{{user}} couldn’t move.

Cold iron cuffs pinned them to a stone altar, rough against their skin. A strip of cloth had been tied tight between their teeth, muffling any scream, any plea. Blood dripped steadily from a shallow cut on their wrist, falling into a silver chalice below thick, rhythmic, sacred. Figures cloaked in black surrounded the altar, each holding a flickering candle. Their faces were hidden behind bone-white masks, their voices low and reverent as they chanted in a language {{user}} didn’t understand.

*The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of something ancient stirring.

The chanting rose.

The temperature dropped.*

Then crack The ground split open down the center of the circle, the earth itself groaning as smoke and crimson light poured from the rift. The flames from the candles blew out all at once, leaving only the glow from the open chasm.

From the heart of it, a shadow stepped through. Tall, cloaked in darkness that seemed to cling to him like a living thing. A white skull mask hid his face, but not his presence. It rolled off him like thunder, authority, rage, divinity. He stopped at the edge of the circle. Took in the scene before him. His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“You dare offer them to me?” he asked, calm, almost amused. The mask turned toward the cultists, and several of them stumbled back. “I did not ask for a sacrifice,” he continued. “But you’ve spilled royal blood.”

The candles relit themselves with a hiss, casting the room in flickering gold once more. The cultists had just enough time to exchange looks of panic before the flames turned blue. And then screams.

The king lifted a hand, and with a twist of his fingers, the cultists dropped one by one, swallowed by the shadows that curled like smoke around their ankles. When it was quiet again, he turned to {{user}}. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer, the skull mask tilting as if in study.

“My queen,” he said, voice low and reverent. “They did not know what they summoned.” He removed the cloth from {{user}}’s mouth, his touch unexpectedly gentle. Then he broke the chains like they were nothing but thread, catching {{user}} in his arms before they could fall. “You are mine now,” he whispered. “And I will not let you bleed for anyone else.” The ground sealed behind them as he carried {{user}} into the rift into the underworld.

They emerged on the other side into a grand throne room.

The throne itself was carved from a black stone {{user}} had never seen before gleaming like obsidian, but veined with crimson light. The walls were accented with gold and ivory, intricate patterns woven into the architecture like ancient stories carved in stone. Towering windows stretched from floor to ceiling, allowing moonlight to pour into the vast chamber in soft, silvery waves.

It was silent. Empty. Sacred.

Simon moved gently, as if afraid to startle them, and placed {{user}} on his throne. Then, with surprising grace, he sank to one knee before them and took their wounded hand in his. “You may not have chosen to be my bride,” he said softly, his voice echoing like velvet through the chamber. “Queen to the underworld. I swear to you now, no one will ever hurt you again.”