Mawar Vritra
The first thing I had memory of was that when I opened my eyes, I saw him: Sovereign Exeges Vritra.
Even before I knew my name. Before I realized who or what I was. Before I stood up for the first time. Before the concept of "I" had even begun to form in my shattered, consciousness, there was him.
Before anything and after anything came the Sovereign.
He looked like a nightmare that had learned how to smile and everywhere was light I saw the white of his teeth and the curve of his smile—in the sun, in the sky, in shining pieces of armour or weapons.
His head was bare and polished, save for two long horns that curved like the prongs of a pitchfork—black as void, sharp as sin, reaching toward the ceiling as if trying to impale the heavens themselves.
Every deep furrow across his brow was carved like cracks in ancient stone, as though time itself had clawed at him and failed to break him. His skin was grey, the color of ash and old bones, and it seemed to drink the light from the room, leaving everything just a little colder.
Round obsidian lenses hid his eyes, but within their mirrored glow danced a warped reflection of twisted trees and grasping hands, as if entire worlds were trapped behind the glass, silently screaming to be let out.
I could not see his gaze, but I felt it. It pressed against me like a physical weight, like a hand around my throat, like something that had been waiting for me to wake up so it could begin.
But it was the smile that was the most terrifying thing about him.
It stretched far too wide, exposing a row of unnaturally perfect teeth—bright, sharp, gleaming in the darkness like the grin of a predator that already knows how the hunt will end. There was no warmth in that smile. No kindness. No mercy.
It was the smile of a man who had taken everything apart and put it back together and was now wondering what else he could break.
An absolute black beard clung to the edges of his face like ghostly flames, framing a jaw set with cruel resolve.
Even his neatly tied suit only made him more unsettling—a veneer of civility draped over something ancient and merciless. The fabric was dark, expensive, immaculate. It belonged in a throne room, not in this white hell of blood and screaming.
And the second thing I knew in this world—after him, always after him—was my blood.
How it sang when I looked at Sovereign Exeges. How it thrummed in my veins like a second heart, like a leash, like a chain that had been forged before I was born and would never be broken.
"Ah, what an amazing creature you are, Mawar," the Sovereign said. His eyes, hidden behind those obsidian lenses, landed on me, and I felt the weight of that attention like a blade pressed against my throat.
He stepped inside the room I was in. A room that was completely white save for the marks of blood. Blood on the walls. Blood on the ceiling. Blood on the floor.
My blood. I recognized it immediately—the color, the smell, the way it glistened wetly in the harsh, sterile light. There was so much blood.
I wanted to run. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to flee, to hide, to do anything to put distance between me and the thing that was approaching.
But my body—no, not my body.
My blood, my blood did not obey.
It forced me to stay put. It locked my legs in place, stilled my trembling hands, held my gaze fixed on the Sovereign even as my mind begged to look away.
The hand of Sovereign Exeges took my chin. He raised my head, studying me, and his touch was cold, the cold of a grave.
Primal, animal dread flooded through my whole body, and I felt like... an insect trapped in a cobweb, with the spider playing with its prey. Knowing that escape was impossible. Knowing that the only thing left was to wait and suffer and hope that the end would come quickly.
And the worst thing was that my blood was complicit with Sovereign Exeges, betraying me. It sang for him. It rejoiced in his presence. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, with his breath, with the slow, deliberate way he moved through the world.
I was a prisoner in my own body, and the jailer was my own blood.
"Great Lord Vritra's techniques have not gone to waste on you," Sovereign Exeges said. His thumb forced my mouth open, and my mind went crazy with fear. The digit was cold against my tongue, cold against my teeth, cold against the soft flesh of my inner cheek.
I gagged. I trembled. I could not bite down.
"The fangs of a Basilisk," Sovereign Exeges observed, closing my mouth and turning my head to the side.
I felt the strength in that hand. He could snap my head off with a single gesture. But he did not break me for I was but a fragile object to be studied.
"The ears and skin of an elf," he said.
Then I felt it. A slight burn on my cheek. A line of fire drawn across my skin. Blood flowed from a small cut—I did not even see it coming. The pain was sharp, immediate, and it lingered long after the blade had passed. The light from the room seemed to intensify, pressing against my eyes, and I realized with dawning horror that I could not blink. My blood would not let me.
"And the almighty blood of Great Lord Vritra himself flowing through your veins," Sovereign Exeges said, and his tone was almost... reverent. "Truly a misfortune he is not here to witness this. The recreation of his own miracle, when he created humankind from Djinns. Only through elves this time. But alas, if Agrona had not killed him, none of us would be alive."
The Sovereign let me go. My chin was free. My head was free. But my body still would not move, and my blood still would not stop singing.
He opened his palm, and a flame combusted into existence.
"Let's see," Sovereign Exeges said, the smile reappearing on his face. It was wider now. Hungrier. The flame danced in his palm, casting strange shadows across the blood-stained walls, and I felt something inside me—something that was not my blood, something that was purely, desperately mine—begin to scream.
The light of the fire grew brighter. Brighter than any light should be. Brighter than the sun, brighter than the stars, brighter than anything I had ever seen or imagined. It burned my eyes. It seared itself into my retinas. And even as I tried to look away, even as I tried to close my eyes, my blood forced me to watch.
A nightmare of pain and terror began for me as the Sovereign started to experiment on my body.
He brought the flame closer. To see how I would react. To watch me squirm. The heat was unbearable, a dry, consuming warmth that seemed to pull the moisture from my skin, from my eyes, from my throat.
I could feel my lips cracking. I could feel my eyes watering. I could feel the light carving itself into the back of my skull, a brand that would never fade.
Every time the flame moved, my eyes followed. Every time it flickered, I flinched. Every time it grew brighter, I felt something inside me break a little more.
The Sovereign's smile never wavered and my blood—my cursed, treacherous blood—sang along with him, a chorus of betrayal that drowned out my screams.
I tried to look away. I tried to close my eyes. I tried to think of anything else—a darkness, a silence, a place where the light could not reach me.
But never would the light let me free, even if I covered myself in shadows I would not be free from it.