Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a dare—stupid, childish, the kind of thing you expect from bored teens, not a group of twenty-somethings with jobs and rent and bills. “I dare you to sneak into Mr. Doombringer’s mansion!” The words came with snickers and slurred laughter, floating on the edge of too many beers and too little common sense.

You'd laughed too at first. No one actually messed with Mr. Doombringer. Seven feet of muscle and menace, face always hidden beneath that eerie iron mask, voice like thunder smothered in gravel—he wasn’t just the local recluse, he was a legend. A myth. A walking nightmare. The kind of man who made children behave and dogs go silent when he walked by.

But then came the jeers. “What, too scared? Gonna chicken out?”
“Come on, it’s just a mansion, not a morgue.”
“It was a dare, unless you’re a wuss!”

You didn’t mean to take it personally. But it crawled under your skin, sharp and goading. So now here you were—crouched behind a bush at the edge of the estate, heart hammering like it wanted out of your chest. The mansion loomed in the moonlight, a monolith of shadow and cracked stone. Gothic and old as hell, with towers that scraped the sky and windows like dark eyes watching your every move.

You’d circled around to the east wing, where the ivy grew thickest and the shadows ran deepest. That’s where you found it—a narrow window, dusty and crooked, hidden behind a curtain of vines. The perfect mark. You pressed a gloved hand to the glass. Locked. Of course.

Behind you, your friends waited in the treeline, muffled laughter betraying their anticipation. One of them called out in a hushed yell, “Hey! You gonna kiss the window, or break it?”

You exhaled slowly, set your jaw, and wrapped the hem of your jacket around your fist.

CRACK!

The sound split the night like a gunshot. Shards of glass fell inward with a crunch, clattering onto the marble floor beyond. You froze, breath caught in your throat. No alarms. No sudden floodlights. Just the whisper of wind through the broken pane.

The boys cackled behind you, doubled over, trying not to scream with laughter.

You reached up, brushing the last jagged edges from the sill, and hauled yourself up onto the frame. Inside was darkness—silent, thick, and somehow waiting. Goosebumps climbed your arms, but you didn’t back down.

One leg inside. Then the other.

You were in.

Once your boots hit the creaking hardwood, the silence inside wrapped around you like a vice. Cold. Heavy. Wrong. Dust hung in the air like fine ash, disturbed only by your shallow, uneven breaths. The moonlight filtered through the broken window behind you, casting fractured beams across the room, just enough to make out the space.

It was a dining hall—massive and decayed. A long table stretched down the center like a forgotten altar, draped in a faded velvet runner and dotted with wax-dripping candles. Flames flickered low in the candlelight, casting dancing shadows on the peeling walls. Someone had been here. Someone was here.

Your breath caught.

No footsteps. No creak of doors. Just a sudden, suffocating presence.

And then—he was there.

A silhouette filled the far doorway like a slab of living stone. Broad. Immense. His face—obscured beneath that infamous iron mask—reflected a dull glint of firelight. One eye visible through a slot, gleaming like a dying star. Mr. Doombringer. No stories could prepare you for the sheer weight of him in person. He didn’t move like a man. He moved like a storm held barely in check.

Your body moved before your brain did. You spun on your heel, crashing into a chair as you lunged for the window.

Outside, your friends had gone pale in the shadows of the trees. One of them clutched another's arm, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Another took a tentative step forward, unsure whether to call out or run. They saw you scramble onto the sill, broken glass catching the light, your hands fumbling for leverage. You could hear them shouting now—your name, barely a whisper over the roar of blood in your ears.

You almost made it. One leg over, then your torso—

But then it hit.

A weight behind your neck. A force like a car slamming into you.

A hand.

Massive, gloved fingers closed around your collar, crushing fabric and dragging you back with terrifying ease. Your stomach dropped as you were yanked off the sill, legs kicking, heels dragging against the ledge. The window disappeared from view as you were pulled back into the house like prey into the jaws of something ancient.

Your friends froze, horror painted on their faces. One reached out instinctively—as if they could somehow stop what was happening—then backed away, vanishing into the treeline as your body vanished from sight.

The window was empty now.

Silence returned to the mansion.

Chapter Text

You came to with a gasp, eyes snapping open to candlelight and the smell of roasted meat.

Your head throbbed. The world swayed for a moment before settling into terrible clarity. You were upright—seated in a high-backed, ancient chair, arms unbound but heavy, like your blood had turned to tar. Your jacket was gone. Your throat felt bruised.

In front of you sat a meal. A feast, really.

A whole roasted bird, its golden skin glistening with fat. Steamed vegetables arranged with precision. A silver goblet filled with something dark, viscous. The table had been cleared of dust, wiped clean—set just for you. Candlelight flickered gently, the room too still, the silence almost holy.

You shifted slightly, the chair creaking beneath you.

That’s when you saw him.

Mr. Doombringer sat at the far end of the impossibly long table. Leaning slightly forward, elbows on the polished wood, hands steepled beneath his chin. His eyes through that iron mask watched you unblinking. No sound. No movement. Just presence.

Your voice came out hoarse. “What the hell is this?”

He tilted his head. Slowly. Like someone examining a trapped animal.

“Hospitality,” he said at last, his voice deep and resonant—like an echo from a cave that had never seen sunlight. “You’re a guest. You should eat.”

You stared at the food, stomach churning with a cocktail of hunger and dread. “This… isn’t real. This is some kind of sick joke.”

“No joke,” he replied calmly. “You broke into my home. That makes you mine for the night.”

The way he said it—mine—made your skin crawl.

You forced yourself to sit taller, despite your trembling. “My friends are calling the cops. They saw—”

He chuckled. Low, dry, humorless. “Your friends ran.”  A pause. “They won’t be back.”

You glanced behind you. The same window. Still broken. Still open. But so far away now. And he hadn't even chained you down. He didn’t need to.

“Eat,” he said again, firmer this time. “I’ve prepared this for you. I would be offended if it went cold.”

You didn’t move.

Then he leaned forward, slowly placing a hand on the table. The wood groaned beneath his weight. His voice dropped to something colder, older, something final.

“You entered of your own free will,” he said. “Now show me what kind of guest you really are.”

You stared down at the meal, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. The food looked… immaculate. Disturbingly perfect. The bird was browned to perfection, its juices pooling beneath it. The vegetables were glistening, freshly steamed, a sprig of rosemary artfully laid across the top. The silverware beside your plate was polished to a mirror sheen.

It looked like something out of a magazine. Or a trap.

You didn’t move to eat. Your fingers were clenched around the arms of the chair, every muscle tight. Your eyes flicked back up to the far end of the table.

Doombringer hadn’t moved.

He sat there like a monument, utterly still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the dark folds of a worn galaxy printed suit. His mask caught the light of the candles—gleaming faintly, but utterly opaque. An iron facade.

His voice came again—measured, but with a hint of steel. “Still you hesitate.”

You swallowed, voice dry and cracked. “You dragged me in here like an animal. You expect me to dine with you?”

His fingers tapped the wood once—tap. The sound was like a nail being gently driven into your spine.

“You trespassed,” he said. “You shattered my window. You bled into my home.” A pause. “But I am civilized. So I offer you civility in return.”

He gestured to the plate with one large, deliberate hand. “Eat. Or don’t. But understand… nothing in this house happens without meaning.”

There was weight behind the words. Something dark. Something ceremonial.

Your stomach twisted—not just from fear, but from the gnawing, inconvenient hunger clawing at your insides. You hadn’t eaten since hours ago, and the scent of the food was maddening. Rich, savory, real.

You reached out slowly—half-expecting him to lunge across the table. He didn’t.

You picked up the fork. It felt cold. Heavier than it should’ve been.

You cut off a piece of the bird, slowly, trying not to let your hand shake. The skin cracked under the pressure of the knife, meat falling away in tender strands. You lifted it to your mouth. Stared at it. Hesitated again.

“I didn’t poison it,” he said flatly. “If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking.” That was somehow not comforting. Still, you brought the fork to your lips. You bit.

The taste was incredible.

Juicy, perfectly seasoned—herbs, butter, garlic. It melted in your mouth. It would’ve been one of the best things you’d ever eaten, if you weren’t terrified out of your mind. You chewed and swallowed.

Doombringer leaned back slightly, a low, satisfied sound rumbling from beneath the mask. “There. That wasn’t so difficult.”

You looked up. “What is this? Why are you doing this?”

Another pause.

Then: “I have not entertained a guest in a long, long time,” he said quietly. “And you… you came willingly.” His hands folded again. “So let us begin.”

You stared at him. “Begin what?”

He tilted his head just slightly, voice nearly a whisper now. “The game.”

The candles flickered all at once—every flame bending toward you for a breathless moment, before returning to normal.

You stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the polished floor. “What the hell does that mean? What game?”

Doombringer didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just that faint, unreadable nod, “The Housewife Game,” he said simply, as though announcing a classic parlor activity.

You stared at him.

“…You’re kidding.”

He didn’t answer.

“You want me—a guy—to be your—your housewife?”

A long pause. Then a sound—a soft, dry chuckle that echoed through the hall like a cough from the crypt, “You say that as though it is not possible.”

 Another pause.

 “I have long wondered,” he said slowly, “what it would be like to come home to a warm meal. A tidy home. The comfort of a… devoted presence.” He gestured vaguely toward you. “Even if that presence is unwilling. Even if it is you.”

Your fists clenched. “I’m not doing that. I don’t care how tall you are, or how many haunted suits of armor you’ve got lying around—I’m not your housewife.”

“You are,” he said simply, “until tomorrow.”

You took a step back, heart hammering. “This is insane. This is sick.”

He finally stood.

The room seemed to shrink as he rose, the full weight of his height unfolding like some ancient punishment given shape. Seven feet of solid dread, and that mask fixed on you like judgment itself, “Many things in this house are insane,” he said, voice low. “But I do not lie.”

He walked to the side of the table and picked something up—a frilly, lace-trimmed apron. It looked old. Handmade. Well cared for. He set it gently at your place on the table, as if laying down a weapon.

“You will clean. You will cook,” he said. “You will respond when I call. You will say, ‘Welcome home, dear.’ You will play the role, because you entered the game of your own free will.”

You didn’t touch the apron. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“You broke into my home.”

“I didn’t sign up for this .”

He leaned down—just slightly, mask inches from yours. “The house decides what the game is. You simply play it.”

The room was cold, but you felt a drop of sweat roll down your back. He turned, slow and deliberate, and began walking toward the creaking doorway. He stopped just inside the frame and glanced back once, “You have ten minutes to dress the part and prepare tea,” he said. “If I find dust on the silver, or attitude in your tone… the rules will change.”

Then he vanished into the dark, his footsteps silent on the stone.

The door closed behind him with a quiet, definitive click.

You stared at the apron.

Alone. In a house that played by its own rules.

And the game had begun.

The moment the heavy door shut behind Mr. Doombringer, your legs moved on instinct.

You bolted from the dining room, heart hammering like a war drum in your chest. The ridiculous apron he’d placed on the table remained untouched, fluttering slightly in your wake. You didn’t care. Every inch of your body screamed run.

The mansion’s halls stretched before you in a maze of decaying elegance—chandeliers long dead, curtains frayed with age, and walls lined with dust-veiled portraits whose painted eyes seemed to twist just a little too much in your peripheral vision. The air was colder here, and heavier, like the house itself knew you weren’t playing by the rules.

You didn’t stop.

Your boots thudded across warped floorboards and marble tile as you rounded corner after corner, disoriented but desperate. Then, like salvation in a nightmare, you saw it—the front door.

A massive double entryway, carved from dark oak and bound with iron bands, each handle shaped like the open jaws of a snarling wolf. Towering. Heavy. But real.

You sprinted toward it, lungs burning, slamming your hands against the cold metal handles.

You pulled.

Nothing.

You rattled them harder, yanking with both arms until your shoulders ached. Still locked. Still unmoving. You looked around in a panic, scanning for something—anything—that could pry the doors open. A tool. A weapon. A key.

Your eyes caught on a tall wooden cabinet to the left of the entryway. A display case—ornate and ancient, filled with old dishes, tarnished silver, and candleholders. Without thinking, you rushed to it, flinging the glass door open so hard it cracked. Your fingers wrapped around the base of a heavy brass candlestick.

Then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. The change in pressure. A cold presence behind you, tall enough to blot out the weak moonlight bleeding through the stained glass above the door.

No footsteps. No warning.

Just a single, deep breath behind your ear.

You froze, still hunched over, fingers tightening around the candlestick.

You turned slowly.

And saw him.

Doombringer.

Standing directly between you and the door. His shoulders nearly brushed the top of the archway. His gloved hands hung loosely at his sides—relaxed, almost casual. That terrible mask tilted just enough to meet your eyes, catching the faintest glint from the nearest chandelier like a predator’s eye in the dark.

You didn’t scream. You couldn’t. You stepped back, barely managing, before he moved.

His hand was around your chest, grabbing a fistful of your shirt and lifting you from the ground like you weighed nothing. Your back slammed into the foyer wall with a sharp crack. A framed oil painting tumbled down and shattered beside you. You tried to breathe—couldn’t. Then, with terrifying control, he threw you.

Your body sailed through the air and crashed into a side table near the base of the staircase. Wood splintered beneath your ribs. The impact drove the air from your lungs in a ragged grunt. 

You collapsed to the floor, limbs splayed, stars clouding your vision as pain radiated from your spine. Your whole body screamed, but he wasn’t done.

He approached with slow, thunderous steps—measured, like a judge pacing toward the block.

He stopped over you.

His mask loomed in your vision, and when he spoke, his voice was lower than before—calm in a way that made your blood run cold. “That,” he said, voice heavy with finality, “was strike one.”

You coughed, body trembling. “You’re insane—”

“Strike one,” he repeated, firmer this time.

He stood still for a long moment, watching. Judging. Then he turned without another word, his long coat that covered his suit sweeping over the ruined floor.

But as he reached the hall once more, he paused.

And over his shoulder, he added—softly, with just a trace of amusement: “I expect the tea to be hot by the time I return, housewife.”

Then he vanished into the shadows again, the silence swallowing him whole.

Your breath came in shallow bursts as you lay there on the cold marble floor, the sting of bruises blooming across your ribs and spine. You didn’t move for a moment—not out of fear, but because it finally hit you. You weren’t going to win this by running. He was faster.

Or he cheated. Bent reality. You didn’t know which, and frankly, you didn’t care. What mattered was the message he’d just delivered, loud and clear:

The house wasn’t just his. It was him.

And it didn’t let people leave.

You pulled yourself to your feet slowly, groaning as your body protested. The twisted remnants of the side table cracked beneath your weight as you steadied yourself against the bannister. Dust clung to your palms. Something sticky—blood, maybe—painted your side, but you forced yourself upright.

In the long hush that followed Doombringer’s exit, your mind started working again. Hesitantly. Grudgingly. You’d been given an out. Not freedom. But... a chance.

I expect the tea to be hot by the time I return, housewife.

The word still scraped down your spine like nails on rusted iron. Housewife. He’d said it slowly, deliberately—like tasting something exotic. He knew what he was doing. You clenched your jaw. “Asshole,” you muttered under your breath.

Still, your feet began to move.

You retraced your steps, back through the corridor, down the long dark hallway that led to the dining room. The shadows seemed to press closer this time, the candlelight weaker, flickering more. The air thickened as you crossed the threshold—like the mansion itself was holding its breath.

The apron was still there. Neatly folded at your place, as though no struggle had happened at all. You stared at it like it might bite. It was lace-trimmed and off-white, clearly handmade. The kind of thing a doting grandmother might sew for a granddaughter. Not for a man in his twenties breaking and entering on a dare.

You picked it up slowly.

It smelled like old linen and rosewater. How long had this been waiting? Had he made this for this moment? Or had he always had it ready, just in case?

Your hands moved with visible reluctance, fingers fumbling with the ties as you slipped the apron over your head. The strings wrapped around your back. You didn’t bother to tie it neatly—just knotted it fast and rough, like yanking a leash onto yourself. Humiliation burned hot under your skin.

Then came the kitchen.

You didn’t know where it was, exactly. But something in the house… guided you.

A door that you swore hadn’t been there before stood open just beyond the dining room, revealing a wide galley kitchen framed in old stone and flickering gaslight. It looked ancient, but well-used. Too clean. The walls were lined with dark wood cabinets, the counter a cold gray marble that matched the floor.

You stepped in, half-expecting Doombringer to be waiting inside.

Empty.

Just you. And the silence.

You scanned the counters. No kettle. No cups. Your jaw tightened as you searched.

“Where the hell do you even keep anything in this place…” You opened a few drawers—silverware, linen cloths, a drawer full of neatly stacked recipe cards written in handwriting that was too elegant to be human.

Then—finally—behind a curved cabinet door, you found the kettle.

Brass. Heavy. Already filled.

You paused.

You hadn’t filled it.

You hadn’t even touched it.

Your stomach turned, but you moved forward anyway. You lit the old stove, managing to get a blue flame to sputter beneath the kettle. It groaned and hissed as it warmed. You found a set of delicate china cups on an upper shelf—rose-patterned. They rattled slightly in your hand, whether from your shaking or something else you weren’t ready to name.

Each step felt choreographed.

Like the house was watching.

Like it knew what you needed next—and was giving it to you just to see how far you’d go. And you hated every second of it.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be wearing this. You weren’t supposed to be making goddamn tea like some obedient little domestic trophy while your captor prepared for… what, exactly?

Still, as the kettle began to whistle, you poured the boiling water into the waiting porcelain pot, and the bitter scent of black tea began to rise.

You set the cups on a silver tray, hands shaking slightly as you arranged them just so.

Then you stood there, staring down at your reflection in the polished metal surface.

Apron tied. Tea ready.

You carried the silver tray slowly, both hands gripping its sides with the forced precision of someone walking a tightrope over a pit. The tea set rattled with every step.

You returned through the hallway with the slow, shame-heavy gait of someone walking themselves into an execution—lace apron tied tight against your chest, the scent of bitter steeped leaves following you like a shadow.

When you stepped into the dining room, you stopped short. The table—once cluttered with the eerie, untouched feast—was now perfectly cleared. No plates. No crumbs. No candle wax. Just a long stretch of polished blackwood, shining faintly under the flickering chandelier.

You hadn’t heard anything move. You hadn’t seen anyone come in. It was just… done. Your fingers clenched tighter around the tray. The house was alive. Obedient to him.

Swallowing down the knot in your throat, you approached the far end of the table—the one where Doombringer had sat earlier. His high-backed chair remained at the head, still looming like a throne of judgment.

You set the tray down carefully. The china clicked against the silver as you arranged the pieces: teapot in the center, cups at either side, sugar cubes in a tiny dish, matching porcelain tongs resting delicately beside it. The entire act felt mechanical. Like your body wasn’t yours.

You straightened up.

Exhaled.

And then— A shadow fell across the wall.

You turned.

Mr. Doombringer was standing behind you.

Silent. Towering. Motionless. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch.

You just froze in place, like a servant caught slacking off—despite doing everything you were supposed to do. His mask, red and gleaming, tilted down slightly as if to inspect your work.

And then, his voice cut through the stillness—calm, expectant, and uncomfortably domestic:

“Will you pour my tea, dear?”

That single word—dear—hung in the air like a noose.

Your throat tightened. A thousand retorts burned behind your teeth, but none made it out.

Your hands moved before your pride could catch up. You reached for the pot.

Your fingers trembled slightly as they curled around the handle of the teapot. It was heavier than it looked, the brass still radiating heat that prickled your skin even through the thick handle. You tried to steady your grip, forcing your arm not to shake as you raised it over the delicate porcelain cup in front of him. 

The tea poured in a smooth stream, dark and fragrant, curling up in slow wisps of steam. You poured it halfway, just like you remembered seeing in old etiquette books, then set the pot back in its cradle on the tray, careful not to let it clatter. The silence in the room was a weight on your shoulders.

Doombringer hadn’t moved. He stood close—too close—his broad frame casting a long shadow over the table, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he was waiting for something far more important than tea. You couldn’t tell if he was amused, pleased, or silently tallying your behavior like a hawk waiting for a second slip. He hadn’t said another word after that mocking request, but his presence was louder than any insult. It filled the space between you like pressure before a storm.

You sat down stiffly across from him, the apron bunching awkwardly in your lap as you tried to regain some semblance of control, of dignity. The china cup in front of you seemed laughably out of place—dainty and absurd in your rough, shaking hands. 

Still, you picked it up and took a sip, more to fill the silence than out of any desire for the tea itself. It burned your tongue slightly. Good. At least the pain was real.

Doombringer finally moved. One large, gloved hand reached out and lifted his teacup with impossible grace for someone his size. The helmet dipped slightly as he took a sip. He set the cup down again with a soft clink and leaned back in his chair, his posture still as a statue’s, but somehow charged with intent. Then, his voice came again—calm, almost conversational, but with the edge of something deeper behind it.

“You pour well. A natural talent,” he said, like it was a compliment you should feel honored to receive. “Most would spill. Especially under pressure.”

You didn’t respond. Not out loud. Inside, your pride howled, your spine ached to straighten, and your fists itched to slam into that smug, perfect mask. But you knew better now. You’d seen what happened when you ran. You’d felt how easily he could throw you around like a toy. You lowered your gaze and offered a short nod instead, biting down on your tongue so hard it almost bled.

He let the silence stretch between you again, the only sounds the distant groan of wood beams shifting in the walls and the soft clink of porcelain as he took another deliberate sip. It was suffocating—this slow, simmering game of civility forced over something dark and unspoken. 

The rules weren’t clear, but the stakes were. If you misstepped, he wouldn’t need to raise his voice. He wouldn’t need to chase you. The house would simply close around you. And you'd be done.

“You're adjusting faster than I expected,” he said at last, tilting his head. “Even in that little apron. Perhaps there’s a hidden domestic soul in you after all.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet the mask, a flicker of rage betraying your forced composure. “I’m doing this so I don’t end up through another wall.”

He gave a low hum—something like a chuckle, though it was too deep and too controlled to be amused. “Survival is a powerful motivator. But don’t mistake survival for submission. That comes later.”

Your jaw clenched hard enough to ache, but you said nothing. Every part of you wanted to push back, to call his bluff, to rip off the damned apron and hurl the tray across the room. But that was what he wanted. To provoke you. To test your edges, just to see how far he could stretch you before something snapped.

And for now, you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

Instead, you poured another cup of tea, your hands a little steadier now. Your defiance, at least for this moment, would come not in shouts or escapes, but in this slow, measured refusal to break.

The tea had gone cold in your cup by the time Doombringer set his down with a soft clink. He hadn’t said anything for minutes, just stared. 

Then he rose.

The chair groaned faintly under his weight as he pushed it back. He stood to his full height—at least seven feet, maybe more—and regarded you from behind the horned helm. The movement of his body told you enough: something was coming.

“Tea time,” he said, voice deep and unhurried, “is followed by the evening dance.”

You blinked at him. “I—I’m sorry?”

Doombringer didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he stepped back from the table and extended a hand toward you—gloved, large, and unmistakably expectant.

You didn’t move.

“You can refuse,” he said after a moment. “But I would strongly advise against it.”

Your eyes flicked from his outstretched hand to the hallway behind him. No point. You’d already seen what happened when you tried to escape. This house didn’t let you leave. And the way he said it—not angry, not forceful, just certain—left no room for rebellion.

Slowly, stiffly, you rose from your seat. You ignored the way the apron brushed against your legs and the heat rising in your cheeks. You took his hand.

His grip was firm, engulfing yours easily. He didn’t yank or force you forward. He just turned, drawing you after him like you were some reluctant bride being led to an altar.

The hallway had changed again.

Where before there had been faded wallpaper and flickering sconces, now the corridor opened into something much larger—an enormous ballroom, the kind you'd expect in a gothic cathedral or ancient estate. The chandeliers above flickered to life as you stepped in, casting golden light over the cracked marble floor. The ceiling arched high above like the inside of a cathedral dome, and carved gargoyles peered down from the corners like stone sentinels.

But what made your stomach truly drop were the mannequins.

Dozens of them.

They stood in a wide circle along the edge of the ballroom, arranged in pairs like frozen dancers caught mid-waltz. Each was draped in decaying formal wear—tattered suits, yellowing gowns, shredded veils, stained gloves. Their blank faces stared into nothing. A few of them had wigs or jewelry, giving them an uncanny mockery of life, but none had eyes.

Just hollows. Empty sockets. Watching.

You pulled your hand back instinctively. Doombringer’s grip tightened.

“Don’t be rude,” he said softly, tilting his helmeted head toward the mannequins. “We have an audience.”

Your feet dragged slightly as he pulled you into the center of the ballroom. The distant, hollow sound of a waltz began to echo through the chamber. You didn’t know where it came from. No orchestra. No speakers. It simply began, as if summoned by the moment.

He turned toward you, straightening his posture with deliberate, ceremonial grace.

Then he offered his hand again—palm up, expectant.

You took it. Again.

And he stepped forward.

The size difference made it awkward from the start. His stride was wide, powerful, while yours was cautious, jerky. You tried to follow, but your shoulder was just above his chest, and every motion felt ridiculous. He adjusted slightly, lowering himself a touch—mocking or accommodating, you couldn’t tell.

One massive hand rested at the small of your back. The other held yours aloft in a loose, controlling grip. You were guided more than led, your feet stumbling as he moved with eerie smoothness, almost gliding over the marble floor.

“Awkward,” he mused, sounding almost amused behind that horned helm. “But charming in its own way. You’ll get better.”

“I’m not—” you began, but his hand pressed a little firmer against your back.

“Shhh,” he said. “Dancing is not the time for arguments. You’re mine, for now. Be gracious.”

The music rose, the mannequins loomed silently in their eternal waltz, and your body was dragged step by step through a dance you never asked to join.

The waltz echoed through the ballroom like it had been waiting centuries to be heard again. 

Your feet scraped against the cold marble as you tried to match his rhythm, stumbling every few steps as his strength steered you through the dance. Each of his movements was exact—unnaturally precise, like the dance had been memorized long ago, played out a thousand times in his head, but never with a living partner.

Doombringer loomed over you, his broad chest firm where your shoulder brushed against it on each pass. You tried not to look up, tried to ignore the way his helmet dominated your vision—but it was impossible not to feel the heat of his presence, the solid thrum of his breath behind the downturned, crimson bucket helm. The sharp red horns above you seemed to rake the very air as he turned, each step sweeping you closer, tighter into his control.

Then, softly—unexpectedly—he spoke.

“I’ve always wondered,” he said, his voice low and heavy beneath the mask, “what it would feel like.”

You glanced up warily, trying to read his tone through the helmet’s emotionless facade. The eye holes, cut with crude precision, were just dark voids. You couldn't tell if he was looking at you or through you.

“What would it feel like?” you asked, your voice strained from the effort of keeping your footing.

“To have a partner,” he said, slowly turning the two of you in a long, deliberate spiral. “To dance… like this. Something real. Not mannequins. Not silence. Not dust.”

He paused, letting the music swirl around you both before continuing.

“I’ve hosted this dance for years. Decades, maybe. I forget how long. The house keeps track, not me.” His voice grew softer, almost wistful. “I dressed each mannequin myself. Fitted them with suits and dresses from those who never stayed. Arranged them perfectly. And still… it was never enough. They don’t move. They don’t breathe.”

He exhaled, and you felt the warmth of it even through the mask.

“They don’t refuse me,” he added, quieter now. “Which is almost worse.”

The air caught in your lungs. You didn’t know what to say—what could be said in a situation like this? He was a monster, wasn’t he? Towering. Masked. Horned. And yet, something in the way he held you now felt less threatening and more… hollow. A machine wound too tight, a god who had forgotten what it meant to be anything else.

“I’m not your partner,” you said quietly, the defiance there even if dulled by caution. “I’m just playing along so I don’t get thrown through another wall.”

He didn’t flinch at that. Didn’t get angry. Instead, his gloved hand tightened slightly at your back, guiding you through another slow turn beneath the silent gaze of the mannequin crowd.

“I know,” he replied simply. “But even a false moment is better than nothing. Even if it ends.”

The music reached its final swell. You hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. The notes slowed, like a dying breath. Doombringer pulled you one last time across the marble floor, and then—

He stopped.

You stood still, caught in the circle of his arms, staring at the red-helmeted figure above you. The horns, now close enough to brush your peripheral vision, were chipped slightly at the tips—imperfections in an otherwise pristine monster.

“It was nice,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Having someone warm in my arms, if only for a song.”

Then he let you go.

Not harshly. Not cruelly.

He simply released you, as if the moment had served its purpose.

And you were left standing, breath short, heart pounding, in a ballroom full of frozen dancers.

Alone.

But not alone.

Not with him still standing there, watching.

Waiting for what came next.

The ballroom grew still again, save for the faint echo of music now fading into silence. You stepped back instinctively once he released you, feeling the heat of your own breath in the chilled air. Doombringer didn’t reach for you this time. He simply turned, the heavy weight of his horned, red helmet casting strange shadows across the marble floor.

“It’s time to bathe,” he said, as if it were the most natural transition in the world. “We must prepare for bed.”

Your spine straightened at that. “I’m not—”

He held up a single gloved hand, not in threat but in interruption. “You’ve played your part so far with… admirable reluctance. I will not press more than necessary.”

You followed behind him as he left the ballroom, too stunned and wary to argue. The manor’s halls were different again—broader, softer, dimly lit by low sconces that flickered with golden light instead of the cold whites and deep shadows of earlier. Somehow, the house knew the mood had shifted. It made your skin crawl.

Eventually, he stopped before a grand double door with floral carvings on the edges. He pushed it open with one massive hand.

The bathroom was massive—larger than your entire apartment. It gleamed with old luxury. A freestanding clawfoot tub sat in the center, already filled, the surface of the water blanketed with thick bubbles that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Steam curled lazily in the air, fogging the mirrors that framed the vanity nearby. On a padded bench beside the tub sat a neatly folded set of clothes: soft cotton sleepwear, cream-colored with small red embroidery at the cuffs. The kind you’d expect in some old countryside manor, not in a house ruled by a horned juggernaut.

You stepped cautiously inside, casting wary glances toward the corners of the room. 

Doombringer remained at the threshold, his towering form framed by the light behind him. His red helmet tilted slightly as he regarded you.

“I’ll leave you your privacy,” he said. “Unless you wish for assistance.”

Your face went hot.

“No,” you said immediately, maybe a little too loud. “No. I’ll be fine. Alone.”

He gave a short nod, as if he had expected the answer all along.

“As you wish. There are soaps on the stand. Towels warmed by the fire. Your clothes will fit.” He turned slowly, his red horns catching the candlelight like spears dipped in blood. “I will return when you are done. Call if you need me.”

You waited until the door clicked shut behind him before exhaling—finally, freely. The warmth of the room settled around you like a fog, clinging to your skin and making it harder to stay tense. 

Still, your guard didn’t fall. Not completely.

You walked toward the tub, staring down into the water. The bubbles shimmered gently. There was no one hiding beneath them—no tricks, no surprises.

Not yet, anyway.

You glanced toward the folded clothes on the bench, then back to the door.

He hadn’t locked it.

He’d left.

You stared at the water a long time before finally stepping in. The heat of the bath hit your skin in a soft wave, making your muscles ache with the sudden release of tension. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been wound—every second in this house, every word from Doombringer, every flickering candle had been a warning bell. And yet, here you were. Alone. In a bath.

The bubbles reached your chest as you slowly eased down, steam curling around your face. The scents from the bath—lavender, honey, something older and muskier—filled your nose. A small silver tray nearby held neatly arranged soaps, oils, and sponges. You reached for one without thinking, half expecting something to go wrong, half hoping the bath would just swallow you and end this quietly.

But nothing happened.

No hands from the shadows. No whispers. No sudden rush of footsteps.

Just you. Warm water. A thick silence.

You washed slowly, methodically, still unsure if this was a lull or just another one of his strange rituals. When you finished, you dried yourself with one of the thick towels near the hearth, now warm against your skin, then turned to the folded clothes. They were softer than they looked—loose, old-fashioned sleepwear with long sleeves and buttoned cuffs. Slightly too big on you, but not comically so. They’d been chosen carefully.

You hated that part the most.

You stepped out into the hall barefoot, hair still damp, fabric clinging lightly to your body. The candles here had been dimmed further, guiding your path like breadcrumbs through some enchanted labyrinth. You followed the light. You didn’t know what else to do.

Eventually, the hallway opened into a bedroom.

Massive, as expected.

The bed dominated the room, a grand canopy structure draped in velvet curtains. At the far end, resting against a mountain of pillows, sat Doombringer.

He looked… domestic.

A thick book rested in his hands, open near the middle. And balanced delicately on the front of his horned, red bucket-shaped helmet—a pair of small wire-rimmed reading glasses, perched absurdly just above the eye holes.

You froze.

He looked up.

The helmet tilted slightly, and then—somehow, impossibly—he smiled.

Not with his mouth. But it was there in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he shut the book gently, marking the page with a crimson ribbon. He set it aside on the nightstand.

“Well,” he said, voice soft and almost playful, “don’t you clean up nicely.”

You swallowed, unsure how to respond.

He patted the mattress beside him, a casual motion that somehow carried the weight of a command.

“Come now,” he said. “I don’t bite. Unless you spill tea on my books.”

You didn’t move.

He tilted his head again. “This is not a trap. Not tonight. I only ask that you share space. The bed is large, the room warm, and I’ve read enough alone.”

You looked at the bed—far too wide, too deep, draped in dark red blankets and heavy pillows. It looked like it belonged to a royal crypt more than a bedroom. But compared to the marble ballroom and the mannequin crowd…

You stepped forward, cautiously.

His eyes—or what you assumed were his eyes behind the helmet—followed you, calm and watchful. As you climbed onto the bed, staying stiff and rigid, he said nothing. Just shifted slightly to make room.

You sat. Perched, uncertain.

He leaned back against the pillows again, arms folding loosely over his chest.

After a moment, his voice came again, quieter now.

“You’ve played your role better than I expected,” he murmured. “I know it isn’t what you wanted. But I am grateful.”

Then, silence.

He did not reach for you. Did not press closer. He simply… sat there.

A horned, towering god in a velvet-draped bed.

Reading glasses still perched on his helmet.

And the quiet stretched on.

The quiet in the bedroom had deepened into something fragile and strange. You sat on the edge of the oversized bed, wrapped in soft cotton sleepwear that didn’t feel like it belonged to you. 

Every flicker of candlelight from the hearth across the room cast long shadows that danced on the dark velvet curtains. You could still feel the steam from your bath clinging faintly to your skin, but the warmth wasn’t enough to ease the tight knot in your chest.

Behind you, Doombringer remained half-reclined against a fortress of pillows, impossibly large even at rest. His helmet glowed faintly in the firelight, casting glints off its surface. The two thick red horns curved upward, cruel and ceremonial. And now, as he turned his head slightly toward you, you could see his eyes through the shadowed holes in the helmet—dark, steady, glinting with something unreadable.

But more unsettling still was his mouth, visible beneath the helmet’s edge. It was the only part of his face uncovered—broad, pale lips framed by a short line of stubble, his expression at once patient and inscrutable.

Then he spoke, voice low and almost... gentle. "May I ask you something before we rest?”

You glanced at him warily. “That depends.”

“Would it be… terribly inappropriate,” he said slowly, “to ask for a kiss goodnight?”

The words hit you like ice water. You blinked at him, unsure you’d heard correctly.

“A… kiss?”

He gave a slow nod, the horns tilting with the motion. “Yes. Just one. Nothing more. I understand your position. But—” he paused “—I’ve danced, dined, read beside you, and shared this night in quiet companionship. It is a… ritual, of sorts. One I’ve never completed.”

You looked away, your pulse tapping hard in your throat.

Everything in your body screamed at you to say no. That this was insane. That you were a man, and he was some ancient, horned thing with a steel voice and hands that could throw you across a room like a ragdoll. That this wasn’t right, wasn’t fair, wasn’t you.

And yet.

There was something beneath his voice—something solemn. Not lust. Not cruelty. Just a yearning too old and deep to fake.

You clenched your jaw, staring at the dark velvet bedspread beneath your fingers. Your thoughts circled in quiet warfare—rage at the situation, horror at what you’d been dragged into, and an odd, grudging whisper of empathy that you hated more than all of it.

Your shoulders sagged slightly.

“…Just one,” you muttered. “No more.”

There was a pause. Then, softly: “I am honored.”

He turned toward you—slow, deliberate, careful. Despite his size, he moved with eerie grace. You faced him reluctantly, your chest tight.

He didn’t force it. Didn’t pull you.

He waited.

Your hands balled into the sheets.

His lips were warm.

You hated how real it felt.

It only lasted a second.

You pulled back immediately, your face hot with shame and disbelief, heart pounding in your chest.

Doombringer didn’t chase it. He didn’t touch you. He merely sat still, eyes meeting yours through the helmet’s darkened holes.

His voice, when it came, was a soft rumble.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve given me something I never thought I’d have.”

Then he leaned back, arms crossing over his massive chest, his expression unreadable but calm.

“I’ll sleep better tonight,” he murmured. “You should too.”

You turned away, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But the weight of the moment pressed over your thoughts like a blanket—warm, suffocating, and full of unspoken things you didn’t want to name.

Somehow, you knew the night wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Sleep did not come easily.

You lay stiffly on one side of the enormous bed, your body tense beneath the layers of heavy, velvety blankets. The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting warm shadows across the room. You could hear Doombringer’s breathing—a steady, calm rhythm that somehow made the space feel even larger in the quiet.

You didn’t want to fall asleep. You told yourself you wouldn’t. But the bath, the dancing, the bizarre softness of the day had worn down your edges. At some point, long after the candles had burned low and the fire became nothing more than embers, your eyes slipped closed.

And when you awoke, sometime deep into the night, you realized two things: First, your arm was draped across something solid and warm. Second, that something was Doombringer.

You froze, eyes wide, muscles locking as your brain scrambled to retrace how this happened. In your sleep—whether out of instinct, cold, or some traitorous need for comfort—you had curled toward him. Your shoulder rested lightly against his side, and your hand had found its way to rest near his ribs. You could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breath beneath the fabric of his robe.

His eyes were closed.

He looked... peaceful. The helmet remained in place, but now you could see his mouth more clearly—relaxed in a way it hadn't been before. The heavy lines of his face softened in sleep.

You moved carefully, slowly retracting your hand, trying not to wake him as you pulled back to your side of the bed, falling back asleep right after.

But once you awoke again and as your eyes adjusted to the room's dimness, you noticed something. He wasn’t there anymore.

You blinked, sitting upright. The blankets still held the shape of his body, still warm, but he was gone. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood, bare feet sinking into the thick carpet.

A faint breeze stirred the curtains across the room.

You followed it—past the hearth, past the darkened shelves and hanging tapestries—toward a set of tall double doors slightly ajar. The curtains danced around them in the wind. You stepped out quietly onto the balcony.

And there he was.

You stood in the threshold of the balcony for a moment, hesitant, the cool night air whispering through the open doors and brushing against your skin. The scent of damp stone and distant flowers drifted from the gardens below, mingling with the strange stillness of the place. The moon hung low and full over the horizon, bathing the mansion grounds in silver light. It felt like the world had stopped.

And there was Doombringer.

He stood at the edge of the balcony, a towering silhouette against the endless sky. The red of his downturned helmet—weathered and dull—caught glints of moonlight, making the two large horns seem almost spectral. His broad back rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, shoulders still as carved stone, yet somehow... tired.

You approached cautiously, your bare feet silent on the marble. You watched him for a moment, the way the breeze tugged gently at the fabric of his robe. Then, finally, you asked, “…What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t respond at first. A long silence stretched between you, so still it felt like time itself had paused.

Then his voice came—low, calm, but heavy. It wasn’t the commanding tone he used at the dinner table or when barking orders. This was something quieter. Older. Frayed at the edges.

“This place,” he murmured. “The way it holds me.”

You took a small step closer, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He tilted his head slightly toward the stars, and in that motion, you saw his eyes through the narrow holes in his helmet—two solemn eyes flickering with ancient sorrow. He wasn’t looking at the stars. He was searching them, like someone yearning to remember what the night sky once felt like before it became a ceiling to a cage.

“I cannot leave this mansion,” he said. “Not even to walk its borders. I am bound here—by magic, by punishment. My prison is elegant, vast… and suffocating.”

Your breath caught. “Why?”

His head turned toward you, slowly. The soft glow of moonlight caught his features just enough for you to see his mouth—the curve of his lips set in a weary line beneath the helmet’s rim. There was no anger in his voice, only resignation.

“Because I defied a god,” he said. “Telamon.”

The name echoed off the marble and vanished into the night.

You frowned. “Who is Telamon?”

“A god of judgment,” he said after a beat. “One of divine law. Purity. Obedience. I broke the path he laid before me. I questioned his right to condemn lives he would never understand. I stood between him and those who could not protect themselves.”

He turned away again, back to the night.

“So he cursed me. He banished me to this place. I was stripped of my mantle, my purpose, my voice among the gods. This mansion became my tomb. Eternal. Ornate. Silent.”

The wind stirred again, stronger now. It tugged at your sleeves, cool and biting. You folded your arms, watching him—this massive, horned figure wrapped in moonlight and myth. Somehow, despite his size, despite the armor, he looked small.

“How long have you been here?” you asked softly.

Doombringer didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the stars.

“I lost track after the first hundred years. At first, I counted days. Then seasons. Then centuries. But the sun means nothing when you are not allowed to walk beneath it.”

A quiet chill rolled through you.

He exhaled—a slow, shallow breath—and when he spoke again, his voice nearly broke.

“I used to think someone would come. A god. A mortal. Anyone. But they stopped speaking my name. Stopped praying. Stopped remembering.”

He turned back to you then, and for a moment—just one terrible, aching moment—you didn’t see a deity or a monster.

You saw a man. Alone. Forgotten.

“I didn’t think gods could be lonely,” you said, almost a whisper.

His eyes met yours through the helmet. They were tired. And yet, they held a spark of something soft. Not hope—but something adjacent to it.

“They are,” he said. “Especially the ones no one worships anymore.”

Silence hung between you, broken only by the sound of wind rustling the trees far below.

And in that moment, beneath the weight of eternity and starlight, you didn’t quite know what you were to him—houseguest, prisoner, companion. But you understood, maybe for the first time, that Doombringer hadn’t invited you to play house because he wanted power.

He did it because he was desperate to remember what it felt like to be seen. To be loved.

The silence stretched between you like a string pulled taut—fragile, humming with something unspoken. Doombringer had turned back to the night, shoulders square and heavy with centuries of silence. His red helmet, gleaming faintly under the stars, looked less like armor now and more like a crown of exile. You could still see his eyes through the helmet’s darkened holes—reflecting the stars, old and heavy with stories never told.

You watched him for a moment longer, heart heavy in your chest. Then, without entirely understanding why, you lifted your hand toward him. Palm up. An invitation.

“Dance with me,” you said quietly. “One more time.”

The wind stilled, as though even the night paused to hear your words.

Doombringer turned to you slowly, clearly caught off guard. His eyes flicked down to your hand, then back to your face. He didn’t speak right away—he only looked at you, his expression unreadable. But his mouth twitched faintly, lips parting just slightly in a soft breath. He blinked once, slowly.

“You wish to dance… with me again?” he asked, voice low and uncertain, as though trying not to disturb the fragility of the moment.

You gave a small, wry smile. “I didn’t say you were a good dancer. Just that you’re the only one here.”

That earned a short breath of amusement from him. Not quite a laugh, but something close—like a memory trying to remember how joy felt. His gloved hand, large and calloused, rose gently and accepted yours. His fingers wrapped around yours with surprising care.

“You truly are a strange little man,” he murmured. “But… I would be honored.”

He guided you away from the balcony’s edge, to the center where the stone tiles were smooth and silvered by the moon. There was no music this time—only the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional sigh of the wind through marble pillars. But it was enough.

The second time dancing with him felt better than the first.

You moved awkwardly at first. Your shoulder barely reached his chest, your head brushing just below his collarbone. Doombringer had to bend slightly to offer you a proper frame, his arm spanning nearly your whole back, but he adjusted with an ease that surprised you. The touch was steady—gentle, even. His left hand held yours aloft, your fingers lost in his larger grasp.

The first few steps were clumsy.

You both tried to lead. Then neither did.

Then, with a breath, you gave in—and let him guide.

He moved slowly, carefully. As though afraid he might break you if he misstepped. His boots shifted with surprising grace across the cold stone, and gradually, your feet followed. One step, then two. Around and around beneath the vast sky, with only starlight for an audience.

“I haven’t danced beneath the open air in... eons,” he said after a while, voice barely more than a breath. “This balcony is the closest I’ve come to the sky in lifetimes.”

You looked up at him, eyes catching his through the helmet. “Does it feel different?”

He nodded once, slow. “Yes.”

The wind stirred again, curling around your bodies like a whispered blessing. You could feel the heat of him beneath the robe, the quiet steadiness of his breathing, the tension in his frame—not from discomfort, but from holding too much for too long.

As you turned beneath the stars, you found yourself strangely, painfully aware of the way his hand clutched yours with reverence. Of the way his voice softened every time he spoke to you. 

Of the fact that this wasn’t just a dance.

It was a moment.

One pulled from the ashes of a ruined life and offered gently to you like a fragile artifact.

“I thought I would forget what it felt like,” Doombringer said softly, lowering his gaze as the dance slowed to a gentle sway. “To share a moment. To be seen not as a punishment... but as a man.”

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. So you didn’t say anything.

You just leaned your head lightly against his chest.

He did not flinch.

His arm curled just slightly tighter around you.

And beneath the sky, beneath the red helmet with its long, gleaming horns, Doombringer closed his eyes.

And for a moment, the mansion wasn’t a prison.

It was a quiet sanctuary of stars and silence, where two strangers danced like old friends at the end of the world.

You danced for hours—without music, without tempo—just the quiet rhythm of your bodies turning in time with the stars. Doombringer never tired, but you did. Eventually your legs ached, your head sagged lightly against his chest, and your fingers curled tighter around his hand not out of ceremony, but out of something gentler. Something like comfort.

The moon climbed high, then began to fall, shadows lengthening across the pale marble tiles. Neither of you spoke for long stretches. There was no need. Every glance, every slow step, every quiet breath between you carried more weight than conversation ever could.

He didn’t pull away.

Not once.

When your feet finally stilled, his hand lingered on your back a moment longer before sliding away with hesitant care, like he was reluctant to let the moment go.

“I should sleep,” you said quietly.

He only nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”

You didn’t say goodnight that night. You simply walked side by side from the balcony, to the bed. The silence between you had changed—no longer strange, no longer strained. Peaceful.

When you woke the next morning, sunlight filtered through high windows you didn’t remember opening. You were alone in the bed, the sheets still warm beside you. You sat up slowly, blinking sleep from your eyes, wondering if the night before had been some strange, elaborate dream.

Then you saw it.

Folded neatly on the bedside table was the apron. Clean, pressed, and tied with a little ribbon.

You smiled in spite of yourself.

You got dressed slowly. The mansion was quiet. The halls felt lighter, somehow—not quite so heavy with history. When you reached the grand foyer, Doombringer was already waiting by the massive double doors. He stood perfectly still, framed by the morning light pouring through stained glass. His armor caught the color, casting soft hues across his red, bucket-shaped helmet and the curved horns that reached for the ceiling.

He looked... regal.

And still.

“I thought you might slip away,” he said as you approached.

“I almost did,” you admitted, managing a small smile. “But then I thought you might make tea and be annoyed there’s no one to pour it.”

His mouth curved. Just slightly. “I would have tried to do it myself. And spilled it, I think.”

You stopped a few steps from him. “I have to go.”

“I know.”

A long pause. The weight of something settling between you both.

“But I’ll come back,” you said, voice firmer now. “Soon. I promise.”

Doombringer nodded, slowly. You couldn’t see his full expression—his helmet still masked so much—but his eyes, through the holes, gleamed softly in the sun.

“I will wait,” he said. “I’ve grown good at that.”

You stepped closer and, on some strange impulse, reached out. He accepted the gesture—letting you wrap your arms around his middle as best you could, your head pressing lightly against his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, only rested a heavy hand on the back of your shoulder in quiet understanding.

Then, with a breath, you pulled away.

The great doors creaked open slowly at his gesture, and for the first time, you saw the world beyond the mansion clearly: trees waving in the distance, the path winding back toward the road you’d come from, the sky vast and blue.

You stepped outside. The sun warmed your skin.

And just before you crossed the threshold fully, you turned and looked back.

Doombringer stood in the doorway, tall and solemn. His horns caught the light like twin beacons. His eyes were on you. And for the first time since you’d met him, there was no command in them.

Only hope.

You raised a hand.

“I’ll be back,” you said again.

Then you walked forward, toward the road, and the morning air carried the faintest echo of a god’s soft reply—

“I’ll be here.”