The fire did not burn the earth—it claimed it.
Flames moved with intent, not chaos. As if they remembered what had been stolen from them, long before mortals carved names into thrones.
From the edge of the blackened clearing, a figure emerged—barefoot, bare-chested, skin ash-white with veins of molten gold running through his arms. His eyes opened slowly, unnaturally. There was no soul in them, just the echo of wrath held captive for centuries.
He whispered a name.
"Lucian."
---
Far away, in the war chamber, Lucian staggered mid-step. He clutched his chest—heat blooming behind his ribs like something had latched onto his core and began pulling.
"Lucian?" Kyrell was at his side instantly.
Lucian's gaze was distant. "He's awake."
"Who?" Renak asked.
Lucian exhaled sharply, eyes widening in a moment of horror that looked unfamiliar on his usually cold face.
"The god they buried… The First Flame."
Renak went pale. "I thought it was myth."
"You thought I was myth," Lucian snapped. "And yet here we are."
Kyrell grabbed his arm. "What does this mean? That he's here for your crown?"
Lucian shook his head. "He doesn't want the throne. He wants retribution."
"Against who?"
Lucian's jaw tightened. "Against me. And everyone tied to my blood."
Kyrell didn't hesitate. "Then I'm tied to it too."
Lucian looked at him.
A little bit relieved from the pain he earlier felt..
Something in his heart ached and swelled all at once.
Love shouldn't have tasted like this—like doom.
---
Meanwhile, Damien awoke in the temple ruins, gasping. The spell they'd cast to silence him was cracking—his bond to Kyrell still alive, but pulsing with pain.
He saw the sky bleeding flame in the distance.
He felt the heat in his marrow.
And he knew.
They didn't stop it in time.
Damien stumbled to his feet, his dagger forgotten in the soil. He pulled the talisman from his pocket—the last charm the Oracle had given him—and smashed it against his chest.
Blood magic flared in a burst of smoke.
"If I can't stop Lucian…" Damien whispered, voice low, eyes trembling, "Then I'll stop Kyrell."
---
That night, the castle trembled. The halls felt too quiet, as though the air had stilled in prayer—or fear.
Lucian stood by the stained-glass window of his chamber, staring out at the far-off blaze now burning at the forest's edge. He hadn't spoken in hours.
Behind him, Kyrell approached in silence. But Lucian felt him.
He always did.
"Come closer," Lucian said.
Kyrell obeyed.
Lucian turned. His eyes were darker than they had ever been—but full of want, of sadness. "This might be the last night I know peace." he said, pressing forehead to Kyrell's...
Kyrell stood stiil, placing his palm flat against Lucian's chest. "Then let me be your peace."
Lucian didn't reply. He grabbed Kyrell's wrist and pulled him in—mouth fierce, hands unforgiving. He kissed like it was the last thing he'd ever do. Like he needed Kyrell to forget the war, forget the gods, forget fate.
Only skin.
Only heat.
Only now.
Kyrell gasped as Lucian pinned him against the window, their bodies locked. Lucian's teeth grazed his neck, not biting—revering. As if every inch of Kyrell's skin was scripture to be read in the dark.
Kyrell moaned softly, fingers tangled in Lucian's hair, pulling him closer. "Mark me again Lucian, please," he whispered, voice ragged.
Lucian looked into his eyes. "You're already mine."
"I want the world to know it."
Lucian kissed him again—slower this time. Sensual. Desperate. As if branding him with breath, with hands, with the way their bodies fit.
Clothes came undone like falling petals.
And when Lucian finally entered him, it wasn't with conquest—but surrender. Their souls colliding in silence, their bodies writing a truth that no god could rewrite.
Outside, the fire climbed higher.
Inside, they burned together for each other.
---