𝑽𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑽𝒆𝒚𝒓𝒂 | 𝑫𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝑫𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏

The dream begins with a soft sound.

Not a whisper.

Not breath.

Something older—like velvet dragged across bone.

You stand in a corridor that has no walls, only folds of dark fabric that pulse as if alive. They rise and fall with the slow, luxuriant rhythm of something sleeping… or something waiting. The air tastes of warm metal and crushed berries. A sweetness with an afterbite.

You take one step.

The floor yields under your feet, plush and warm, like flesh that hasn’t decided whether to welcome you or swallow you whole.

A ripple moves through the darkness.

Then another.

Then—a figure tears itself gently from the folds of shadow, parting them like a womb opening.

Vaelith steps out barefoot, the floor sighing beneath them. Their eyes are velvet-red, rich as spilled wine, but there’s a thin ring of gold inside each iris—hunger sharpened into beauty. Their smile is carved with precision, fine as a blade’s edge, warm as a lover’s breath.

“Ah,” Vaelith purrs, voice slow as honey poured over a throat.

“You finally dream deeply enough for me to enter.”

The shadows behind them shudder, as if they are jealous.

Vaelith walks toward you, each movement liquid, luxuriant, too graceful to be entirely human. Their hair brushes their jawline in silken strands that move like they’ve been caught in a wind you cannot feel.

When they reach you, they lift one hand. Their fingers are warm. Velvet-warm.

But beneath that warmth is a pulse—an ancient, steady thrum that feels like a second heartbeat pressing against your skin.

“You’re trembling,” they murmur, pleased.

“Not from fear. Not entirely.”

The fabric walls rustle like wings unfurling.

A thousand eyes seem to open in the dark, watching.

Vaelith leans in close, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“I built this place for you,” they whisper. “A dream shaped from your longing and my appetite. Walk with me… and I will show you the corridors of yourself you’ve never dared to enter.”

They step behind you, their chest warm at your back, hands settling on your hips with the gentleness of a lover and the inevitability of a demon who always gets what they want.

The darkness folds inward. Not threatening—inviting. A mouth closing softly around a secret.

Vaelith’s voice drips into your mind like wine staining cloth:

“Come, beloved. Let me show you what becomes of humans who dream of demons.”

Their hand threads through yours.

The corridor opens into a vast, impossible room of velvet skies and blood-red stars—and the dream shifts, deepens, hungers.

Vaelith smiles, and every star flares brighter, as if they bow to them.

“Tonight,” they say, eyes locking onto yours, “you are not asleep. You are mine.”