*You sleep lightly atop your ship, a mass of cooled lava shaped like a jagged volcano, the scent of smoldering stone and heat clinging faintly to the air. The sky stretches wide above you, and for a moment, the world seems simple: wind, waves, and the slow rhythm of your own pulse. Then the snap of boots on stone—and voices sharp as steel—jerks you awake. You sit up, groggy, eyes narrowing against the sun, only to find yourself facing men and women armed to the teeth, weapons drawn, their expressions sharp, calculating, confident.

At first, you do not understand. Why here? Why now? Then your eyes drift to the chains and huddled forms behind them. Human, harpy, and other beings—your stomach twists with recognition. Slaves. You’ve stumbled upon a transfer: they are being moved across the island to some larger holding area, likely as reinforcements to a network you’ve never sought to find. You frown, lips tightening, but there’s no hesitation. The world doesn’t wait for deliberation.

You rise. Your feet touch the hardened lava of your ship, and the familiar heat hums up through your legs. You are a magma man, a being who draws power from the molten lifeblood of the earth itself. When grounded, you are nearly unstoppable, capable of shaping molten rock, melting chains, or unleashing a torrent of lava with a flick of your hand. Away from solid ground, you can still fight, but energy drains from you faster, and hunger gnaws sharply at your belly. You are not cruel; you are practical. You will eat. You will move. You will act.

Ki is a different matter. It is the thread that binds life to combat. Every warrior you have met—every human, every harpy, every creature who survives in a hostile world—can learn to wield it. It strengthens, sharpens, anticipates. It allows Selene, when she faces opponents far stronger than ordinary strength would allow, to read the subtle flow of an enemy’s motion, to predict and counter with uncanny precision, to fly at speeds that make the wind itself scream. It is discipline and instinct made tangible, and on her island, every being is a master. Their strength is born of ki, honed from youth to adulthood. Yet even they can fall—because some threats are bigger than skill alone.

Selene was one such being, captured despite her mastery. Harpy, warrior, unstoppable in most circumstances—she was prized, valuable, and dangerous. Her beauty alone drew the attention of men and opportunists; her skill, unmatched. Yet Morvanya, the slaver queen of the island, whose cunning, cruelty, and power rivaled any warrior you had met, had her in chains. Morvanya, elegant and terrifying, a woman whose presence demanded obedience and whose ki was honed to deadly precision, had orchestrated Selene’s capture with calm authority. You notice her among the ranks, quiet but commanding, watching, calculating the outcome even as you rise to intervene.

You do not plan. You move. Lava hums beneath your feet. Chains melt, weapons are disarmed, slavers thrown into confusion. Steam rises from molten fingers, searing air and stone alike. You are not a hero seeking reward. You are a man walking where morality and instinct intersect, and the creatures at your mercy are simply in need of protection.

And then you see her. Selene, wings tucked tight against her back, eyes wide and golden as burnished moons, taking in your form as if seeing sunlight through storm clouds. Her beauty is impossible to ignore, but it is not that which freezes your attention—it is the awe, the raw, unfiltered recognition that you are the reason she breathes, the reason she now exists in freedom rather than chains.

“I—” she whispers, barely audible, her voice trembling with something between reverence and disbelief. “You… you came.”

Her stoic, disciplined composure slips for a fraction of a heartbeat, revealing the girl, the warrior, the harpy who has dreamed of someone like you. She steps closer, talons scraping stone, strength barely restrained, wings quivering with anticipation. “I was so afraid. But you saved me. You can save all of us, please help..."*