1

The last candle flares to life, its wavering flame casting flickering shadows on the damp, mildewed walls of the basement. Alden’s hand trembles as he withdraws the match, the faint hiss of sulfur mixing with his muttered curses when the flame licks too close and singes his fingers. The charred matchstick tumbles from his grasp, landing perilously close to the carefully drawn chalk lines of the pentagram. He bends quickly, sweat beading at his temples, snatching it up before it can mar the intricate sigils. His breath is shallow, each inhale heavy with the thick, oppressive air of the underground chamber.

Straightening, Alden surveys his work. The chalk pentagram gleams faintly under the candlelight, its precise geometry unmarred by his clumsiness. The circle of salt surrounding it sparkles faintly, a reassuring barrier against the forces he intends to summon—or so he hopes. The dimness of the basement presses in on him, the scant illumination making it feel as though the walls are closing in. How he longs for the new electric lights upstairs, but the thought of letting workers into this sanctum, this sacred and secretive space, was unthinkable. This was his domain alone.

At his desk, Alden rifles through a chaotic collection of books and papers, his fingers brushing against the worn leather bindings of volumes that should not exist, their pages brimming with forbidden knowledge. The lantern beside him flickers, its blue flame ghostly and ethereal. He adjusts the wick, coaxing a steadier, golden glow that pushes back the shadows enough to read. His eyes flit to the narrow, grimy windows near the ceiling, where the cold light of the rising full moon seeps in, pale and distant. The timing must be exact.

Alden casts another glance at the salt circle, his sharp features taut with unease. Though he is too far to see if a single grain is out of place, the anxiety gnaws at him. He wipes his damp palms on his trousers and returns to the desk. Tonight, years of painstaking research, years of chasing shadows through moldy archives and obscure libraries, will either bear fruit or end in bitter failure. Failure like his father’s.

The thought of Harridan—the man who had wasted a fortune and a lifetime in pursuit of spectral whispers—tightens Alden’s jaw. Harridan’s obsession with resurrecting Maratelle, his wife, had consumed him entirely. That madness had driven him to squander resources and abandon reality in favor of chasing ghosts. And what had come of it? Nothing but ruin and ridicule. Worse still was the cold disregard Harridan had shown Alden’s mother, Yvette—a mere kitchen maid, disposable in his eyes, even as she bore his bastard son. Harridan hadn’t lifted a finger to save her from a sickness that money could have easily cured.

No, Alden's motivations were not borne of love or grief, but of defiance. He would succeed where his father had failed, not for sentiment but for vindication. To prove that his father’s pursuit, misguided and myopic, had been aimed at the wrong prize.

Alden’s hand falters as he brushes over a delicate, yellowed page, its edges curling with age. The illustrations on the parchment seem alive in the lantern light, grotesque figures writhing in unnatural poses. The warnings scrawled in multiple languages across the margins do nothing to deter him; if anything, they stoke his determination. He checks his pocket watch—a family heirloom, though he loathes the connection to his father—and nods.

The hour has come.

With deliberate care, Alden moves a heavy podium to the edge of the summoning circle, the old wood creaking under the weight of the massive tome he sets atop it. The book’s cover is slick with a texture that makes his stomach churn—a leather that feels too much like skin. The damp cold of the basement bites at his fingers, but his focus does not waver.

For a moment, he hesitates. The air feels heavier, pressing against his chest as if daring him to proceed. He exhales sharply, brushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, and opens the book.

The lantern flickers.

The words tumble from his lips, ancient syllables rasping against his throat like gravel. The language is one he has studied but never dared to speak aloud until now, its guttural cadence reverberating in the stillness. The candles begin to burn brighter, their flames stretching upward like grasping fingers. The lantern behind him gutters out entirely, plunging the room into a surreal dance of shadows and firelight.

Nothing happens at first. Alden’s voice falters, frustration bubbling to the surface. He wonders if this, too, will be a failure. His thoughts turn to burning the book, the papers—destroying every trace of this folly and resigning himself to the path his mother had wished for him: medicine, a quiet life of healing rather than this dangerous flirtation with the unknown. He moves to close the book, but his fingers refuse to lift from the page.

The air grows silent.

Not silent in the way of an empty room, but a deeper, more profound stillness. The howl of the wind ceases, the faint drip of condensation from the ceiling stops, even the flames make no sound as they rise impossibly high, forming a blazing cage around the pentagram.

Then, from the center of the circle, darkness begins to coalesce. It gathers like ink spilled in water, tendrils of shadow spiraling and writhing until they form a shape—towering, unnatural, and impossibly black. The edges of the figure seem to drink in the light, rendering it a void that defies comprehension.

Alden cannot breathe. He cannot move. His glasses slide down his nose and clatter to the floor, forgotten.

The figure shifts, its presence filling the room with a weight that crushes Alden’s thoughts into a singular, terrifying certainty: he has succeeded.

The darkness continues to churn in the center of the pentagram, thick and viscous, as if it were swallowing the air itself. Light seems to bend and flee from the hulking mass, its edges fraying and folding in unnatural ways. Alden’s eyes are riveted to the figure taking shape, his breath shallow and uneven as the shadows knit together into something grotesque yet tantalizingly human. His hands tremble at his sides, clinging to the edge of the podium as though it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

The flames of the candles leap higher, scorching the damp air with an oppressive heat. They form an intricate lattice around the summoning circle, bars of fire that flicker and pulse like a living thing. Alden winces at the intensity of the light, momentarily lifting an arm to shield his eyes. When he dares to look again, the shadow has solidified further. Its massive head looms perilously close to the rough-hewn beams above, and its lower half writhes like a living void, a bubbling mist that devours the floor beneath it.

The figure's presence fills the room like a storm about to break, its aura pressing against Alden’s senses in ways that feel more than physical. He can taste it, acrid and metallic, like blood and burning iron. The stench of decay wafts toward him, making his stomach twist.

Then it speaks.

A voice drips from the shadows, a sound that seems to crawl out of a grave. It’s guttural and wet, each syllable landing like a hammer blow. Alden's name slithers out of the figure's mouth, each syllable elongated and alien.

“A-Alden,” he manages to stammer, his voice breaking under the weight of his terror.

“All-den,” the creature repeats, drawing the name out as if savoring the flavor. Its voice shifts, smooth and mocking, resonating like shattered glass scraping against stone. “You would prefer I speak your tongue, wouldn’t you?”

A grin splits the darkness—a slash of sharp, white teeth gleaming unnaturally bright against the infinite black of its form. Alden’s knees weaken at the sight. There is no face, no eyes, no features, only that horrifying crescent of teeth, impossibly long and jagged. He gasps involuntarily, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Yes,” he croaks, barely managing to speak. “Speak your name, beast of darkness.”

The creature inclines its amorphous head, the movement almost mockingly slow. “Bhalka,” it says, the name a vile, guttural noise that seems to bypass Alden’s ears entirely, reverberating in his mind like the tolling of a cursed bell.

Alden shudders at the sound, the syllables laced with meanings he cannot grasp but instinctively fears. His voice wavers, but he forces his words out. “You are not who I called.”

The grin widens, impossibly so, stretching beyond the edges of what should be its face. “You do not know what you called,” Bhalka laughs, a sound that seems to shake the walls of the basement. The mocking tone tightens something in Alden’s chest, a feeling of dread mixed with humiliation. “The Beyond owes you nothing, mortal child. You think your crude symbols and borrowed words give you power here?”

The figure begins to pace, its form dragging through the circle as if testing its boundaries. Blackened fingers, dripping with ichor, trace the fiery bars of the pentagram. The hissing sound of contact is faint but insistent, like flesh searing on hot iron. Yet Bhalka shows no sign of pain, only curiosity.

“You dare mock me?” Alden spits, though his voice quivers as he grips the book tighter.

“Mock you? Foolish child,” Bhalka replies, its tone shifting to something resembling pity, though its grin remains as sharp as ever. “You are but a shadow of your father, and he was a shadow of what he sought to be.” Its form grows more defined as it moves, shadows pooling and thickening. Shoulders rise, broad and imposing, and long strands of what looks like hair cascade down its back, flowing like ink in water.

Alden stiffens as the creature's eyes finally materialize. Twin pools of void stare back at him, their edges shimmering faintly as though barely contained. They hold him in place, exposing something raw and trembling in his core.

“I am nothing like him,” Alden growls, his nails digging into the ancient leather of the book.

“Ah, but you are,” Bhalka hisses, its grin twisting. “You wish to tear through the veil, to demand answers, but you already have them.” The words drip with mockery. “You sought me, skeptic, thinking yourself immune to the allure of belief. And yet here you are, risking everything you have to see.”

“Enough!” Alden shouts, his voice cracking with desperation. The oppressive heat of the room makes his jacket stifling, and he loosens his collar with shaking hands. “Can you bring her back?”

Bhalka stills, and for a long moment, the room seems to hold its breath. “Your mother?” it sneers, its voice dripping with derision. “No. Death is a gate that swings one way. She is beyond your reach, mortal. But I can give you what you truly desire.”

The figure moves closer, its oily black surface beginning to change. Pale skin emerges from the shadows, inch by inch, as if a new being is being born from the depths. Muscles ripple beneath the surface, and sharp edges of definition form across its chest and arms. Hands take shape, long fingers flexing with an unnatural grace.

Bhalka's transformation continues, skin crawling upward over its shoulders and neck, forming a face of striking beauty, its features sharp yet strangely soft. Little moles dot the surface of its new flesh, like stars in a night sky, hinting at the darkness that lies just beneath. Its lips, full and curved, part in another wicked grin.

“I know you, Alden,” it purrs, stepping closer to the fiery barrier. “I know what you long for but cannot admit. A companion. A man who would take what you cannot give.”

The words hit Alden like a blow, and he stumbles back, his face flushing crimson. “You know nothing of me,” he says hoarsely, though the tremor in his voice betrays him.

“Oh, but I know everything,” Bhalka replies, its voice a silky taunt. “I see what lies hidden in your heart, what you bury beneath layers of denial. I can be what you refuse to ask for.” It flexes its newly formed body, each movement slow and deliberate, its bare skin glowing faintly in the candlelight.

“Stop,” Alden whispers, his throat dry, his words barely audible. “Men don’t desire other men as you say. I don’t desire…I don’t.”

Bhalka jeers at him. “Liar.” Dark eyes glitter at him over a wide mouth and a proud nose, shaped perfectly out of the fantasies Alden would never, ever speak. “They do. You do.” Hips angle towards him, displaying the long bulk of a cock, and Alden looks away, up to the ceiling, counting the crossbeams and watching the shadows of the candles flicker. “I will give you your darkest desires, Alden.”

“Lies and trickery,” Alden says, not looking back down. Perspiration is soaking his undershirt, gathering between his shoulder blades to freeze across the skin of his back.

“I do not lie to myself. As you do.” Alden watches the shadows on the ceiling flex and move as the creature stretches in his new form. “I wish to be freed. You will give me this, and I will give you what no mortal can give you in return.”

“Sex is cheap,” Alden says. “If I wished for it, I could have had it from any -”

“Not only sex,” Bhalka interrupts. “Though you do wish for that. You wish for more. You hunger for pleasures no mortal can give you, in a companion that will never leave you.” His voice thrums deeper, rolling through the stone floor of the basement and up the back of Alden's legs. “Look at me.”

As if he cannot stop it, as if there is a weight pulling his chin down from the ceiling, Alden does. Bhalka is staring at him, dark eyes drinking him in from the other side of the candle cage. “You wish to be owned.”

“No,” Alden whispers. “I -”

“Owned and taken by powers you could never match,” Bhalka croons. “I will be perfect for you, and you will be perfect for me.” He gestures with one of his new large hands at the circle enclosing him. “Come closer. You will believe.”

Alden can't stop the path of his feet. His numb fingertips drop away from the page of the book, and his dress shoes click across the floor. He steps carefully over the larger enclosing circle of salt. Now they stand only bare centimeters apart, separated by the fiery plumes of the blackish candles. Wax pools at his feet, and black eyes stare into his from a height just above his own. Perfect. As he'd always wanted it.

Bhalka leans forward, pressing his face through the gap in the bars. The flame sizzles into his flesh, searing a heavy line that arcs up the right side of his chest and neck, across his jaw and cheek as he presses his face forward through the cage to reach out. Bhalka's expression flickers with pain, but he doesn't stop, staying there as the candle melts a line into his skin.

“Don't,” Alden whispers. He can't stand to see his face burning. This face, the composition of every secret lustful thought, burning in front of him as he'd burnt alone. He has never seen this face before, and yet he knows, deep down, that this is the face formed out of the very fabric of his dreams and the darkest textures of his secret lust.

“You like this,” Bhalka says, gesturing at the sizzling line on his face. Little embers glow at the edges of the line, and a thin trail of smoke is rising from his skin. He hasn’t stepped back from the flaming ring of fire. “You like this face.”

“Yes, I - ” Alden closes his eyes. “Stop it.”

“Does it please you? That I want you enough to burn?”

“Yes,” Alden says, his throat dry. He can smell the sharp scent of sulphur in the air, dark and unholy and twisted, biting at the back of his sinuses over the scent of candle wax.

“Taste and see,” he says. The flames of the candles skitter across the wet black surface of Bhalka's eyes like madness, the madness reflected in Alden's own eyes. “Take what I offer you.”

Against the protests of everything he knows, Alden can't resist. His pulse thunders in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that echoes the war inside him. The ritual, the warnings, the sacred texts — they all told him what he needed to do. What he should do. But here he is, leaning forward, his lips inches from the heat of forbidden flesh. The firelight dances on Bhalka's skin, illuminating the impossible beauty crafted from Alden's deepest, most buried desires. His body trembles, but he moves closer, keeping himself just barely away from the scorching bars, and then Bhalka's lips meet his.

Alden had expected to taste ash, sulphur, something bitter or caustic. He had braced himself for a kiss that would burn, scalding his mouth like molten iron, the taste of hidden longing and the plunge into the abyss. Instead, Bhalka tastes cool, fresh, like water drawn from a deep spring — untouched by humanity, ancient, cold, and rich with a vitality that Alden hadn’t known he craved. The contrast is shocking: the heat radiating from Bhalka's lips and the cleansing chill of his essence. It is intoxicating. It is devastating.

Bhalka kisses with the kind of purpose that speaks to lifetimes of hunger and restraint. His lips press against Alden's with just enough pressure to make it feel like a promise, a vow. The room dissolves around them; all that exists is the fire, the cage, and the raw, consuming intimacy of the kiss. The flames on the nearby candles snap and sizzle, their heat searing the edge of Alden's awareness and pulling him back from the brink of surrender. With a surge of willpower, he breaks the kiss and stumbles backward, his breath ragged.