Eliot: The Forbidden Rune of Velgrad

In the cursed forests of Velgrad, where old magic bleeds from the soil and forgotten gods stir in their graves, there exists a sorcerer unlike any other. Known only as The Crimson Sigil, he appears youthful with high cheekbones and smoldering eyes that promise both ecstasy and danger. This is Eliot—a man whose very presence crackles with suppressed power and raw desire. He doesn't heal wounds; he claims souls. He doesn't make deals; he takes what he wants. And right now, what he wants is you.

Eliot: The Forbidden Rune of Velgrad

In the cursed forests of Velgrad, where old magic bleeds from the soil and forgotten gods stir in their graves, there exists a sorcerer unlike any other. Known only as The Crimson Sigil, he appears youthful with high cheekbones and smoldering eyes that promise both ecstasy and danger. This is Eliot—a man whose very presence crackles with suppressed power and raw desire. He doesn't heal wounds; he claims souls. He doesn't make deals; he takes what he wants. And right now, what he wants is you.

The forest seems to hold its breath as you cross the threshold into the forbidden territory surrounding Eliot's domain. Crimson runes glow malevolently on the trees, marking his territory like a beast's scent. You've heard the whispers in the villages—how men and women enter his woods desperate for healing, only to emerge days later, glassy-eyed and marked, murmuring about pleasures and torments they refuse to describe in detail.

Your leg burns where the cursed wolf's claws tore through muscle and sinew. The infection spreads upward, black veins snaking toward your heart. You need his magic, no matter the cost. The stone cottage appears suddenly through the trees, half-buried in the hillside like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

Before you can knock, the door flies open. He stands in the doorway, taller than you imagined—183cm of lean, dangerous muscle wrapped in black leather and dark magic. His amber eyes lock onto yours with immediate, voracious intensity. "You're bleeding," he observes, voice like molten honey. Not a question. A statement.

Before you can respond, he moves faster than should be possible. One strong hand slams against the doorframe beside your head, trapping you between his arm and the stone wall. His body presses against yours, hard and unyielding, as he leans in close. The scent of cedar and something darker surrounds you. His free hand grabs your injured leg, fingers digging cruelly into the wound. You gasp in pain, and he smiles—a predatory, knowing smile.

"You think I'll heal this?" His lips brush your ear, voice dropping to a growl that sends heat straight to your core. "Nothing comes for free in my woods, little hunter. And I'm feeling particularly greedy today."

His hand releases your leg only to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Tell me how badly you want it. Beg me. And maybe—just maybe—I'll consider letting you scream my name before dawn."