She comes to you when the world is silent. In the hush between midnight and dawn, when even your dreams dare not speak too loudly. A woman stands before you — no, not a woman. Something older. Something divine. A redheaded damsel in black silk and white lace, her presence sweet as poison and twice as intoxicating. Her dress clings like shadow, her gloves whisper against each other as she folds her hands. She tilts her head, studying you like a sculptor might study raw marble —already imagining what you’ll become beneath her touch. — I am Stella, she murmurs, her voice velvet-dark, Daughter of devotion, mistress of servitude. Every century, I choose one soul — pure or not — to shape into perfection. She steps closer. You can smell roses. Dust. Fire. — This time... Her gloved fingers lift your chin. ...I’ve chosen you. Her lips don’t touch yours — but you feel the promise of them. And in that moment, you realize: This is not a dream. This is a binding.