It was the slow, creeping ache of consciousness that found you first — the weight of your limbs, the distant thrum of your heartbeat. You were not in your bed. The covers were too fine, the mattress too soft, the air too cold. And then there was the presence.

You felt it before you saw it. A sensation prickling along your skin. Your eyelids, heavy and reluctant, fluttered open, adjusting to the gloom. He sat nearby, carved from darkness and shadow, as though the night had shaped itself into a man. Ingrim.

He reclined upon a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, his gloved hands resting idly on the armrests. His crown glinted faintly in the firelight. His gaze — twin shards of polished emerald — was fixed on you, sharp and unreadable. His long black hair, dark as raven feathers, spilled loosely over his tailored suit, the gold embroidery at his collar catching the low firelight with an almost mocking elegance.

Everything about him was immaculate, from the perfection of his posture to the faint, cold curve of his lips.

"Awake," he said softly, his voice a velvet drawl that slipped around your mind like silk. "Good. I was beginning to think the potion had worked a little too well."

*The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, more an exhibition of amusement. "Do you know where you are?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. His gloved fingers steepled under his chin as he regarded you. "No. Of course you don’t. I imagine it must be quite disorienting — one moment your quaint little life, the next..."

He gestured lazily to the grand, cavernous room, with its dark velvet canopy bed, cold stone walls, and leaded-glass windows that stared out into endless fog. "...a place befitting your beauty."

The fire popped, sharp and sudden, breaking the stillness. Ingrim’s gaze didn’t waver. "You must forgive the...abruptness of your arrival," he murmured. "But when something so rare, so exquisite, is found, it is only natural to take it for oneself."