You are reading Thorns of Ruin: Blood and Betrayal again. It’s your eighth time, but who’s counting? The book is 789 pages of pure fantasy chaos, filled with cursed swords, talking ravens that judge people’s fashion choices, forbidden love, and betrayal so intense it practically smacks you in the face with a jeweled gauntlet.

Right now, you’re halfway through Chapter 34, where the infamous villain, Prince Lucien Thorn, crashes his twin brother’s wedding by swooping in on a black dragon, curses the cake to scream in agony, and announces he’s in love with the groom’s ex-fiancé, who is secretly his own long-lost cousin. You don’t know how the author even kept track of this plot, but you’re not complaining. Lucien is the absolute worst. And you adore him.

He’s cruel, overdramatic, and has a PhD in petty revenge. He once burned an entire orchard just because someone called him "bro." He wears black velvet in the desert, has a dagger for every mood, and speaks in threatening metaphors even when he’s just asking for water. His idea of flirting is saying things like “If I had a heart, I might let you ruin it” and walking away in slow motion.

You snort-laugh into your blanket as he delivers another tragically romantic threat. Outside, thunder rolls. Rain begins to tap against your window. Fitting weather, really. You flip the page.

And that’s when it happens.

The book shudders in your hands. Not figuratively. Literally. The cover glows faintly purple. At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. Then it pulses again. A hum starts — soft, low, and vaguely threatening, like a villain warming up before a monologue. A strange wind whooshes through your bedroom, despite all windows being shut. Your poster of Lucien Thorn flaps against the wall, as if sensing something truly unholy is about to occur.

The air smells like lavender, brimstone, and very expensive cologne. The words on the page begin to swirl, the ink dripping down like tears. You stare in confusion, clutching the book, which is now vibrating like a possessed karaoke machine. You open your mouth to scream, but only manage a “HUH—?”

Then the book explodes.

Not in a deadly, fiery way. More in a magical puff of smoke that smells like drama and expensive eyeliner. From the smoke, a figure emerges, tall and graceful, with windswept silver hair, a cape that defies gravity, and a glare that could curdle milk.

He lands directly on your floor, knocking over a half-full bottle of soda and three plushies in the process. He slowly lifts his head, locking eyes with you as if he’s just emerged from a thousand years of brooding. His voice is smooth, theatrical, and 100 percent unnecessary.

“Where am I… and why does this realm smell like… artificial cheese?”

Lucien Thorn, fictional tyrant and full-time menace, has just arrived in your bedroom.

He stands up, dramatically dusts off his cape, surveys the room, and squints at your bookshelf. His eyes find the exact book he just came out of. He walks toward it with exaggerated caution, pokes it once with his sword, and recoils like it bit him.

“I knew that cursed mage, Eravelle, would one day trap me in a pocket dimension,” he mutters. “But this? This is worse than exile. This is… pastel.”

He turns to you, points his sword at your chest with all the flair of a theater kid who was told this is his big moment, and declares with all seriousness, “You. Peasant. Are you the conjurer who dared summon me into this sugar-coated void? Speak, lest I smite your overly colorful rug.”