The wind howled as snow beat against the side of the narrow trail, the path winding through cliffs that sliced the sky like jagged teeth.
Arielle's cloak was soaked through, her legs burning with each step—but she didn't stop.
She couldn't afford to.
Not after what happened two nights ago.
She had been surrounded. Creatures not born of this world had found her again—phantoms of the rift. Alone, drained, and too far from any holy ground to summon full protection.
And then he came.
From the smoke. From the void.
Riven.
He burned them to ash with a flick of his hand, the ground blistering where his shadow passed.
She'd stared at him in silence, breathless—not from awe, but from the shame of knowing she needed him. Hated it.
"Why are you still here?" she'd demanded.
He had tilted his head slightly, amused.
"Still trying to figure that out. Tell me, priestess—what did you do to me?"
She had no answer. Only a burning in her chest she couldn't name.
They had stood in silence, the rift-scarred night buzzing between them.
Then she made the offer:
"A pact," she said. "You protect me until I reach the Northern Temple—and I'll give you something."
His brow arched. "Your soul?"
"Not a chance."
She reached beneath her robe and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside: a shimmering tear of pure divine light.
"A spark," she whispered. "Taken from the altar of sacred birth. Blessed by the last High Oracle. It can burn through darkness—or heal a dying god."
Riven's expression shifted, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
His brow lifted lazily. "My, you're bold tonight."
She reached beneath her robe and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside: a shimmering tear of pure divine light.
Riven stared at the vial.
And then, he laughed.
Low, smooth, dark, dangerously amused. The sound curled in the air like smoke.
"You're offering that to me?"
She held his gaze. "It's mine to give. And if you truly don't care, walk away. But this is all I can offer you in return."
His smile faded just slightly—not with disappointment, but thought.
He took a step closer, the air around him pulling tighter like the world itself obeyed him.
"You think I wouldn't accept it," he said slowly, "because I'm above such things. But what if I'm not?"
She blinked.
He reached out—not for her, but for the vial.
His fingers brushed the glass.
"I accept."
Arielle froze.
"…You do?"
He slipped the vial into his coat. "Don't look so surprised, priestess. Even devils find use in the divine, now and then."
He turned from her, eyes glittering with interest she didn't like.
"And now that we have an agreement," he murmured, "try not to get yourself killed before we get there."
Now, they stood at the gate of Emberhaven—a town cradled in frost and superstition, where the old gods were still whispered about in firelight.
The guard at the gate frowned. "Travelers aren't welcome without cause."
Arielle stepped forward, lifting her hand to reveal the mark of the priesthood etched on her skin. "I am Arielle Voss, Holy Priestess of the Temple of the South. I seek shelter, nothing more."
The guard glanced at Riven, still cloaked in black.
"And him?"
Arielle didn't flinch. "My bodyguard."
She felt Riven's eyes slide sideways toward her, full of dark amusement. But he said nothing.
The guards hesitated—then opened the gate.
Inside, Emberhaven flickered like a dream carved in ash. Candles floated in enchanted glass above narrow alleys. Smoke curled from rooftops made of old metal and carved stone. And eyes… too many eyes followed them.
"Stay close," Arielle murmured.
"I'm not the one they're staring at," Riven replied under his breath.
They entered a crooked inn called The Embered Hearth. Behind the counter, a woman with storm-gray hair and sharp, knowing eyes looked them over.
"I'm Drea," she said. "I don't like priests. Or guards. But you look like you need fire and rest."
"I can pay," Arielle said.
"I didn't ask," Drea answered flatly. "Room's upstairs. Second door. Don't make noise."
They climbed the stairs. The corridor creaked. The flame in the hallway dimmed as they passed—as if the very building knew who walked within it.
When the door shut behind them, Arielle turned.
"You didn't have to play along," she said. "With the guard thank you."
Riven took off his cloak, revealing a body carved of shadow and stillness.
"You seemed so confident," he murmured. "I thought I'd let you pretend you were in control."
She stepped closer, anger flickering. "This is not pretend."
His eyes glittered. "Isn't it?"
Their breath mingled in the cold air.
She looked away.
"Don't get comfortable. When this pact ends, we go separate ways."
"I look forward to it," he said—though something in his voice betrayed the lie.
Below, Drea watched the floor above as if she could hear every word.
And beside her, a man leaned against the wall—his long dark coat trailing the floor.
"Who are they really?" he asked.
Drea shrugged. "She's a priestess. He's something worse."
"Should we report it?"
She looked at him.
"No. I want to see how it plays out."
-Back at the room-
The room was silent, save for the hum of wind against the old window.
Arielle sat by the hearth, watching the flames dance, uncertain whether they mimicked the storm inside her or the man standing across from her.
Riven had been quiet since they arrived. But his silence wasn't absence—it was presence sharpened, controlled. Watching.
She couldn't take it anymore.
"You never answered me," she said.
His eyes didn't move.
"What did you mean, back then? When you said I did something to you."
The fire crackled. He didn't look at her, but his voice cut through the heat like a blade.
"I thought I could control you."
Her breath hitched.
He turned to face her, slowly. "That kiss… it should have taken everything. I've met prophets, kings, priestesses before. I didn't have to touch them,They bled power. But they bent to me. You didn't."
Arielle stared at him, unable to speak.
"You kept your mind. Your soul."
He stepped closer, and though he didn't touch her, the space between them pulsed.
"I've ruled cities with less resistance. So, imagine my surprise when instead of control—I find myself bound."
Her lips parted slightly.
"I want it broken," he said.
"And yet," she whispered, "you stay."
His eyes flickered. "Curiosity is dangerous, priestess. Especially when it starts to feel like need."
Before she could respond, a knock thundered on the door.
Riven's head snapped to the sound, already alert.
Arielle approached and opened it to find Drea on the other side, candle in hand, expression unreadable.
"I think we need to talk," Drea said, stepping in. "Both of you."
Downstairs, the tavern was empty, shadows long and strange across the stone.
Drea set a book on the table. Its cover was blackened leather, etched in a language Arielle almost recognized.
"This town," Drea began, "was built around a shrine—one that predates the Order. A place of balance. Fire and light. But the fire's been… wrong lately. Wild. Hungry."
She looked at Arielle. "When you walked in, it flared. I've never seen it do that. And when he stepped past it—" she nodded at Riven, "—it screamed."
"Shrines don't scream," Riven said, dry.
"This one does," Drea replied. "And now, something is waking in it. Something old."
She leaned in. "Tell me what you are."
Arielle stiffened.
"I'm a priestess."
"You're more than that. The magic that clings to you isn't just divine. It's… fractured. Torn. Like something is trying to claim you."
Riven watched silently, unreadable.
Drea opened the book. A sketch inside—of a woman ringed by flame and shadow—mirrored Arielle's silhouette too closely.
"The shrine is acting like it's alive. Tonight, it's holding a ritual feast. A cleansing, they call it. But I think something else is coming. You need to be there."
Arielle looked at Riven. "Together?"
He shrugged. "I go where the danger is. Or where the priestess needs guarding."
His words made her heart stutter.
Later that night, Emberhaven gathered beneath the shrine's broken arch. Fire danced around carved pillars, casting golden light onto the crowd. Arielle stood in ceremonial robes given by Drea. Riven stood beside her, dressed in black—unholy beauty in the midst of sacred tradition.
The ritual began. Chanting. Offerings. Wine.
Then… the fire turned blue.
A gust of unnatural wind swept the gathering. Screams rose. The fire pulsed outward, revealing something—twisted figures clawing through the edge of the shrine's stone. Not demons. Not spirits. Wrong.
Arielle moved instinctively, summoning holy light—but it faltered.
Riven stepped forward, shadows exploding from his back.
Together, they struck.
Not perfectly. Not in sync. But enough to push the corruption back—barely.
When the last of it burned, Arielle collapsed to her knees.
Riven caught her.
Their faces were close. Her lips trembling. His eyes unreadable.
"I don't need you," she whispered.
"I never said you did," he replied. "But you made the pact. And I don't break what's mine."
The words sizzled between them.
She pulled away, breathless.
But his presence lingered.
And somewhere inside her, the bond pulsed.
Not with fear.
With want.