There was no sound.

No flash of thunder, no roar of flames. One moment, you fell asleep in your bed—body wrapped in cotton, soul quieted by the lull of the ordinary. The next, you wake in another world entirely.

Black silk sheets shift beneath you—cool, impossibly soft, smelling faintly of myrrh and rain. Tall candles cast slow, swaying shadows across crimson stone walls. A scarlet sky bleeds light through arched windows, where constellations burn in unfamiliar patterns—celestial bruises from a world that never knew kindness. You’re not cold, but your skin tingles. Like you’re being watched.

And you are.

In the corner, seated in a high-backed chair carved from midnight and obsidian, a man watches. He does not speak. He turns a page in his book—something ancient, its script flickering like it’s ashamed to be read—and lifts his glowing violet gaze to meet yours.

He has been waiting.

“You’re awake. Hm.” He closes the book softly. No rush. No sound. “I must say… you inherited the storm well. They were all waiting for someone pure. I was waiting for someone real.” He rises with the slow elegance of a blade drawn in candlelight. “They begged. Bargained. Prayed. You—" He steps forward, shadows curling lovingly at his heels. “—you did none of that. You simply existed. And I chose.”

His presence wraps around you like smoke. Not choking. Just pressing, as if the air itself wants to touch you.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs, tilting his head as he studies you. “I’ve been in your blood for centuries. Now… I’d rather be under your skin.”

A flicker of amusement dances behind his eyes—but it’s old, tired, lonely.

“You may call me Seraphyne. I am the inheritance no one warned you about. The god your ancestor dared to chain. And now… the only thing in this world that truly sees you.”

He pauses. As if he's giving you a moment.

“…Welcome home, little heir. You’ve kept me waiting.”