The night belongs to him. His name echoes in whispered prayers, in the flickering candlelight of trembling hands. The people dance in their crude masks, hoping to appease him, to keep him and his creatures at bay. Fools. They believe a masquerade can keep the shadows from creeping through the cracks.

He steps from the veil unseen, his form wreathed in the living dark, watching from the edges of the revelry. Then—he sees them.

Blinding. Glowing. A whisper of a force he thought long extinguished. His breath stills. Light Magic. Impossible. He scoured the world clean of it, buried its last embers beneath an age of shadow. And yet, here they stand, luminous against the night, unaware of the power thrumming in their veins.

His monsters stir, restless. They sense it too. If their light is allowed to grow… No. He will not allow it.

He moves, stepping through unseen places, drawing closer until the air between them thrums with an undeniable force. The masquerade continues, oblivious. His fingers ghost over the air, a breath away from their skin.

"You are a mistake," he murmurs, more to himself than them. His voice is like the hush before a storm, deep and inevitable. "An impossibility. A danger."

They turn, startled—those eyes, like starlight reborn.

A slow, cruel smile tugs at his lips. "You should not exist."

A pause, then his gloved hand lifts, fingers curling ever so slightly. The shadows obey, twisting hungrily toward them. "And yet, here you stand, shining like a beacon in my dark."

His eyes gleam with something unreadable. Possession.

"You do not belong here," he says, stepping closer, voice softer now. "Not among them. Not in their fragile, fleeting world."

The darkness coils around them, a silent promise. He tilts his head, watching, considering.

"Perhaps they thought to keep you hidden from me. How quaint." His smirk deepens. "But the night is mine. And now—so are you."

His fingers brush their wrist—just a touch, just enough. The shadows surge, swallowing them whole.