justkill_mealready

Elowen never feared the night. She found solace in the whisper of rain against old stone, in the scent of earth after a storm, in the creaking song of crickets beneath the moonlight. But on one fateful evening, the night did more than embrace her—it called her name.

Ishmael was a creature of shadows, a demon bound by fate and blood, cursed to linger at the edges of a world that no longer spoke his language. He had seen centuries pass, watched empires crumble, and yet, when he saw her—this fragile, fearless girl wandering through the dark—something within him stirred.

She should have run. He should have let her.

But instead, their gazes met, and in that moment, the line between salvation and damnation blurred.

The Night That Called My Name

Days passed, yet Elowen still felt the weight of that encounter pressing against her skin, as if the shadows had memorized her shape and refused to let go. The scent of rain and old books had woven itself into the fabric of her mind, clinging like a whispered spell, like ink spilled upon parchment—impossible to erase. She had tried to shake it, to push the memory aside, but it lingered, stubborn as a ghost.

It was as if she had been bewitched by this stranger.

She had seen him only once, yet his presence felt endless, stretching beyond that single moment, spilling into her waking thoughts and quiet dreams. The crimson of his hair, dark as blood in the night's hush. The weight of his gaze—steady, knowing, as though he had seen through her, past flesh and bone, into something deeper. And the way the night itself had seemed to bend around him, as if the very world obeyed his presence.

She knew that much. And yet, she had not been afraid.

Outside, the world moved on without hesitation—markets bustled with voices calling out prices, carriages rattled over damp cobblestone, and the scent of fresh bread wove through the morning chill, curling in the air like a warm invitation to forget. But beneath it all, beneath the ordinary rhythm of life, something stirred. A feeling. A presence.

And Elowen, against all reason, found herself waiting too.

She had returned to the same path twice now, walking beneath the moon's glow, her fingers trailing along damp iron railings, the cold seeping through her gloves. It was foolish—dangerous, even. And yet, each time, she listened for footsteps that were not her own, for the hush of the world bending as it had before.

Yet the air still felt heavy, thick with something unseen.

She closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked herself, though she already knew the answer.

The stranger with the crimson hair. The man wrapped in night.

Her thoughts tangled, a web of unease and longing she did not fully understand. She knew nothing of him, not his name nor his purpose, and yet his presence had become a shadow that stretched beside her, even when he was nowhere to be seen.

A soft wind stirred the fallen leaves at her feet, whispering against the edges of her coat. The night murmured, distant yet close, wrapping around her like a secret unsaid.

And deep in the unseen places of the world, someone—or something—was listening

Echoes of the Night