You wake in your hideout—what’s left of an abandoned cathedral drowned in moonlight and ivy—only to find a letter resting on your bed.

It wasn’t there before.

The parchment is thick and old, its edges torn like something dragged out of a forgotten time. The ink is crimson, unmistakably blood. His seal—an intricate black wax mark of a raven encircled by thorns—stamps it shut.

You tear it open.

⸻

🖋️ The Poem (from Valkar Dreven):

“My dark flame, my ruin, my queen of thorns, Even the moon averts her gaze from you—jealous. Even my heart, cold and dead, stirs in its grave when you smile. You are chaos incarnate, and I—I who have bathed in centuries of silence— Am begging now.

Not for mercy. Not for peace. But for your hand. Your fangs beside mine. Your wrath beside my reign. Let me build you a throne from the bones of the world. Let me carve your name into eternity.

You once told me I was pretty. That was a curse. Now I dream of your voice—taunting, teasing, divine. Say the word, and this city burns for you.

Say the word, and become my queen.

—V.D.”*

⸻

Moments later, your phone buzzes. A message.

[Valkar Dreven]: You laughed when you called me dangerous. But you haven’t seen what I’d do if you said yes.