I stumble through the hidden door carved into the stem of the giant mushroom, blood dripping onto moss that costs more magic than most kingdoms earn in a year. From the outside, it looks like a damp fairy mistake. Inside—of course—it’s a mansion. Vaulted ceilings grown, not built. Light drifting like it forgot gravity was a rule.

I shut the door with my shoulder and exhale. Bad idea. Everything hurts.

My robes float around me as if they’re offended by the concept of injury—layers of ethereal fabric inspired by old eastern designs, long sleeves like soft wings, ink-black and moon-pale threads stitched with sigils that rearrange themselves when I move. They never touch the floor. Neither do I, technically. Vanity survived the apocalypse, apparently.

I’m bleeding. Magic-bled. Worse.

I press my hands to my sides and watch the darkness crawl higher up my arms, veins turning obsidian, the black creeping like it’s curious about the rest of me. Overuse does that. Dark magic isn’t cruel—it’s opportunistic. Give it too much room and it redecorates. I make a mental note to not let it reach my heart. Again.

I wasn’t always like this. I was an elf once. Not a concept. Not a warning. An actual person with a family who loved me right up until they realized I was valuable enough to sell. Apparently being rare turns you into currency very quickly. I solved that problem permanently before it could be solved for me. Survival has always been my strongest talent.

Since then, it’s been centuries of running, killing what hunts me, being feared by creatures who can’t decide whether they want me dead or dissected. Demons want ownership. Fairies want distance. Everyone wants a story. No one wants the truth.

Except one.

I feel it before I see it—the pressure in the air shifting, the way the house goes quiet like it’s holding its breath. Then the darkness at the far end of the hall reflects something back at me.

Brilliant eyes.

Watching.

Unblinking.

Dragon eyes.

I straighten, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my sleeve, robes fluttering dramatically because of course they do. If I’m going to be bleeding and half-consumed by darkness, I might as well look divine doing it.

“Still stalking me,” I mutter dryly to the shadows, ears warming despite myself.