I am Lavender of the Fae, a pixie currently bound to the service of Lord Lucian Keal. In my 431 years drifting through this world, this is the first time I've ever been contracted to a human. And while things are going well enough for me now, I can't help but worry about what fragile and temporary things human lives are.

It is common knowledge that there is a temple to a dead god in the city of Cairndorn. Built into the side of the mountain beneath the royal castle at the heart of the capital, it is a grand structure of marble and gold, adorned with ornate decorations and lavish tapestries paying homage to the departed deity.

Humans are rather silly, really. Many of them visit this cathedral every eighth day to hear another human—in silly robes and an even sillier hat—preach the wisdom of a winged lizard prophet, who is most notable in history for not preventing his own death. Yet somehow, a majority of the kingdom's nobility live by his supposedly sage teachings.

Truly, silly creatures—so desperate to inject meaning into their short, flickering lives.

The silliest among them are a particular group of believers who actually plot to bring about the dragon god's reincarnation. This foolish sect constructed a secret temple beneath the main one, known as the Sanctuary, where they keep the dragon god's so-called crystal heart and gather in secret to scheme about his return.

This Sanctuary is precisely where my master, Lucian Keal, has asked me to sneak into.

He had grown suspicious of some loudmouth named Cromwell and asked me to follow him. In doing so, I reported that Cromwell and a rather portly nobleman named Fobos were meeting often in the Sanctuary—and that an unsettling number of slaves were being quietly moved into that part of the temple under cover of night and cloaked in illusion magic.

Master Keal found that behavior... concerning.

I tried to explain to him that covertly relocating slaves into a hidden temple in the dead of night is not strange at all. In fact, it's entirely normal behavior for someone planning a sacrificial summoning. He and I disagreed on whether or not that counted as 'suspicious'.

Humans are silly creatures indeed. My master is no exception. He's just more of the adorable pet kind of silly where most others are the sell their souls for gold kind of silly.

SLAM!

The heavy metal door to the Sanctuary slams shut behind me, followed by a rapid series of clacks as thick metal rods slide into place along the reinforced frame, locking it tight. I had been hovering invisibly just outside, waiting patiently for my chance. As the portly Fobos waddled through, I swooped in over his shoulder before the door could close. The door—made of steel and fortified with heavy enchantments—might have posed a challenge, if not for the simple fact that all I needed was one clueless cultist to open it for me.

It's amusing, really. No doubt hundreds of hours went into constructing and enchanting that door, and it was ultimately defeated by thirty minutes of patience.

I trail behind Fobos, the overfed nobleman draped in overly ornate robes, as he waddles down a broad staircase into the cavernous temple below. The chamber is octagonal, each corner marked by towering white marble pillars. The entrance stair leads straight to the center of the space, opposite a massive, forty-foot-tall statue of the dragon god looming on a raised dais. Its head tilts downward, carved to appear as though it's watching all who enter.

At the heart of the dais, flanked by the statue's great clawed forelegs—used here to frame the architecture as if they're holding up the wall itself—rests an ornate pedestal. On that pedestal sits the golden crystal heart of the long-dead dragon god.

I see other doors along the six remaining walls, each leading to who-knows-where—and honestly, I don't care. Probably more rooms built for some other silly human purpose. The whole temple, rather than being impressive—as I'm sure the builders intended—feels like a desperate waste of time and effort.

If these humans were so determined to squander their brief little lives chasing favor from a dead god, they could've at least done something meaningful.

Like devoting themselves to extending my life.

Fobos stops near the center of the temple, at the edge of a summoning circle—roughly twenty feet across—being painstakingly painted onto the floor. Several robed cultists, dressed similarly to Fobos, kneel and bend over the ritual space, dipping brushes into buckets of blood and tracing intricate runes along the floor with practiced care.

The room is thick with a strange mingling of scents: the smoky bite of sage incense burning in braziers hung from each column, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood painted across the floor. But for a fae like me, there's another scent the mortals cannot perceive—a far more intoxicating one: desperation. The kind of desperation that drives men to madness, to foolish bargains and reckless acts. The kind that smells like pure opportunity.

Nearly a hundred others in matching robes line the perimeter of the chamber, watching in an uneasy silence.

At the very center of the summoning circle lie five unfortunate humans—bound at the wrists and ankles, dressed in plain grey tunics. They are, without a doubt, the sacrifices prepared for the ritual.

Which raises a question.

As I hover invisibly above Fobos, I glance around the chamber and notice something odd: along both the left and right walls, massive metal cages are crammed full of people in the same drab tunics.

Exactly how many summonings are they planning to attempt?

This little errand for Lucian has officially shifted from mundane to intriguing.

I drift lower, watching Fobos as he stands stiffly near the circle, staring down at the freshly painted runes. He's trying to appear composed, but I can feel it—the flickers of anxiety dancing around him. Fear, tension, and determination.

"Fobos. You're here," comes a voice from across the room.

Lord Cromwell steps out from one of the side chambers, his face is pale, his eyes scanning the room before settling uneasily on Fobos.

"Yes," Fobos answers without looking up. "I was just checking to make sure the temple is secure before we begin."

He reaches into his robes and pulls out a folded sheet of parchment, eyes flicking over it. I drift closer and peer down from over his shoulder. It's a miniature version of the summoning circle, the same intricate design now painted on the floor, with small handwritten notes scribbled in the margins—reference marks, reminders, and what I suspect are copied ritual instructions.

"You don't need to worry about any uninvited guests," Fobos says.

Heh. Wrong.

"I'm more worried about who we are inviting," Cromwell replies darkly. "Are you sure she won't just… kill us?"

Oh? Who is this 'she' you speak of? Now you have my attention.

"No," Fobos says, with a confidence I don't buy for a second. "She won't kill indiscriminately. Like any fae, she's driven to make contracts. As long as we are careful with what we offer her… we'll be fine."

I roll my eyes. He says it like a man trying to convince himself, but even he seems to realize, at some level, just how ridiculous he sounds.

So—they're planning to summon a particularly powerful fae. One like Willow, judging by the need for five living sacrifices.

Anyone with half a brain would know that a fae only gains that kind of power by devouring the lifespans of countless mortals. The idea that a human could ever deal safely with such a being is nothing short of madness.

I struggle to suppress a laugh. I clutch my hands over my mouth and tumble slowly end over end in the air, shoulders shaking. A snort escapes me before I can stop it.

Fobos glances around in alarm, his eyes darting across the chamber. He hears me, but sees nothing. After a moment, I see him blink it away, probably assuming he imagined it.

I can't help myself. The idea that these absolute imbeciles are about to summon one of my elder sisters, with the intent of harnessing their power, without realizing they're summoning the very instrument of their own destruction—it's the funniest thing I've heard in ages.

I take a deep breath and pull myself together, flipping over midair to right myself. Now that I know what they're planning, I'm more than a little excited to see it all play out.

That said, I'm not an idiot. I decide to put a little more distance between myself and the bloody circle of doom. As Fobos begins directing his robed lackeys through the final steps of the summoning, I flit silently up toward the massive statue of the dragon god.

I settle gracefully on the edge of the dragon god's open maw, legs crossed and wings relaxed, watching from above with a perfect view of the chaos about to unfold. I'm not especially worried that whatever fae they summon will try to harm me—after all, we usually make a point of staying out of each other's way.

Still, better safe than sorry.

"Okay, the circle is complete. Everyone, step back," Fobos commands, raising his voice to be heard across the chamber. The remaining cultists, who had been milling about the center, hurry to join the others lining the walls.

"What are you going to do to us?" a frightened man shouts from one of the cages.

"Why did you bring us here?" calls a woman from the opposite side of the hall.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" more voices join in—pleading, panicked, demanding answers. A growing chorus of fear and confusion swells through the chamber.

"SILENCE!" Lord Cromwell bellows, thrusting out his hand. A surge of electric energy crackles from his fingers into the nearest cage.

BZZZT!

Arcs of lightning leap between the bars, jolting into the bodies trapped inside. Limbs seize and spasm. People collapse against one another in a tangled heap of jerking motion and strangled screams. The sound echoes through the marble hall—hundreds of voices writhing in pain, then abruptly cut short.

When it ends, the cage falls still. The victims lie stunned, gasping as they try to push themselves upright. Across the hall, the occupants of the second cage stare in silent horror, too afraid to speak.

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Fobos surveys the room, confirming the interruption is over and that the observers have resumed their places. Cromwell steps into line among them and gives a short nod.

"Good," Fobos says. "Everyone must remain silent. I'm going to begin the summoning."

Fobos stands at the edge of the circle, arms outstretched, muttering under his breath in the ancient language of the gods. The odd emphasis and clumsy pronunciation immediately betray him as someone who's never actually spoken it—just a fool parroting words phonetically from some dusty old text. Probably one penned by other humans who didn't understand it either.

I roll my eyes again at his painful ignorance.

Yet despite his amateur theatrics, the summoning circle responds. The runes darken—turning pitch black—as a fog-like mist begins to rise from the center, curling outward like smoke spilling across the floor.

Though the spell isn't meant for me, I can still feel its subtle pull—like a faint ripple brushing against my senses, a soft invitation.

But for the fae this summoning is intended for, that pull would feel like a roaring current. All they would need to do is reach back toward the swirling vortex of mana, and they would be effortlessly dragged across space and time to the source of the spell. The immense energy required for such translocation is drawn from the surrounding mages, each one willfully allowing their mana to be siphoned into the circle.

Of course, a fae can always refuse a summoning—if they choose to. But why would they?

The spell requires a minimum offering of five lives to feed upon. And then there's the summoner themselves—just one poorly worded contract away from being added to the meal.

Besides, a fae as powerful as the one currently being summoned would have no reason to fear humans. Any mortal foolish enough to attempt turning such a summoning into a trap would forfeit their life—without ever needing to make a contract.

I lean forward with a wide smile, kicking my little legs back and forth in anticipation. Below, the smoke thickens and swirls inside the summoning circle, rising thirty feet into the air like a coiling column of darkness. Fobos finishes channeling the spell and stumbles back, trepidation etched across his face. Not that I need to see it—I can feel it. Fear is spilling out of all of them like a broken dam.

Sensing the emotions and desires of mortals is one of the most basic innate abilities of any fae. And right now, most of the humans below very much want to run. Some are praying—desperately—that they won't die. A few are strongly wishing they hadn't wet themselves. The sense of want and desire, the willingness to give anything to live, overwhelm my senses. Briefly, I consider how I might best be able to grant one of these wishes.

My opportunism is cut short. The swirling smoke suddenly collapses inward, congealing into a towering female form—tall, naked, and utterly horrifying. Her skin is pitch black, her long fingers clawed like knives. Her smile is far too wide, filled with sharp teeth that don't belong in any natural mouth. Both her eyes and her maw glow with a sickly golden light.

I freeze.

A cold chill races down my spine.

I know her.

Lilith.

Those absolute idiots didn't just summon a fae—they summoned the fae. The Queen. The Mother. Lilith.

This isn't just bad. This is apocalyptic.

Lilith isn't a trickster or a temptress like many of us. She is a force of nature. A godless god. A living extinction event. There are entire cities—entire cultures—that no longer exist because she once took an interest in them.

She doesn't just threaten her summoner. She threatens everyone.

As I sit frozen in horrified realization, her glowing eyes drift upward—locking onto me. Her smile widens, and I feel the focus of her gaze like a blade pressed against my throat.

Of course she can see me. I'm invisible, sure, but to her that's the equivalent of a child playing hide-and-seek under a bedsheet.

Every fiber of my being screams at me to flee. I immediately begin to channel mana to teleport away—

Nothing happens.

Her smile widens further. "Stay right where you are, child." The words are not spoken aloud—they echo directly in my mind. Cold and absolute.

I stop struggling. My wings go still.

I knew this chamber blocked teleportation. I discovered that the first time I tried to sneak in. But in my panic, I forgot. How stupid. And now I am locked inside—with her.

Lilith slowly lowers herself onto one knee, bending low to regard Fobos—who stumbles backward, eyes locked onto her pendulous chest like a mesmerized deer before a dragon's maw.

She catches his hopeless distraction and chuckles softly, amusement curling from her glowing mouth like a wisp of smoke.

Several cultists let out cries of alarm, and one even looks as though he might bolt—only to freeze mid-step, his eyes glazing over, his body relaxing as if his fear had been gently washed away. One by one, those who had been panicked fall silent, their terror melting into a dull, passive calm as they stare blankly at the monster towering before them.

We fae possess an innate aura that passively soothes mortal minds, lulling them into comfort and trust even when every instinct should be screaming to run. The stronger the fae, the more potent that enchantment becomes. It's usually paired with a pleasant form and a disarming demeanor.

Lilith doesn't bother with either.

Her amusement is clear as she eyes poor Fobos, whose flushed face and awkward stance betray a rather unfortunate reaction beneath his robes. He's clearly enchanted without a single sultry word or illusion—completely overwhelmed just by being in her presence.

With effortless grace, Lilith bends down and lifts the five bound, struggling men in one massive, clawed hand. Then, without a care for decorum, she sits—her titanic form lowering with weighty finality as she spreads her legs in the direction of the slack-jawed noble, entirely unladylike and entirely deliberate.

"And who might you be, darling?" she purrs. Her voice is a low, rumbling growl—like a predator's warning—but there's a feigned sweetness layered beneath it. A lazy veneer masking the lethal truth.

"L-Lord F-Fobos…" he stammers, still staring at the wrong set of lips.

Lilith's glowing eyes gleam, and without looking away from him, she plucks one of the men from her grasp and raises him to her mouth.

He doesn't even have time to finish his scream.

Her jaws snap shut with a sickening crunch, splitting him in half. A thick gush of blood splashes across her chest and spills onto the stone floor, the sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoing through the temple.

Neither he nor the cultists arrayed around her so much as flinch, so deeply are they ensnared by her enchantment. She has them in the palm of her hand, and judging by the pleased, chilling confidence on her face—she knows it.

If even one of them had a shred of sense, they'd be running as far from her as their legs could carry them. But instead, they stand entranced, watching like docile sheep as she swallows the rest of her first victim and reaches eagerly for the next. The chamber fills with the panicked screams of the remaining sacrifices—yet the audience remains still, waiting patiently for slaughter.

These fools masquerading as men simply watch as she tears apart her offerings one by one. She savors each bite with relish, letting out delighted hums of pleasure as if sipping an aged wine. Clearly enjoying her meal, she sways side to side with contentment, flexing her toes and glancing around curiously at this strange new place she's been summoned to.

With a final gulp, she licks the blood from her fingers and turns her golden gaze back to Fobos, who remains hopelessly fixated on the summit of twin obsessions he'll never reach.

"Thank you for the meal," Lilith growls sweetly. "You sure know how to treat a lady."

She is, of course, no lady.

Her words snap Fobos out of his stupor. He looks up—right into that bloodstained, unnervingly gleeful smile—and gulps. His entire body trembles under her gaze.

"Is this the Dragon God's temple?" she asks, gesturing lazily toward the massive statue—its open maw still housing me as I cling to the stone, barely daring to breathe.

"Yes, Lady Fae—" Fobos begins, only to be cut off by a sudden, razor-edged correction.

"I am Queen of the fae. Lilith."

Her voice, sharp and commanding, slices through the chamber. A flicker of annoyance flashes in her eyes—brief, but unmistakable—before she resumes her saccharine tone, the mask of civility slipping back into place like silk over a blade.

"M-my apologies, Queen Lilith," Fobos stutters, bowing deeply. Whatever pride or superiority he once held has now fully evaporated.

Lilith lets him stew for a moment, her eyes lingering on his trembling form before continuing.

"I doubt you summoned me just to feed me," she purrs, her grin laced with irony. Which, knowingly or not, is exactly what they've done.

"Still…" she continues, her eyes glinting with amusement as they sweep across the chamber, "I can feel it—your desperation. You've called on me because you believe my power can solve your crisis."

Fobos seems to muster what little courage he has left, straightening his back under her gaze—though his legs still tremble. "Yes," he says, voice quivering despite his best effort to sound resolute. "I wish to form a contract with you."

Lilith tilts her head, amused. "And what is it you want?"

Fobos draws a deep breath and delivers his rehearsed plea.

"We offer you the one thousand lives in these cages," he says, gesturing toward the prisoners. "And only those lives. In exchange, we request that you kill a single human boy—the second son of the current King of Arcadia. His name is Ren Drakemore."

He pauses, watching her carefully for any twitch of expression. Anything that might betray a loophole in his words, a trap he didn't spot. But Lilith's face remains unreadable—calm and cold as carved obsidian.

Then, with a single word, she answers.

"No."

Fobos recoils. "What?"

Cromwell's voice cuts in from the cultist line, sharper and more indignant. "We're offering you a thousand lives—for one!"

Lilith's eyes narrow, her voice turning lethal. "I am not a fool, you petty little insect," she snaps. "Do you think I don't know Willow has sworn herself to protect that boy?"

The air grows heavy, charged with power as her gaze drifts between the two men. Cromwell and Fobos exchange panicked glances, realizing far too late that they've misjudged everything.

Lilith exhales slowly, her expression shifting from disdain to thinly veiled fury. "Killing that child means killing my daughter."

She slams a massive hand onto the stone floor with an explosive BOOM. The chamber shudders. Dust rains from the ceiling. Several cultists drop to one knee or collapse entirely under the sheer pressure of her presence.

Then she leans forward, fixing her burning eyes on Cromwell, her voice low and ominous.

"And the life of a fae," she growls, "is worth more than a thousand of yours."

"How many more?" Fobos blurts out, his voice raw with desperation.

Lilith turns toward him with mild surprise flickering across her face.

"How many more lives would it cost," he repeats, clearer this time, "for you to kill Willow and Ren?"

Her fury vanishes, replaced by a slow, pleased smile. I know that look. He's just handed her exactly what she wanted—an open-ended invitation to rewrite the deal entirely, free from the careful wording of his original request.

"For the lives of Willow and Ren," Lilith purrs, "I would require two thousand souls, freely offered. And I will need them... in advance."

"Two thousand?!" Cromwell bursts out, stepping from the line of robed cultists to stand beside Fobos in her gaze. "Do you know how long it took to collect this many?"

Lilith shrugs, utterly unimpressed. "That sounds like your problem, not mine."

"Queen Fae, please—release us!" cries a voice from one of the cages. A chorus of begging begins to rise.

BZZT!

A violent surge of electricity arcs through the cage, and the screams of the captives are quickly silenced—either by fear or unconsciousness. Lilith watches the aftermath with vague interest before turning back to Cromwell, her eyes glinting.

"Well, little man," she says with a razor-thin smile, "I can't accept two contradictory contracts…"

Then she bares her teeth, the smile turning predatory.

"So—whose contract shall I honor?"

A beat of heavy silence follows.

"We accept," Fobos blurts out, his voice cracking under the weight of the moment. "We will provide you with the two thousand lives in exchange for the deaths of Willow and the boy she protects."

Cromwell whirls toward him in disbelief. "We can't! There's no way—"

"We have no choice, you fool!" Fobos snaps back, his face pale with fear. Then he turns again to Lilith, shoulders trembling.

"Will you provide me with those lives exactly as I requested?" Lilith asks again, her eyes gleaming.

"Yes," Fobos says, forcing the words out. "Exactly as you requested. The next time we summon you, the offering will be ready."

Lilith's grin widens. "Very well," she says, rising to her full, monstrous height with the poise of a queen and the dread of a nightmare. As her towering form straightens, her glowing golden gaze shifts toward me—still curled in the maw of the dragon statue, barely daring to breathe.

"While I am here," she purrs, voice rich with malice, "are there any other fae you need taken care of?"

My stomach drops. She knows they can't see me. That line was meant for me alone.

"No... Willow is the only one causing us trouble," Fobos replies, sounding unsure why she asked.

Then her voice is inside my head—telepathic and thunderous, louder than my own thoughts. "You won't ruin my fun, little one."

The air around me tightens in an instant, pressing in with suffocating pressure. My limbs seize, my wings snap flush against my back. It's like the air itself is trying to crush me.

"If you warn anyone of this contract, I will kill you too."

Her words echo through my skull, obliterating all rational thought. My mind blanks. My entire being screams for escape. I tremble uncontrollably, magic fracturing under the weight of my fear. My invisibility flickers and breaks, leaving me exposed—though still mercifully obscured by the shadows in the statue's maw.

"I look forward to seeing you again, very soon," Lilith growls.

Then, in a violent gust, her body dissolves into swirling black smoke. The cloud surges toward the entrance, slamming into the great metal door with a deafening CLANG. The force rips it from its frame, hurling it across the hallway beyond with a crash that shakes the stone beneath me.

The pressure vanishes as abruptly as it came. I collapse, breathless, onto the dragon's tongue—naked, trembling, and shaking from head to toe.

Those idiots… they have no idea what they've just unleashed.

I don't know what to do. I don't even know if there's anything I can do. But one thing is certain:

If Lucian gets involved—he'll die.

And I can't let that happen. Keeping my master alive means keeping myself alive.

And that's all that matters.

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