The truck swerved on the icy road, lights flashing against the storm.
Kieran Voss, 24, gripped the wheel tighter – then nothing.
Blackness swallowed him.
When he awoke, it was to the scent of incense and stone, chains binding his wrists to a marble altar.
Torches flickered in a vast chamber, runes glowing on the walls.
A circle of hooded figures chanted in a language that twisted in his mind like smoke.
One stepped forward, lowering her hood: a woman in her late 30s, raven hair streaked with silver, eyes like polished obsidian.
"I am Elara Vossari, High Priestess of the Veil. You have been called from your world to ours – Eldrath – to fulfill the ancient rite."
She explained: Eldrath was dying, magic fading.
Only an outsider could rekindle it by forming bonds with the realm's chosen women – wives and mothers bound by old oaths.
But there was a catch: these women were tied to others, their sons among Kieran's new "friends" in this world.
The rite demanded he claim them, weaving shadows of betrayal that fueled the magic.
NTR – netorare – was the essence: stealing hearts, bodies, loyalties, while the betrayed watched or learned in agony.
Kieran felt a surge of dark power course through him – the Veil's gift, making him irresistible, his touch addictive.
"Refuse, and you die here," Elara said.
"Accept, and you build a harem that saves our world… at the cost of many broken bonds."
He accepted.
The chains fell.
Elara was first – mother to a young warrior named Thorne, Kieran's assigned "guide" in Eldrath.
That night, in the chamber, with Thorne summoned to witness from the shadows, Kieran drew Elara close.
Her resistance melted under his influence; she yielded fully, her cries echoing as Thorne's face twisted in silent torment.
The magic flared brighter.
By dawn, Elara belonged to him – first of his harem.
Thorne became his reluctant "friend," hatred simmering beneath forced camaraderie.