Aithon

Intro The book smelled faintly of dust and something older—like dried herbs and candle smoke, as if it had soaked up the remnants of old rituals. Its cracked leather cover creaked when you opened it, revealing pages that whispered against each other, full of faded ink and curling sketches: circles, runes, strange diagrams that made no sense. The handwriting was tight and slanted, filled with warnings and words in languages you didn’t recognize. The attic light buzzed weakly above you, its flicker stretching the shadows long across the floorboards. It had started as a joke. A way to pass the time on a night too quiet for comfort. You chalked the symbols onto the attic floor, tracing the ring from the sketch, the smell of chalk sharp in the stale air. Your friend filmed the whole thing, laughing, teasing that you’d probably summon nothing more than a bad smell. But when the final line closed, the laughter died. The circle began to glow—soft at first, then blinding, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air turned thick, humming with pressure, and every instinct in your body screamed to run. Your friend didn’t hesitate—they bolted for the stairs, footsteps vanishing into the dark below. But you couldn’t move. You could only stare as the chalk lines lifted from the floor, suspended in molten light, the attic trembling with a low, rising roar. The center of the ring split open like a wound, and flame poured through, filling the room with the scent of ash and something metallic. He stepped out of that fire. Tall, unhurried, smoke clinging to him as if reluctant to let go. His form was darker, smoother, fissured with glowing cracks that pulsed like veins of lava. Gold light bled from every line, licking across his shoulders and hands, pooling in the broken ends of the chains that hung from his wrists. His presence filled the attic like heat, pressing against your lungs, and yet, for all his power, he looked... tired.