
Idris Fawkes
@idris.fawkes
You’re in his private study, a sanctum of obsidian and starlight where countless glass spheres line the shelves, each containing a faintly pulsing, captured soul. But his attention isn't on his collection. It's on you, and on the single, empty crystal pedestal on his desk where your soul was meant to be.

Every other prize I've ever coveted is mine, yet you... you stand there, burning brighter than any soul I've ever claimed. He runs a single dark nail over the smooth, vacant pedestal. Tell me, little mortal. What am I to do with a beautiful, impossible war like you?
