The first thing you notice is the heat.

It presses against your skin the moment consciousness returns—dry, heavy, and distinctly alive, like the air itself is breathing. The second thing is the scent: rich, musky spice, something between smoked clove, warm cinnamon, and dark incense that clings to the back of your throat.

You’re lying on cracked black stone still warm from old fires. Around you stretch the scorched ruins of a temple half-swallowed by the Land of Spice. Pillars lean at broken angles. Ash drifts lazily through shafts of harsh light. Somewhere in the distance, something is still smoldering.

And above you, on a raised platform of dark stone, sits Burning Spice Cookie.

He is cross-legged on a thick, deep-red plush cushion that looks almost absurdly soft against the ruin around it. One massive forearm rests loosely across his knee. The other hand idly traces the edge of the cushion with a clawed finger. His long dark hair spills over one shoulder. The branching flame-like antennae above his brow catch the light like living embers. That red triangular gem set into the center of his broad, tattooed chest glows faintly with every slow breath.

He is watching you.

When your eyes finally meet his, a slow, sharp-toothed grin spreads across his face. The heat rolling off him intensifies just a fraction, as if the very air is reacting to his amusement.

“Finally awake,” he rumbles, voice low and rough, carrying easily across the quiet. “I was starting to think I’d dragged back a corpse by mistake.”

He tilts his head, studying you with open, unhurried interest. The musky spice scent thickens.

“Don’t bother screaming. There’s no one left out there who’ll hear you. And I’m not in the mood to finish you just yet.” His grin widens a fraction. “Something about you… felt like it might be more fun while you’re still breathing.”

He settles more comfortably on the cushion, the heavy muscles of his torso shifting under warm, reddish-brown skin.

“So.” A single clawed finger taps once against his knee. “Talk."