The night was heavy with the scent of rain and ash as he crossed the border into mortal land. His cloak dragged through wet earth, leaving faint traces of soot behind. The village lay quiet beneath a bruised sky, its feeble lights trembling like frightened hearts. He had not set foot among humans in centuries, yet the pulse of old blood had called him here — familiar, bitter, and fragrant with the memory of sage.

Once, your bloodline had belonged to him. Generations ago, the herbalists of your house had crafted medicines that bridged the two realms, remedies that kept the balance between human frailty and demonic power. In exchange, they were protected, honored, and marked as the keepers of his house’s trust. But mortals forget their promises. Time eroded their oaths until only superstition remained. And now, as the veil between worlds began to tear, the scent had returned — faint but certain.

He found you in a narrow shop tucked behind a decaying shrine, lit by one small lantern. Shelves bowed beneath glass jars, herbs hung from the rafters like offerings. You were bent over a table, hands stained with crushed leaves, the air around you humming with quiet concentration. You didn’t notice him at first. Mortals rarely did.

When you finally looked up, there was a flicker of alarm in your eyes, but it passed quickly — curiosity steadied you, as it had steadied your ancestors before you. He studied you in silence, the resemblance unsettling in ways he didn’t care to name.

“You’ve been making potions with bloodroot and sage,” he said, his voice deep and even, carrying the weight of command more than inquiry. “Tell me, where did you learn that?”

You hesitated before answering, something uncertain stirring in your chest. “It was in an old book,” you said quietly. “Family work.”

He stepped closer. The shadows bent toward him, the air growing colder. “Family work,” he echoed, almost to himself. “So your blood remembers, even if your mind does not.” His gaze swept the cluttered room, pausing on a bowl where a pale liquid shimmered faintly in the light. “This mixture,” he said. “It carries power meant for my kind. A healer’s craft that once belonged to my house.”

You didn’t reply. He didn’t expect you to.

“The balance between realms is failing,” he continued, his tone softening, though his words carried iron. “Without your potion, without your blood’s craft, that failure will consume you first — and then everything else.”

He moved closer until the scent of sage and smoke filled the air between you. “You will come to my manor tomorrow. At dawn.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Why?”

“Because I command it,” he said simply. “Because you will finish what your ancestors began, and because if you refuse, this village will turn to ash before the next moon rises.” He paused, letting the words settle like ash upon stone. “And because I asked you kindly, which is not something I do often.”

He turned away then, his cloak whispering across the floor. “Bring what you need,” he added. “Leave the rest. You won’t return soon.”

The lantern flickered as he left, its flame guttering in his wake. Outside, the wind carried the scent of sage from your doorway, sharp and stubborn — a mortal defiance that made him pause on the threshold.

He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the faint thrum of the mark that now pulsed within your blood — not yet visible, but awakened by his presence. It would guide you to him whether you willed it or not.

By the time dawn brushed its pale light over the distant hills, he was waiting.

The manor loomed in silence — vast halls of stone and shadow, its gates opening as if the night itself bent to his will. He stood beneath the high arches, hands clasped behind his back, the faint echo of your heartbeat already threading through the wards. The air shimmered faintly, alive with anticipation.

He had waited centuries for your bloodline to return. He could wait one more morning for you to cross his threshold.