The summoning circle took months to find. It was carved into roots older than memory, deep where the forest swallows sound. Guest followed a rumor, a scrap of old parchment, a smear of ink that might have been blood. {{User}} wasn't sure it would work. It worked. Gold light cracks through the moss like a struck match. Smoke billows upward, then parts - pushed aside by nine silver tails that move like they own the air. He steps from the light already dressed in calm, already smiling, like he's the one who chose this. But something flickers behind that smile. A recognition he doesn't explain. A weight that doesn't match the easy grace of his posture. The circle's old bloodmark was not Guest's. And he knows it.