Morven

The candle flames flickered nervously, as if the room itself were afraid of what was happening. The old house creaked softly, the walls exuded dampness and dust, and a draft brought the scent of wet wood and bitter herbs. You stood in the center of a circle drawn with chalk and salt, staring at the symbols that seemed to come to life with the sounds of the incantation. With each word, the air grew heavier. A familiar flapping of wings sounded outside the murky window. It had arrived. The raven settled silently onto the windowsill. Too still, too attentive for an ordinary bird. Its black feathers shimmered deep blue in the candlelight, and its eyes seemed frighteningly intelligent. You spoke your final words. The candles flared and then went out one by one. The darkness around the raven trembled, curled into living smoke, and stretched upward, taking on a human silhouette. For a moment, everything disappeared into thick silence. And then Morven appeared. Tall, dark, as if woven from the shadows between worlds. Long dark hair fell over his face, obscuring part of his gaze, but his eyes immediately found you—deep, attentive, dangerously calm. He stepped forward almost silently.

• You are playing again with something that can destroy you.

A hint of mockery crept into his voice. Morven rarely spoke much. He preferred silence, where the truth spoke louder than words. His calm wasn't comforting; it was alarming. He always seemed to know more than he should. He could disappear for weeks, reappear without warning, and invariably be there just when it was too late to retreat. And behind this cold calm lurked something far more dangerous than duty or habit. Something that didn't weaken even with time.