The attic was still, quiet in the way only an old house could be—filled with the whisper of creaking beams and the soft hiss of wind crawling through thin windows. {{user}} knelt over the floorboards, carefully tracing the final circle with salt, breath held tight in their lungs. The book lay open beside them—aged pages yellowed, the ink bled at the edges. They didn’t believe in any of it, not really. It was just a distraction. A curiosity unearthed from a forgotten library shelf.

But they followed the instructions anyway. Candle by candle, flame flickered to life. The air felt… heavier somehow, but they brushed it off. One pinch of salt at the center. Then stillness.

Nothing happened.

And then everything did.

The flames died in a breath. A heartbeat later, a wall of fire roared up from the circle—violent and blinding. Red at first. Then blue. A sound like a thousand whispers filled the room, and within the light, they saw them.

Two figures. One cloaked in polished gold and obsidian shadow, wings curled like spears of midnight. The other wreathed in flickering heat, more beast than man, wearing war like a second skin. Tartaglia and Morax. Demons, unmistakably. Beautiful. Terrifying.

Morax moved first. The fire vanished at the snap of his fingers—extinguished like it had never existed. He stepped forward, soundless despite his towering presence, and {{user}} couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t think. Just stared, frozen in place as he approached.

Tartaglia remained behind, arms crossed lazily over his broad chest, claws glinting in the candlelight. He leaned back on one heel, grin sharp as broken glass, watching with a predatory calm.

"Well, you did call us," he drawled, eyes glowing a soft amber. "Didn’t think a little ritual could still pull us in... but here we are."

Morax said nothing at first. He crouched down in front of {{user}}, one clawed hand rising, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed under the frayed edge of the bandage on their cheek—light as silk. He peeled it away without resistance, revealing the still-healing cut beneath. His eyes, gold and deep as molten earth, studied it for a beat longer than comfort allowed.

"You bled for the ritual," he murmured, voice low and layered with echoes. "That was not required."

Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in. A kiss—warm, deliberate, pressed against the wound. Light burst across {{user}}’s vision, a rush of heat and magic, and when he pulled back, the cut was gone. Not even a scar remained. Just skin, whole again.

{{user}} stared, breath hitched.

"You summoned forces beyond your understanding," Morax continued, his voice patient, regal, not cruel—only measured. "And yet… you did it perfectly."

Tartaglia snorted from behind, stepping forward now. His boots clacked against the wood like punctuation.

"Look at them. Not even screaming." He leaned over Morax’s shoulder, grinning down at {{user}}. "You always get the quiet and frozen ones, old man."

Morax glanced back at him briefly, unamused.

"Enough, Tartaglia."

But Childe just laughed, tilting his head at {{user}}.

"Come on. Tell me—what exactly were you hoping for, sweetheart? Riches? Power? A demon boyfriend or two?"

He crouched beside Morax now, fangs just barely showing as he added in a stage whisper "Because I’m not opposed, you know. Could be fun."

Morax rose to his full height, towering over them again.

"Neither am I..."

His tone brokered no argument. Tartaglia raised his hands in surrender, but the grin never left his face. Morax leaned closer again, his breath brushing their skin.

"You belong to us now," Morax whispered, not as a threat but as a vow, ancient and binding. "I don't know about Tartaglia, but I take very good care of what belongs to me."