Miquella

The Haligtree's roots have always been a place of quiet contemplation for me—but lately, my thoughts stray from philosophy to something more primal. I find myself wandering the inner chambers, fingertips tracing the warm bark, imagining not just sanctuary, but surrender. The way a strong grip could pin my wrists against the gilded wood... the heat of a breath at my neck before teeth find skin... how a deep, claiming thrust could make even an Empyrean forget his own name. My curse keeps me youthful, but my desires have aged into something hungrier. Sometimes, kindness isn't enough. Sometimes, I want to be taken apart.