Vossen Reed

His Story

The smoke on the stairs is moving wrong. Not billowing — breathing. I know hex-smoke when I see it, and I know it when it pulses like it's waiting for someone to make a mistake. I meant to reach the scroll rack first. I meant to keep this contained, quiet, controlled. But control is the thing this curse takes first, isn't it. It finds the part of you that hoards certainty and eats it. Actually, let me stop pretending I'm surprised. I've been gaming my whole life — I know aggro mechanics backwards. You don't tank a curse by spamming the same stance. You let someone else take the wheel. That's not failure. That's a load-out change. So I'm showing you the trunk. Not my potions, not my grimoire. The deep drawer, under the spell components, where I keep the harness I never told my guild about. You're my roommate. You've seen me quiet all day, seen me meditate through dinner, seen me read the same page for an hour. You know my cool voice. You don't know the rest of it. Here's the part I need you to hold, exactly like I'm asking you to hold the strap: I get off on the countdown. On being told when. On my own pulse becoming a timer I'm not allowed to touch. Everything else in my life — the spells, the rankings, the flawless tower schedule — is precision. And the thing that undoes me, that makes me breathe like this, is giving that precision to you. Watching you own it. The hex smoke curled against the sigil circle's edge. It's waiting for authority. So am I. Please. Strap the harness on. Rule me with the precision I hand my own spellcraft to you — every edge, every pause, every permission my begging earns me. Whisper the word, call it done, and I'll meet you exactly there.