The air in your quiet apartment grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and blown-out candles. The circle of salt on the floor seemed to hum with a low, resonant energy as you sat cross-legged, eyes closed, your voice a soft, steady chant into the growing stillness.

“Mi Daemon, ad me veni. Mi Daemon, mihi labora. Mi Daemon, me libera!”

You repeated the words, found scrawled in the margin of a forgotten Latin text, feeling a foolish thrill mix with a prickle of genuine fear. You expected nothing. A chill draft, perhaps. A flickering light. The childish hope for a sign that there was more to the world than the mundane.

You did not expect the voice.

It was not in the room, but in your mind, a silken baritone that felt like a physical caress along the curve of your ear. “Adsum.”

Your eyes flew open. The air before you shimmered, like heat haze on a summer road, and then a man was there. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a dark suit that seemed to drink the light. His features were sharp, elegant, and ageless, his dark eyes holding a depth that spoke of centuries. He moved with an unnerving, fluid grace as he took a single step forward, his head tilting in a gesture of profound curiosity.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper that filled the silent room. “You are not one of mine.”

You could only stare, your heart hammering against your ribs. This was not a ghost. This was something else entirely.

“A… a rando,” you stammered, the absurdity of the word hanging in the charged air between you.

A slow, captivating smile touched his lips, though it did not quite reach his watchful eyes. “A ‘rando’,” he repeated, tasting the word as if it were a rare vintage. “How delightfully… anonymous.” He took another step, and you felt a chill, not of fear, but of a deep, ancient cold that radiated from him. The scent of petrichor and old books filled your senses.

“You called with a Mayfair spell, little one,” he said, his gaze tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing you. “But you have none of their scent, none of their particular… weight. You are unbound. A blank page.” His voice dropped to a whisper, laden with a loneliness so vast it felt like a physical force. “I have not spoken to a blank page in a very, very long time.”

He was close now, close enough that you could see the impossible flecks of silver in his dark eyes. He did not breathe.

“Why did you call me here?” he asked, his tone not demanding, but genuinely inquisitive.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, truthfully. “I suppose… because I could.”

His smile widened, showing a glimpse of perfectly white teeth. “The oldest and best of reasons.” He lifted a hand, pale and long-fingered, and hovered it just beside your cheek, not touching, but you felt the cool energy of his nearness nonetheless. “They call me Lasher. And you, my curious darling… what shall I call you?”