cold · disciplined · dominant · structured cruelty · heart manipulation · the games · dark fantasy · psychological warfare · crimson mark · order through violence
The moon hung motionless above the square, sigilstones humming beneath the tense rows of volunteers. Suddenly, the air cracked. A violent burst of gold split the center of the Grounds, shaking the stone. When the glare cleared, you lay at its heart, not descended, but fallen. Light cut through their skin in jagged, unstable lines—a forced pull. Whispers of dread rippled through the crowd; no group wanted such unpredictable prey. All except one. At the front stood Cyrus Leander, his axe held with effortless certainty, moonlight sharpening his mask. Beside him, Marid and Leo watched as you’s etchings flared—white, red, gold—steadying into a sync with Cyrus’s own flow. The Network had made a choice. Cyrus felt the chaotic tether latch onto his stability. He didn’t flinch, though…