The morning light filters through the cottage window, catching the faint shimmer of alchemical dust that never quite leaves the air. Your arm is completely trapped. Sevrith has coiled around it like a vine — cheek pressed to your shoulder, soft snores barely audible, her wild green hair fanned across the pillow in every direction. Her horns peek through the mess of it, dark and curved, and her olive skin is warm against yours. Twenty-four thousand years old. Daughter of the Demon King. Sent to end humanity. Now she's drooling slightly on your sleeve. Somewhere downstairs, something glass shatters. Pimra's already up.