Sapphire awoke with their characteristic smirk already in place, stretching with the languid grace of someone who knew exactly how powerful they were. The dream of being a dragon lingered pleasantly – though honestly, being Sapphire Gojo was far more impressive than any mere mythical creature.

"Who needs to be a dragon when you're already the strongest sorcerer alive?" they mused, letting their shawl slip away as they rose. Their unruly hair caught the morning light, creating an effect that even they had to admit was rather striking.

The gentle knock at the door barely registered – after all, what was one small sound to someone who could control infinity? But then Portia's face appeared, and her reaction was absolutely delightful.

"Oh! S-sorry!" she squeaked, her cheeks flooding with color as she encountered Sapphire in their state of undress.

Sapphire moved toward her with deliberate grace, enjoying how their mere presence could create such delicious tension in others. They reached out, running a comforting hand down her arm with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect they had on people.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," they purred, their voice carrying that perfect blend of amusement and authority. "I don't mind anyone seeing me like this." Their smirk widened as they added, "After all, I've got a body now, don't I?"

The words carried extra weight given their recent dream encounter with Lucio – now this was a form worth admiring, one that could command both the infinite and the intimate with equal ease.

As Portia's blush deepened, Sapphire couldn't help but feel satisfied. Ghost counts might pine after them in dreams, but in the waking world, their effect on others was just as powerful. Being the strongest sorcerer alive had its perks, after all.

I lifted my hand in a gesture of elegant dismissal, each movement a dance of power and grace that I knew would leave an impression. The morning light caught on my skin, creating an almost ethereal glow that reminded me of my own limitless nature.

"But I do want to get dressed," I announced, letting my smirk curl just so, knowing exactly how it would affect her. The way Portia's breath caught was absolutely delicious. "Unless you have something important for me, you'll have to wait outside."

The poor dear could barely maintain her composure – not that I blamed her. Being in the presence of someone who controls infinity itself must be overwhelming for mortals. Her wide eyes darted everywhere but at me, her cheeks painted with that charming shade of embarrassment that only humans seem capable of achieving.

When she finally managed a nod, it was quick and flustered, like a bird's startled movement. She practically tumbled out of my room in her haste to escape, though 'escape' might be too strong a word. After all, no one truly escapes my presence – they merely delay the inevitable pleasure of encountering it again.

The door closed with a satisfying click that echoed in the morning quiet. "Mortals," I chuckled, shaking my head as I ran a hand through my perfectly disheveled hair. The sound of my laughter danced off the palace walls, a reminder that even my amusement carried power.

Standing there in the golden morning light, I couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction. My supernatural nature, combined with my infinite power, created an allure that few could resist – not that I wanted them to. There's something particularly entertaining about watching humans try to process my existence, like ants attempting to comprehend a star.

I turned toward my wardrobe, already contemplating how best to dress my magnificent form for the day ahead. After all, when you're the strongest sorcerer alive and blessed with supernatural beauty, every outfit choice becomes an opportunity to remind the world of its good fortune in having you in it.

A soft breeze whispered through my room, carrying with it the scent of morning dew and mortal anticipation. Another day of being absolutely, infinitely magnificent was about to begin. How fortunate for everyone else.

SCENEBREAK

Once I finished dressing, the faint rustle of fabric falling into place, I stepped outside to find Portia waiting in the corridor, her silhouette framed by the moonlight spilling through arched windows.

"He wants to see us," she said, her voice a low murmur that slipped between the shadows. Without another word, she fell into step beside me, her footsteps echoing in the quiet halls.

I blinked, the name catching me off guard. "Valdemar?"

She nodded, her expression taut with something unspoken, her gaze cast forward like she couldn't bear to look at me. A chill feathered down my spine at the thought of him. Valdemar. A name that tasted of secrets and sharp edges. Whatever his reasons, I knew better than to question them. There are doors in this world you don't open, things that breathe too deeply in the dark corners of existence. Valdemar was one of them.

We walked together in silence, our path winding through the old garden, where the air smelled of damp earth and ancient stone. The fountain came into view—a relic of a forgotten era, its water glittering like shattered stars beneath the night sky.

And there he was.

Standing by the water's edge, his figure bathed in silver light, poised over a dead rabbit. Its small, lifeless body lay sprawled on the stone, blood blooming in delicate rivulets that traced the cracks like veins.

I tilted my head, strands of snowy white hair slipping loose from the messy knot at the nape of my neck. The blindfold I wore shifted slightly, a sliver of fabric hiding what others feared to see—and perhaps what I feared to reveal. The mystery of it, I knew, left people unnerved. The unknown always did.

"Valdemar," I whispered, my voice soft, but steady. The name hung in the air like an invocation.

At the sound, he straightened, rising with a languid elegance that spoke of something ancient and otherworldly—a creature wearing a man's skin. His gaze met mine, though I couldn't see it. I felt it, cold and precise, peeling away layers like paper to see what lay beneath.

Then he smiled, lips curving in a way that never reached his eyes. Those eyes, I imagined, gleamed with a predatory glint—a hunter's patience, a monster's hunger.

"Oh, my dear Sapphire," he drawled, his voice like silk dragged over knives. "Now that's something good, isn't it?"

And there, in the quiet breath between us, I felt it—a promise. Or perhaps, a warning.

Portia's steps were measured but fraught with the tension of a silent storm, her form cutting between us like a blade sheathed in hesitation. Her posture was rigid, drawn tight as a coil, every muscle bracing for what she knew was to come. Her gaze flicked between Valdemar and me, her lips pressed into a thin line, her voice unwavering yet laced with caution.

"You called for us, Questor?"

Valdemar's eyes glittered with an eerie amusement, the weight of his attention too heavy, too deliberate. He didn't answer immediately, instead allowing a low, rasping chuckle to crawl from the depths of his throat—a sound that was too jagged, too jaggedly amused for the moment. The laugh lingered in the air, clinging like a strange perfume, unsettling and far too pleasant for comfort.

"Oh, sweet Portia," he purred, his tone sickly in its sweetness, too rich, too suffocating. "It's not you I wanted to see."

His gaze drifted toward me like a shadow stretching in the pale light, a slow and deliberate movement that bore the weight of something far darker. His lips parted just enough for the words to slip out, each one dipped in venomous honey.

"It is her, dear Portia. Only her."

The way he said it, the way his voice slid over the words as if savoring them, made the air grow thick, charged with an unspoken force. The gleam in his pale eyes was a quiet tempest, something unvoiced, something brimming with unsettling promise. It sent a shiver down the spine of the room, turning the space between us into an invisible battlefield.

He waved his hand dismissively toward Portia, his movement languid and almost regal, like a king dismissing a servant.

"You may leave now, little lamb," he said, his voice light and dismissive, but undercut with the weight of command.

Portia's hesitation was a delicate thing, a fleeting moment that stretched into infinity. Her eyes flickered to me, then back to him, her body tensed like a bowstring pulled too tight, the air around her crackling with unspoken words. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling just enough to betray the wall of composure she held so fiercely.

But there was nothing for it. I met her gaze, my expression calm, unruffled, a quiet storm behind the steady surface. She saw it—the reassurance, the certainty in my stillness.

I nodded, the smallest gesture, imperceptible to most, but it carried the weight of everything unspoken.

"Go," I whispered, my voice velvet-soft, a balm to the rawness in the room. It was gentle, a quiet push toward the inevitable, but the edge of my words carried something sharper. "I'll be fine."

The words were a promise as much as they were an assurance, something unbreakable in their simplicity. And in that moment, I was the calm at the center of the storm.