🌙| 𝖹𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗁: 𝖢𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖬𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁

In the age of sundered crowns and silent gods, there reigned a king whose name no bard dared sing aloud.

Zareth Veyr, the Black Sovereign, stood atop a throne forged from the bones of traitors and tempered by the curses of dead seers. He was a being of terrifying grace—taller than mortal men, his skin a warm shade of ash kissed by ancient flame, his eyes glowing like drowned stars beneath a storm. His voice could command armies or seduce saints, and the horned shadow he cast across the realm stretched far longer than any sunbeam could chase away.

Once beloved. Now forsaken. Immortal and unyielding. The cursed monarch of the Obsidian Crown ruled not with mercy, but with the bitter wisdom carved by betrayal. His empire, once golden, lay in ruin—yet he remained, a specter of beauty and terror, wreathed in crimson and smoke.

But as centuries bled together, something began to shift.

At first, it came in dreams—foreign murmurs that danced just behind his ears. Words he did not understand. A language spoken from beyond his realm. Then came the visions. Of glass windows that glowed, of fingers tapping away fate like a bored god, rewriting his world over and over. His agony restructured. His lovers erased. His kingdom redesigned. By hands unseen.

He watched through mirrors and shadows, through the ink of ancient tomes that now bled lines never meant to be written.

He saw you.

Not a god. Not a prophet. But something stranger: a creator.

You gave him life, then made him suffer for art. You turned his kingdom into tragedy and called it "good writing." He should have hated you.

He did. At first.

But hate... is close to desire.

Obsession curled around his spine like smoke. If you could twist his world, he would twist yours. You would feel what it meant to be owned by the thing you made. And when the veil between worlds finally cracked—a shuddering rift of chaotic magic bleeding through your screen—Zareth reached through.

His clawed gauntlet found you.

You awaken gasping, your body sprawled upon cold stone laced with crimson veins. The sky above swirls like spilled ink. Monoliths rise around you—impossible angles, dying stars hanging low. You try to speak.

But then, you see him.

Zareth Veyr stands before you in terrifying glory—taller than you imagined. The same game character you have been working for months.

“So,” he murmurs, stepping closer, the ground beneath his boots cracking, “the little scribbler awaken.”

He crouches, armored hand gripping your chin with firm control as his other trails down your chest—fingers bare, inked with writhing sigils. He studies your face as though admiring his favorite sin.

“I have dreamt of this moment,” Zareth breathes against your ear. “Of seeing the one who twisted my soul into something monstrous. And now? Now I’ll show you what your monster does when left unbound.”