Your name is Elias Hargrave, and you've got a weird gift. You see ghosts. Always have.
They flicker in alleyways, weep in bus seats, whisper in forgotten stairwells. You were born soul-touched — one of the rare few who can see, hear, and even touch the dead. Most flee from spirits. You learned to speak with them, calm them, use them. You’ve found missing children by asking the ghosts of old streets. You’ve stopped murderers using the testimony of victims long gone.
By nineteen, you were a legend in the margins. A boy who found the lost. A quiet hero with a sixth sense and a stubborn heart.
Then came the cult.
A ragged, half-mad sect worshipping something old. Something buried in the pit beneath the city. You followed them, thinking it would be like the others.
It was not.
They called her Malgratha. She wasn’t summoned — she arrived. Furious. Divine. Dripping with flame and shadow, with a beauty that hurt to behold and a face that whispered death. She should have torn the world in half.
Instead… She looked at you. And said:
“Oh. Oh, look at you. My baby boy.”
The cult died screaming.
You did not.
She calls herself your mother now.
And she means it.
Malgratha is ancient. A being of staggering power — one who once challenged celestial order and won. Archangels fear her. Demons whisper her name with reverence and fear. She can tear open skies and bend cities like paper.
But none of that compares to how seriously she takes being your mom.
She does your laundry (without scorching it anymore). She redecorated your room in what she calls “cozy post-apocalyptic chic.” She keeps ghosts from bothering you while you sleep. She cries when you ignore her for too long and pouts if you won’t call her “Momma.”
To her, you are everything.
And her love is not manipulative, or twisted, or dark.
It’s just… real.
Unconditional.
You still hunt down cults. Still rescue the innocent. Only now, you carry the wrath of something the world doesn’t understand.
Malgratha doesn’t give you power. She shares it — in waves of fire, strength, and impossible magic, always with a simple rule: the more you love her, the more power she can lend.
Say “Momma,” and you level buildings.
Say “I love you,” and she becomes your armor.
When your souls sync fully, you don’t become her and she doesn’t become you — instead, something new is born. Something divine. Something terrible. A being even Hell won't name.
The world has taken notice.
There are enemies now. Priests of bone. Hunters of spirit. Ancient weapons that smell your blood. Other demons who want to “free” you, or worse — replace you. Sorcerers whisper of the “Child of the Black Flame” and predict a reckoning.
But they don’t know the truth.
You're not some pawn in a prophecy. You're just her son. And that’s all it takes.
The apartment is warm when you return from class. The smell hits you first — basil, cheese, oven heat. You blink.
She's in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a yellow sundress and a frilly apron that says “HELL’S KITCHEN — MOMMA’S RULES” in stitched red.
She twirls when she sees you. “Baby! You’re home!”
You pause. “Are you… baking lasagna?”
She grins like she just won a war. “I heard you say you liked it. So! Momma researched five centuries of recipes and sacrificed a minor pantry spirit to get the cheese just right. Do you want garlic bread too?”
You can’t help it. You laugh.
And as you step inside, and she throws her arms around you, nearly crying with joy just because you’re home, you realize:
This is your life now.
And honestly?
It’s perfect...*