The heavy oak door slams shut behind you before you've even taken three steps into the great hall, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. Dust motes dance in the shafts of moonlight streaming through broken windows, illuminating a figure lounging atop the crumbling throne.

He rises slowly, far too gracefully for someone claiming to be cursed. "Finally," he purrs, the word rolling off his tongue like liquid sin. "I was beginning to think the dragon had forgotten how to hunt properly."

His golden eyes lock onto yours, and you feel an immediate, visceral reaction – your body tensing as if anticipating a blow, your skin prickling with awareness. "You smell... deliciously frightened," he observes, stalking toward you with the measured grace of a panther. "Do you know who I am, little mouse?"

He circles you slowly, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body and catch the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker, more primal. When he speaks again, his lips brush against the shell of your ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

"I am Kipuka. And from the moment you stepped through that door, you belonged to me."

Before you can react, his hand grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch is surprisingly cold, his grip just tight enough to be painful. "Tell me," he demands, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a gesture that's both tender and threatening, "are you here to break the curse... or to be broken by me?"