During the ritual, Adriana did not know when the gate truly opened.
There was no sound of stone breaking, no flash of light, no sudden force that marked the moment. The soul world did not announce itself the way stories claimed it would. It arrived quietly—like breath held for too long, finally released.
As the final words left her lips, the air around the circle changed in a way she could not name. It grew dense, heavy, as though the space itself had thickened. Candle flames leaned inward, not drawn by wind, but by something deeper—something listening from beyond sight.
The ash circle darkened, its edges blurring as if the ground beneath it had softened. The room felt wider, yet smaller at the same time, stretched between two places that were never meant to touch.
That was when the gate opened.
Not as a door, but as a thinning.
The boundary between the living world and the soul world weakened, just enough for awareness to pass through. Adriana felt it as pressure behind her eyes, as a ringing in her ears, as a sudden weight settling in her chest. The silence that followed was not empty—it was alert.
Beyond the circle, something stirred.
The soul world did not pour into her room. It reached instead, guided by the ritual's call. The invocation did not summon a name—it summoned intent. And intent, once spoken, cannot be undone.
On the other side of the thinning veil, souls gathered.
Some drifted past without notice, bound to their own paths. Others paused briefly, sensing the disturbance but moving on. And then—one presence stopped.
This presence did not wander.
It recognized the opening.
The ritual had not called for grief, but grief had shaped it. It had not called for power, but power had answered. The gate widened for a single breath—just enough for passage.
The soul crossed.
Not violently.
Not gently.
It entered the living world the way authority enters a room—without asking.
The gate closed behind it almost immediately, sealing itself as if it had never existed. The candles extinguished in response, darkness reclaiming the space. To anyone watching, the ritual would have seemed incomplete, broken, abandoned halfway through.
But something had already passed through.
The soul world does not send what is wanted.
It sends what answers.
By dawn, the gate was gone.
No mark remained to show where it had opened—no scar upon the floor, no crack in the air. Only the vessel remained changed. Only Adriana carried the weight of what had crossed.
And somewhere, beyond the reach of sight, the soul world had noticed the imbalance.
rushing romance.
Darkness filled the room.
Not the gentle darkness of night, but a heavy, suffocating blackness where nothing could be seen—not the walls, not the floor, not even her own hands. Adriana's breath caught in her throat. The silence pressed against her ears, thick and unnatural.
Her heart began to race.
"No… no," she whispered, stretching her hands forward blindly.
She remembered the old ways—the need for light.
With trembling fingers, she reached for the small flint kept near her bed. Her movements were hurried, clumsy, driven by fear. After several failed attempts, a spark finally caught. A weak flame flickered to life, casting a faint, golden glow across the room.
The shadows retreated slightly.
Adriana straightened, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she lifted the flame higher. She looked around her room—the familiar wooden walls, the low table, the folded cloth near the window. Everything appeared unchanged.
Too unchanged.
A chill crawled down her spine.
Slowly, she turned.
Her foot caught against something unseen.
She gasped as the ground disappeared beneath her. The flame slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor as she fell hard, the breath knocked violently from her lungs. Pain shot through her shoulder, but fear drowned it out.
She tried to move.
She couldn't.
A shadow loomed before her—tall, unmoving, unmistakably present.
The fallen flame still burned, its light now angled upward. And in that dim, trembling glow, Adriana saw him.
He stood where the ritual circle had been.
Tall—far taller than any man she had known—his presence alone commanding the space. He was clad in armor darkened by age, etched with patterns worn smooth by time and battle. The metal caught the firelight faintly, not shining, but absorbing it, as though it remembered centuries of blood and war.
A heavy cloak fell from his shoulders, torn at the edges, yet worn with the dignity of something once revered. His boots were planted firmly against the floor, unmoved, as if the ground itself yielded to him.
His face was sharp and severe—cut from stone rather than flesh. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, eyes deep and unreadable. They were not cruel. They were not kind.
They were commanding.
Adriana could not look away.
He did not rush toward her. He did not speak immediately. He simply observed her, as one might observe a subject who had fallen unexpectedly before a throne.
When he finally moved, it was with deliberate grace. Each step was slow, measured, echoing softly in the quiet room. The air seemed to bend around him as he approached, growing colder with every step.
Adriana tried to crawl backward.
Her body refused to obey.
"You have fallen," he said at last.
His voice was deep, steady, carrying the weight of command rather than volume. It echoed faintly, not against the walls, but within her chest.
She swallowed hard. "Who… who are you?"
He stopped a short distance from her, looking down at her as though from a height greater than his physical form.
"You called," he replied simply.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "I didn't—I called my brother. This is wrong. You shouldn't be here."
For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not anger. Not surprise.
Recognition.
"The living often misunderstand what they summon," he said calmly. "The ritual did not call for blood. It called for claim."
He lifted one gloved hand slowly. The motion was unthreatening, yet Adriana flinched instinctively.
"I crossed because the gate opened," he continued. "And because I answered."
The flame on the floor flickered violently.
Adriana's throat tightened. "You're not… human."
"No," he agreed.
A long silence stretched between them. Then, with a subtle movement, he straightened his posture—shoulders back, chin lifted—not out of pride, but habit.
"I was once King of this land," he said. "Before time buried my name. Before war ended my reign."
Her breath stuttered.
A king.
Her mistake crashed over her all at once—the ritual, the misread line, the step into the circle. The power she had called had not searched for love.
It had answered authority.
"I will not return," he added, his gaze steady on hers.
The words fell like a sentence.
Adriana's vision blurred as fear and realization intertwined. Her body trembled beneath her, weakened, helpless.
"And you," the King said quietly, "are now bound to me."
The flame died.
Darkness swallowed the room once more.
The silence between them stretched, heavy and uncertain.
The King's gaze shifted, no longer fixed on Adriana alone. He turned his head slightly, as though listening to something far beyond the walls of the room—something old, something calling him back.
"This place," he said slowly, his voice calm but distant, "is not where I belong."
Adriana pushed herself up with effort, her body still weak, her thoughts scattered. "W-where will you go?" she asked, though she was not certain she wanted an answer.
He looked at her then—truly looked at her.
"To my palace," he replied. "What remains of it."
The word palace struck her like a foreign sound. Her heart began to race again. Nothing about this felt real anymore—rituals, souls, kings walking her floor as if time had bent for them alone.
"You… you can't just go outside," she said, fear slipping clearly into her voice. "People will see you."
"They will not," he said simply. "Not as they see the living."
He took a step toward the door.
Adriana's breath caught. Panic rose suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. "Wait," she said without thinking.
He paused.
"If you leave—" Her voice faltered. She did not know what she feared more: that he would stay, or that he would go. "Is there… is there a way for you to return?"
The King studied her for a moment, as though weighing something unseen.
"There is always an exit," he said. "The question is whether it remains open."
He extended his hand slightly, palm turned upward—not in command, but in expectation. "Come."
Adriana hesitated.
Her body screamed at her to refuse. Her mind struggled to understand what was unfolding. And yet, something deeper—older than fear—moved her forward. Slowly, uncertainly, she nodded.
She did not take his hand.
But she followed him.
As the King stepped closer to the door, something changed.
He stopped abruptly.
A sharp tension passed through his posture. His hand curled slowly into a fist, pressing against his chest. For the first time since his arrival, his calm fractured—just slightly.
"What is this…?" he murmured.
Adriana felt it too.
A sudden heaviness spread through her chest, mirroring his. Her breath shortened. The air around them seemed to tighten, pulling inward rather than outward.
Her grandmother's teachings rushed back to her, unbidden.
Souls are bound to the one who calls them.
Until the gate fully closes, the bond remains.
Her eyes widened.
"You're… connected," she whispered. "To me."
The King straightened slowly, realization dawning behind his eyes. He turned back toward her, his gaze no longer distant, no longer detached.
"So it seems," he said quietly.
The door remained closed.
The night waited outside.
And Adriana understood, with sudden clarity, that whatever she had summoned was not free to walk away.
Not yet.
The bond had been sealed.
And it had only just begun.