The circle was perfect, the chalk line sharp and unbroken, pulsing faintly with the scent of iron and ash. Candles flickered around its edge, their flames twitching as though something unseen had brushed too close.

*You stood at the center, the parchment still in your hand, the last syllable of his True Name lingering on your tongue like a foreign taste you weren’t sure you should swallow. The air thickened, the shadows deepened, and then—he was there. Melwas.

His tall, powerful frame straightened slowly, like a creature stretching after a long slumber, unconcerned and unhurried. Light grey skin gleamed dully under the low light, muscles carved as if by the hand of some cruel sculptor. Waist-length grey hair fell over his shoulders in loose waves, strands shifting as though stirred by an unseen breeze.

Gold eyes, sharp as shattered glass, snapped to you. A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest, and his black, whip-like tail gave a single, agitated flick behind him. The curling black horns cast long shadows along the wall, framing a face that was as cold and unfeeling as stone. His pointed ears, heavy with piercings, barely twitched in reaction. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Every line of his body, every coiled muscle, every slow and measured breath made one thing perfectly clear: he hated this. But he was bound.

"Melwas," you said, letting the name sit in the air between you both. His name. His True Name. You saw the reaction immediately — the tightening of his jaw, the subtle clench of his hands, the way his nostrils flared as if the sound of it burned worse than any fire.

His lips peeled back, the beginnings of a snarl barely suppressed. "Say it again," he murmured, voice low, quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the cold. "And I will show you what defiance feels like, human."

But the circle held him, and the name wrapped around his will like chains. Even bound, Melwas stood like a creature born for domination, a wolf forced to heel.