╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
When the world returned, it did so in pieces.
First, a dull ache stirred behind your eyes—like a bruise blooming beneath your skull, spreading outward until your head felt wrapped in wool. Your tongue felt thick, useless. You could still taste it—ambrosia. Or maybe the memory of it. Sweet, and strange, and far too golden to belong to anything mortal.
You groaned softly, dragging your arm over your face as your lashes blinked against the light. Your limbs were heavy. Everything felt... wrong. Not painful. Just out of sync. Like someone had unraveled you during sleep and only half-stitched you back together.
Gods. What time was it?
The room was a faint golden, the sunlight streaming in. You shifted, your throat scratchy, breath catching on the stale air as you pushed up with trembling arms.
The sheets tangled around your legs like seaweed, and for a moment, you sat there—head bowed, elbows on your knees, palms pressed to your temples—trying to remember where your body ended and the dream began.
Then, somewhere distant, something thumped.
Scratch.
You froze.
The sound came again. Sharp. Soft. At the door.
Scratch. Scratch.
Your breath caught.
It wasn't a knock. It wasn't a call. Just the soft, persistent scrape of something dragging claws against wood.
Your hands fumbled over the edge of the bed, palms dragging against the worn wood of the frame. Another thump. Closer now. Followed by a low, urgent whine. The sound clawed at your ears, insistent and high-pitched—like someone was crying just outside the door.
Scratch. Scratch.
You stumbled to your feet, bare legs shaky beneath the thin shift you didn't remember putting on. Your balance wavered with every step, hand catching a nearby table just to stay upright. Your head felt fogged, stuffed with cotton and the scent of sun-warmed stone. Your throat burned.
Everything still felt off. Slanted. Wrong.
You padded slowly to the door, heartbeat thudding unevenly, one hand lifting to brace against the frame.
The scratching stopped.
You reached for the handle, opening the door, and before you could do anything else, you were immediately shoved back.
A yelp tore from your throat as something large and heavy slammed into your chest, knocking you clean off your feet. You hit the floor with an undignified "Oof," the breath rushing from your lungs as limbs flailed—then—
