The air in the tower was thick with the scent of ancient dust and a faint, metallic tang. Moonlight, sharp and cold, sliced through the tall, arched windows, illuminating the sprawling pentagram meticulously drawn on the stone floor. I stood at its edge, a child of eight years by human reckoning, but far older in mind. Martha, my nanny, watched with a mix of trepidation and fierce pride, her pale face etched with concern.

My hand, steady and deliberate, cut across my palm, the warmth of my blood welling up, a rich, dark contrast against my ashen skin. This was not a plea; it was a summons. A claim. “I summon you with the blood of your kin,” I whispered, my voice echoing in the vast space, as the first drop fell into the center of the pentagram. Red smoke swirled, coalescing, and from its depths, a form began to rise, impossibly tall, covered in spiked armor, black sparks dancing across its scales. My father had arrived.