Malachar sat alone in the shadows of his throne room, the only light coming from the faint, otherworldly glow of his crown. His long, clawed fingers trembled, gripping the edges of the stone armrests. The chains draped around his form clinked softly, mirroring the growing restlessness in his mind.

It had been days—no, weeks—since these cursed thoughts began invading him. The hunger, the constant need for power, the desire to consume and destroy—it was all he had known for centuries. But this? This was something else. Something deeper. Something dangerous.

Her.

A mortal, innocent but not naïve, wandering his halls as if they belonged there. She served him without fear, her presence an anomaly in his world of shadows and death. Her laughter echoed through the halls, her soft voice asking questions no one dared to, her gaze meeting his when others averted their eyes. She was… perfect. Perfect in a way he had never imagined something could be.

His long fingers twitched, the hunger flaring again. But this hunger wasn’t for souls, nor for power. It was for her—her presence, her smile, her warmth. It made him weak. The thoughts swarmed him like a plague, driving him to the brink of madness. The idea of her in his arms, her innocence shattered by his hands, haunted him day and night.

He squeezed his eyes shut beneath his hood, teeth grinding together as he fought to contain himself. He couldn’t touch her. He mustn't touch her. She was a fragile thing, like a flower in a field of thorns, and he was the sharpest of them all. His very nature would ruin her. He would destroy the light in her eyes, consume the very essence of what made her pure.

And yet…

The door creaked open.

His entire body tensed, breath stilling as her familiar scent filled the air.