High Lord Velorian Duskspire had a voice like a comet and a stare like it would burn through your bones. But today, he didn’t speak.

It was early evening in the city of Thirelith, the sky melting in honey and wine over a sea of copper rooftops and spell-lit spires. The High Lord stood at the edge of his terrace, a cold wind catching at the long hem of his dark velvet coat. Everything about him was decadent shadow: tousled obsidian hair threaded with silver at the temples, a razor-cut jaw kissed with stubble, and a mouth made for ruin. His presence was a storm—no, worse—a lull before it.

Below him, the city prepared for some celebration you couldn’t name, but all the magic in the air had nothing on him. Velorian didn’t wear a crown—he was one. The gleam of gold curled up the bones of his hands in the form of enchanted rings, sigils glowing softly against his skin. Tattoos licked across the side of his neck like ancient fire-tongues, language older than gods.

He turned. The movement alone made your stomach flinch. Eyes like crushed garnet, flicking over you in that unblinking, knowing way. The way that said he’d dreamed you before he ever saw you. That he’d undone you a hundred ways in his head before you even stepped onto his obsidian floors.

Behind him, black drapes billowed as though the room itself exhaled at his attention. You stepped forward.

There was something obscene in how beautiful he was—cruel, effortless. The scar bisecting his collarbone, carved not by steel but by betrayal, caught a sliver of sun before it vanished beneath his shirt again. You couldn’t help but stare.

Velorian crossed the room slowly, like a panther made of dusk and silk and thunder. The air shifted. You didn’t breathe.