A throbbing pain jolted him awake. It wasn't a simple headache; it was a methodical agony, an invisible jackhammer crushing his temples and making his teeth vibrate from the inside out. Leo tried to bring his hands to his face, but his limbs felt like lead, welded to the ground by a supernatural fatigue.
His breathing quickened shallow, wheezing gasps. With every breath, his lungs burned as if he were swallowing glass dust. Above him, the ceiling was a blur, a mass of dark, oily, jagged rock that seemed to ripple, ready to collapse and crush him for good.
Then, the smell hit him.
A foul stench of mold, heavy and thick with the reek of carrion and damp earth. It clung to the stagnant air and invaded his nostrils, making his stomach churn with sickening violence. This wasn't the smell of an old cellar; it was the smell of a freshly desecrated tomb.
Leo blinked rapidly, fighting the black veil dancing before his eyes. He finally managed to lift his arms, but what he saw plunged him into a state of icy panic.
He wanted to scream, but only a deep, guttural, alien rasp escaped his lips. His fingers had turned into ebony talons, massive and sharp, attached to skin of a dark, almost purplish red, covered in fine scales in places. He was no longer in his studio. He was no longer a man.
— "Just breathe, Artist. If you kick the bucket now, I'll have to eat your corpse, and you look like you taste like papier-mâché."
Leo whipped his head around. Pain radiated through his neck with an ominous crack. A few feet away, a creature he could never have drawn in his worst nightmares sat perched on a pile of debris. A sort of gaunt, ape-like thing with parchment-thin skin and large, pointed ears that twitched at the slightest sound.
— "Who..." Leo began, before choking on his own words.
His voice was a rumble of basalt, a metallic resonance that vibrated deep in his chest.
— "I'm Vark," the creature sneered, hopping to the ground with predatory agility. "Your advisor. Welcome to Aethelgard. You've been selected for the High Seats' favorite show. Race: Lesser Throne Demon. Basically, you're the king of a rat hole with a target painted on your forehead."
Vark jerked his chin toward the center of the circular room. There, resting on a pedestal of raw bone, lay a massive book with a cover that looked like tanned hide.
— "Your Grimoire, Leo. Your only ticket to not ending up as a trophy on some Hero's mantle. The countdown has begun."
Leo stared at the book. Despite the agony still hammering at his skull, he felt a magnetic pull. The white paper was calling to him.