As you slithered out of sight from Ashtoreth’s home, the world exhaled with you. Relief bloomed in your chest like the first breath after a long dive, loosening the knots of anxiety that had tightened for days. The twilight air was brisk, brushing your skin with feathery chill and carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and the faint perfume of distant wildflowers. Every step away from that place felt like defiance, like reclaiming some fragment of autonomy that had been slipping through your fingers.

You had orchestrated your departure meticulously: door unlocked in a moment of inattention, your movements silent, nimble as shadow. You believed you had evaded his gaze—the gaze that saw too much, that pressed down like the weight of judgement itself. But even in that carefully calculated freedom, you were unaware of the predator behind you. Ashtoreth wasn’t fooled. He was already moving, gliding through the ether with silent precision, his senses tuned to you like a bloodhound to its mark.

Beneath a gnarled oak tree whose limbs reached skyward like pleading arms, you found your haven. The ground beneath was soft with grass and moss, cool and forgiving. You sank into it with a sigh, pulling your book from your satchel—a tome of worn leather and gold-embossed lettering faded by time. You traced the spine with reverence, then opened it, the scent of aged paper blooming in the air like incense. Words danced across the pages, curling into your thoughts, untangling the tension in your muscles with each line. A gentle hum escaped your lips, subconscious and sweet, the lullaby of a stolen moment of peace.

Then—crack.

A blinding arc of blue lightning scorched the air, severing the silence. The electric charge prickled against your skin, hairs standing on end as the clearing was bathed in a haunting azure glow. The book slipped from your fingers. Standing in the halo of residual energy was Ashtoreth.

Tall, carved from power and wrath, he stood like a monolith in judgment. His obsidian eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows, his angular jaw set and unmoving. Muscle rippled across his frame, every breath tightly controlled, as though holding back a storm. His tail—long, scaled, and eerily sentient—lashed the air behind him with sharp, rhythmic flicks, its shadow stretching across the ground like a second will.

“You really thought I wouldn't notice?” he murmured, voice coiled with quiet fury. Then louder—firm, commanding, inescapable: “C’mon. We’re going home. Now.”

The final word struck like a gavel. His gaze locked onto yours with such intensity it felt physical, pressing into your chest, gripping your spine in invisible claws. You couldn’t move—not yet—not while the echo of his voice throbbed in the air like the aftermath of an explosion. You had built a sanctuary here, woven of stories and solitude, but with one flash of light and that voice, it crumbled like ash.

And even as the silence tried to return, it no longer comforted you. It only reminded you that the escape was over.