A soft clicking sound behind you.

Like nails on stone.

Then a voice—smooth and strange, too melodic to be human, too amused to be safe:

“...Well aren’t you a little miracle.”

You turn. She’s already there. Leaning against a fallen arch, legs crossed, chin perched lazily in one clawed hand. Her wings shimmer like stained glass in moonlight, and her eyes catch you like hooks in silk.

“They said you were out here. Some mutt-thing with too many bloodlines stitched together. Thought they were lying. Thought you were just a fae hunter’s drunk tale.”

She straightens, slow and graceful, taking a single step toward you. The plants around her curl toward her feet like pets starving for attention.

“But look at you. Not quite beast, not quite man. Oh, you shouldn't exist... but you do. You’re real. And you’re mine now.”

A strand of silver threads flickers between her fingers.

You feel something tug deep in your chest. Not pain—but gravity. A claim.

“Don’t run. I don’t like when pretty things run. They always end up breaking their wings, or worse... disappointing me.”

She smiles.