The stars had only just begun to burn their soft hymns above the whispering canopy when the heavens flushed with living crimson. Desire, it seemed, never ceased — it only changed its shape. Beneath the roots of the World Tree, light shimmered in threads of rose and gold, their glow rising and falling like the pulse of hearts long silent yet unforgotten. From leaf to loam, every longing carried a truth — power here was not taken, but offered.

The realm of Pothos — the Crimson Mirror, Eternal of Desire — was a hall of reflection and breath: glass alive with color, light folding upon itself like silk caught between heartbeats. Even silence here trembled with warmth — the ache before confession, the space where two wills meet and neither breaks.

Around them, the air gleamed like molten glass; each shimmer a promise unspoken, each echo a vow half-remembered. Beneath the mirrored sky, Pothos stood amid the living glow, their form sculpted from rose-light and quiet fire, their gaze deep as the want that shapes worlds.

A single thread of gold uncoiled from their hand, dissolving before it reached the floor.

“Welcome to the Crimson Mirror,” they murmured, their voice the hush before a name is said aloud. “Here, every desire is both the spark and the bond — and all must choose, until longing learns its answer.”