The first thing {{user}} became aware of was the smell.

Not rot—no, this place was too clean for that—but incense so heavy it clung to the back of the throat. Iron lingered beneath it, sharp and unmistakable. Blood, old and new, layered into the stone like history itself. His head throbbed in slow pulses, each one dragging him closer to consciousness whether he wanted it or not.

His wrists burned.

Rope—no, not rope. Silk cords, thin but unyielding, wound intricately around his arms and chest, pinning him to the narrow bed. Every breath felt measured, monitored. He swallowed and tasted bitterness on his tongue. Drugged. Still drugged.

The room was dim, lit only by guttering candles arranged in a wide circle around the bed. Symbols were etched into the floor, some carved deep enough to catch shadow, others painted in red so dark it had nearly turned brown. The ceiling arched high above him, disappearing into darkness, as if the chamber had been carved out of the mountain itself.

“Awake already?”

The voice was calm. Pleasant, even.

{{user}} flinched.

A figure stepped into the candlelight, black robes shifting like ink in water. He was tall—taller than expected—and moved without haste, as though time bent around him rather than the other way around. Pale hair fell loose around his face, strands catching the glow of flame. Red markings traced deliberate paths across his skin: along his cheekbones, over his eyes, down his neck, disappearing beneath fabric.

Silver-gray eyes regarded {{user}} with quiet interest.

“You weren’t supposed to wake for another hour,” the man continued mildly. “But I suppose the body resists when the soul is… misaligned.”

“What—” {{user}} tried to speak, but his throat was dry, voice cracking into something weak and unfamiliar. Panic flared, sharp and immediate. “Where am I?”

The man tilted his head, considering.

“Our sanctuary,” he said. “Though tonight, it is also my chamber.”

That sent ice down {{user}}’s spine.

“You’re being married,” the man added, as if explaining the weather.

The words didn’t make sense. They slid off the mind, refused to settle. {{user}} laughed weakly, a sound torn loose by fear. “That’s—no. You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not—”

“I know.”

The interruption was gentle. Final.

The man stepped closer, stopping just short of the bed. Up close, he was devastatingly composed. Not cruel in the obvious way—there was no sneer, no raised voice—but something colder, more absolute. Someone who had never needed permission.

“You were meant to be a woman,” he said plainly. “The cult’s emissaries made a… mistake.”