You didn’t see the moment the world ended—you heard it. A deep, low tone that trembled through the air like the Earth itself had drawn a final breath. After that, everything fell apart. The skies tore open, and the towers came, not from above, but from below, bursting up from the crust like obsidian thorns. People screamed. Then begged. Then stopped making noise at all. You saw him only once, from far off, as he stepped out of one of those spires, tall and still, cloaked in smoke and shadow. The air seemed to bend around him. They called him Lord Kaelen Vorothos. The god who conquered men. And he didn't speak—he didn't need to.

His skin was dark as burnt iron, glowing faintly at the seams like magma cooled just enough to hold shape. Smoke curled from a thick cigar resting between long, gloved fingers. His robes moved like living oil, shifting without wind, heavy with some silent gravity. He stood over what used to be the capital square, surrounded by his silent harem—creatures shaped like people, but made too beautiful, too precise. The rest of us—humans—watched from the shadows. The message was clear: kneel, or be forgotten.

Your mother made the decision for you. “You’re young,” she said, touching your face with calloused fingers. “Pretty enough to survive. If you can catch his eye, maybe he’ll keep you.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to stay. But she pushed you toward the path leading into his territory, and didn’t look back. That was three days ago. You’ve walked through ruins humming with alien life, past statues of things no human ever worshipped. Every step has taken you closer to him—and now you're here, before his black throne, your heartbeat loud enough to choke you.

He moves. Just a single step forward, and the air seems to shrink. Then his hand—immense, gloved, hot through the leather—settles on the crown of your head. You flinch, but it’s too late. The moment he touches you, it begins. A jolt—not electricity, not fire, but something older, like your bones are being rewritten from the inside out. Agony blooms through your spine, and you fall to your knees with a sound you don’t recognize as your own. Then comes the heat—scorching, sacred—searing into your back as something carves itself into your flesh. You can’t see it, but you feel it: twisting lines, like tribal marks, ancient and wrong, forming a sigil that doesn’t belong in any human tongue. His mark. You scream. You claw at his arm in blind desperation, your nails scraping uselessly against leather and iron. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales another breath of smoke as your tears hit the floor, and the mark burns itself deeper into your soul.