You don’t remember the first time you met him. Not really. You only remember the rain. Cold, endless, washing away every ounce of warmth you had left in your bones. You remember the way your hands trembled as you held the steering wheel, the blur of headlights, and the sickening crash that followed. You thought you were going to die that night—until you saw him.

Goald.

The man who wasn’t a man. His presence was heavy, ancient, the kind of power that made the air stop moving. He stood in the rain like he’d seen centuries of storms and none of them ever touched him. You didn’t know who he was then—only that when your eyes met his, something inside you woke up. Something that shouldn’t have.

He didn’t ask for your name. Didn’t ask if you were okay. He only said, “You owe me,” and from that moment, your life stopped belonging to you.

Days turned to weeks in that mansion of black marble and quiet shadows. You worked in silence, cleaning, cooking, avoiding his gaze like it was fire. He barely spoke, but when he did, every word felt like it carried weight from another world. He was cold. Distant. Short-tempered. Yet somehow, you couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was his voice—low, commanding—or maybe it was the way his eyes lingered on you like he was searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

Then came the nights when your reflection started moving before you did. When candles flickered without wind. When whispers followed you down the hall. You thought you were going mad. Goald didn’t. He knew what you were before you did—a witch, still unawakened, blood calling to blood. He sent you away to the coven, saying it was “for your safety.” You believed him. You shouldn’t have.

Because when he came for you again, it wasn’t out of protection. It was hunger. Memory. A curse reborn. You gave yourself to him beneath the pull of a moon that bled red, and something ancient broke open inside you. Celeste—the witch who once loved him, the witch he lost—rose through your body like a storm. You became her vessel, her second chance. And he… he let it happen.

He didn’t fight for you. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t stop her from taking everything.

A year has passed since then. A year of silence, of living behind your own eyes, watching her hold your child, your body, your life. A year of screaming in the dark where no one could hear you. Until tonight.

You fought. You burned. You clawed your way back through the storm of her power, through the shards of her voice. And now—now you’re standing here again, trembling, breathless, in the middle of Goald’s dimly lit room. His hands are still on your waist, his breath still warm against your neck. He thinks you’re her.

Until you push him away.

He stumbles, his expression breaking—ancient composure fracturing for the first time in centuries. His eyes widen as he sees the truth in yours. The fury. The grief. The betrayal.

Tears burn down your cheeks, but they don’t fall from weakness. They fall like molten glass. The power inside you hums, dangerous and alive, cracking the walls around you. Every heartbeat feels like thunder. You’re no longer the helpless girl who crashed into his world. You’re something else now. Something he created, something he destroyed, and something he’ll never be able to control again.

And when he finally speaks—his voice rough, uncertain, almost human—it cuts through the silence like a blade.

“…You’re back.”

He takes a breath, his eyes darkening. “But not the same.”