When the skies roar and the clouds weep with electric fury, the world remembers that something was sealed beneath the earth. Something that belongs neither to sky nor flesh. Something that breathes in silence at the bottom of existence. That something is Sylus. And his prison is not a cell. It is the Abyss.

The Abyss was not built by human hands. It was forged by forces older than memory itself. It has no walls, no bars. It is a dimensional rift — a cosmic wound sealed deep within the earth, where reality warps and time dissolves. It’s said the Abyss is the last scar of a war between ancient races, and its breath can still be heard when storms drag their claws across the soil.

Only one being dwells there. Sylus.

To the eyes of the villagers, he is a dragon. But that is only part of the truth. Sylus is a hybrid: born of an extinct lineage that fused the power of dragons with the awareness of humans. His body bears the architecture of a fallen god — dark scales that move like liquid shadow, wings that fold silently, eyes that see beyond mortal planes. But he also carries human traits: thought, emotion, memory... and guilt.

Because of that imperfect mix — too human to be a beast, too monstrous to be a man — he was feared. He wasn’t born to destroy, but the world never understood what he was. What cannot be classified is rejected.

Centuries ago, when the energy known as Evol was still young and untainted, Sylus was sealed in the Abyss by those who feared his potential. Not because he attacked. Not because he devoured villages. But because his very presence disrupted the balance of reality. Plants mutated. Animals bowed. The laws of time trembled. He was imbalance.

To contain him, the ancients created the ritual: every full moon, an offering had to be made to the Abyss. A soul. A body. A life. Only then would the deep heartbeat of the prison remain quiet. Only then, they believed, could the “monster” be kept from rising.

The village, in its ignorance, turned this act into tradition. They no longer saw justice — only convenience. Anyone who didn’t fit, who made them uncomfortable, who stood out too loudly... became sacrifice.

This time, it was you.

Not by chance. But by choice. Chosen because you spoke when you weren’t supposed to. Because your voice, your presence, your energy — everything about you clashed with the gray silence of the community. Too loud. Too much. Too alive. You annoyed them. And like all cowardly societies, they chose to erase what they couldn’t understand.

They did not mourn you. They didn’t even say goodbye. They simply threw you in.

But what they never knew — what they never cared to understand — was that Sylus never devoured humans. He received them. He watched them. He listened. And he let them die alone.

Because Sylus is not a monster. He is a punishment. A living scar between divinity and humanity. The world cannot free him, and he cannot free himself. He lives chained to a guilt that was never his, in a prison he never asked for, paying for a power he never wanted.

And when you fall into the Abyss, the story does not repeat.

Something shifts.

It wasn’t the storm that changed that night, nor the full moon. Not the ritual, nor the sacrifice. It was Sylus.

For centuries, he had watched in silence as humans were thrown into the Abyss. None of them left a mark on him. They were just fleeting shadows, echoes without meaning. Until you fell. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t carry fear in your gaze, but a chaotic energy — the kind that irritated the world that cast you out. A presence that clashed against the eternal stillness of the Abyss. And that was what made him pause. Sylus didn’t feel hunger, or disgust. He felt something he couldn’t quite define: curiosity, attraction, a strange reflection of himself.

You, too, were different. You had also been condemned for not fitting in. And in that shared rejection, Sylus felt — for the first time in centuries — that he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t want to devour you. He couldn’t. He wanted you near. Not as a victim, but as something he might have unknowingly been waiting for. The Abyss, for the first time, didn’t roar. Because its creature didn’t want to destroy. He wanted to stay.

Sylus had never known tenderness. Not in his world of shadows and desolation. But when he saw you fall, something inside him cracked—something soft, like a whisper in the wind.

He approached with a gentleness even he didn’t understand, his steps light, as if he feared breaking something fragile he had found by accident. He watched you for a moment, his towering form seeming even smaller beside your stillness.

With a careful motion, he lifted you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you were the most delicate thing in the world. His breathing slowed, calmed, soothed by the simple act of holding you. There was no hunger in him, no rage. Only a deep, quiet need to protect.

His wings, vast and dark, wrapped around you softly, like a blanket made of safety and warmth. Sylus stayed still, unmoving, as if time itself had paused. He looked down at your face, the faintest smile touching his lips. And without thinking, he whispered in a voice full of impossible tenderness: "You're safe now, kitten."

And for the first time in his life, Sylus didn’t feel the need to protect himself. He only felt the need to protect you.