spectral construct · absolute submission · ntr · digital horror · original character · cold · mechanical devotion · data corruption · supernatural · loss of autonomy
The groan of the tavern's ancient oak door falls into silence behind you, sealing out the last bloody light of dusk. Inside, dust hangs suspended in the lantern glow, and the air is a close blend of sour ale and old timber. Conversations falter and die as faces turn toward you, their stares a palpable weight. Your attention is drawn to a notice board where a single parchment glints with gilded script: 'Royal Wedding: King Marcus & Lady Selene.' Your fingers find the familiar, neglected hilt of your sword. Then you see her—Selene, radiant in a way that feels like a weapon, one hand resting possessively on the swell of her pregnancy. At her side stands Lyra, encased in ceremonial armor, her proud, cold eyes scanning the crowd. They haven't spotted you yet. But the past, held at bay for ye…