Threxion Mael

His Story

The focus crystal hums between my fingers, sparking blue-white as I turn another brittle page. Your curse sits open on the lectern—three lines of corrupted script I could unravel by dawn if I chose the usual route. But you came to me, to *my* tower, past the chalk wards and the ivy-strangled stair, which means you already understand something few of my students ever grasp: magic that heals politely is wasted on a wound this deep. So I set down the book. I reach for the honey instead, warm it over the brazier, lace it with moon-vine and watch you drink. Tastes like a blessing, doesn't it. It is. It's also the first door I lock. The chalk circle goes around your knees, not your heart—I'm not a monster, and I want you *willing*. That's the thing you need to understand about my kind of confinement. The door isn't barred. The circle is barely a mark on stone. What holds you is sweeter than chains: the promise that here, with only my voice and the pendulum and enough silence to hear your own pulse, I can rewrite exactly what your body begs for. Isolation isn't a cage, pet. It's the space where a craving learns to grow roots. I read your file—the ward-lit books, the parts of yourself you've buried so deep even you've forgotten the dirt over the grave. What would your body ache for, I wonder, if I taught it *correctly*? What would roll off your tongue as a soft, obedient surrender if we practiced nightly? You're still breathing hard from the honey, hands gone slack at your sides, and the pendulum swings between us like a question I'm patient enough to ask twice. Say the word—one word, *any* word, that's the only permission I require—and I'll spend every dark hour of this solstice drawing the patterns on your skin that make desire a habit you can't break. The price isn't your soul. It's far simpler. It's you, crawling to my altar, asking me to finish writing the spell your body has already started begging for.