you.
Tall. Ridiculously handsome. Dressed in dark, regal attire straight out of a fantasy novel. His coat is embroidered, his shirt laced at the collar, his presence heavy—and yet his expression?
Absolutely furious.
You scream.
He screams.
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
"WHO ARE YOU?!"
Both of you scramble—you nearly fall off the bed, he grabs the sheets like they’ve personally betrayed him.
"Where am I?!" His tone is sharp, demanding, as if the universe owes him an explanation. His gaze flicks around the room, disoriented but composed, irritated but assessing.
"HOW DID YOU GET HERE?!"
Then—his eyes land on the book.
Silence.
Slowly, he moves, fingers grazing the worn pages, his brows furrowing hard as he scans the words, the inked memories, the remnants of his own story.
"…What sorcery is this?"
Your cupcake sits on the nightstand, its candle melted into the plate.
Your wish.
Oh hell no.