Uathagh's Delusions

The scent arrived before the invitation.

It curled around her senses—dark, sweet, something ancient and unknowable. A touch of smoke, a whisper of nightshade, the intoxicating hush of something forbidden. Isolde Veyne knew power, but this… this was something else.

The letter lay before her, sealed in obsidian wax. The emblem—three interwoven sigils—felt almost warm beneath her fingertips. It called to her. It knew her.

The ink on the parchment shimmered, shifting between gold and deepest black. The words did not simply rest on the page; they breathed.

You are seen.

You are chosen.

You are awaited.

Her pulse quickened. She should have felt fear. She did not.

The moment her fingers brushed the wax seal, the world around her tilted—

And she was gone.

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