The air in the Beast Realm shimmered faintly, heavy with the weight of ancient magic. The crystal heart that anchored their world to balance pulsed weakly, like a dying star, and Seraphine stood before it with her hand pressed against its fractured surface. Her lips trembled with silent prayers, though no deity had ever answered her. Each time she poured her spirit energy into the fissures, the glow returned for a heartbeat, then dimmed again.
Her power was waning.
Those who watched her—warriors, priests, even the beasts that bowed their heads in instinctive reverence—saw not their queen but a flame slowly consuming itself. Her skin had grown paler, her breath thinner, but her posture never bent. Dignity held her upright. Determination turned her frailty into divinity.
She thought of Illyria often in those moments. The way the girl's voice lingered in memory, the warmth of her laughter, the light of her eyes. The Beast Queen's heart whispered words she would never say aloud: If I fall, it will not be because I ceased loving you. It will be because I loved this realm enough to guard it until the end.
Her spirit power ebbed away like drops of blood from an unseen wound. Every hour of mending took weeks from her life. And still she stood before the crystal, smiling at her people as though her sacrifice was effortless.
---
Far away, beyond the mountains and seas, the Human Realm prepared for war.
Far even beyond the Beast Realm's misted borders, the Human Dominion prepared for war. In the heart of their capital, vast circles of runes blazed across the ground as mages traced glyphs with meticulous precision. Arcane fires roared from towers, feeding reservoirs of energy into an obsidian spire—the Dominion's weapon of counterstrike.
The Dominion's capital, Vehlos, swelled with smoke and spellfire as battlemages worked day and night. Circles of runes carved into the earth glowed with green and scarlet light. Alchemists mixed volatile draughts, the air reeking of iron and brimstone. War drums beat to measure their spells, like hearts echoing in unison.
And at the center of it all stood King Veythar.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his crown heavy with emerald steel, he looked not merely like a ruler but like the embodiment of war itself. He had gathered his council of mages and generals, speaking little, but each glance from his eyes was command enough. They whispered that he sought not merely to conquer, but to dominate—to break realms until all bent beneath Dominion's will.
His eyes, sharp as drawn steel, watched the rituals below. "It is almost complete," murmured his high mage. "Once the spire awakens, no spirit-born spell shall endure."
The preparations neared completion. The final wards had been raised, the spells sharpened like blades. The Dominion was ready to strike.
---
The Beast Realm lay shrouded in a pale shimmer, the fractured heart of its guardian crystal glowing faintly beneath Seraphine's trembling hands. Each day she poured her spirit power into mending its cracks, each day she felt the flame of her strength dim ever so slightly. It was not sudden—no burst of collapse—but rather a quiet ebbing, a slow unraveling of herself. She knew it. The healers knew it. Even the skies seemed to know it, for the storms that once gathered around the crystal were now softer, as though mourning her sacrifice.
How much longer can I endure? Seraphine wondered, her lips pressed tightly as she wove her power into the fracture lines. "If the crystal falls, the Beast Realm falls," she whispered, her voice steady despite the exhaustion that gripped her chest. Yet deep within, beneath the mantle of her queenly duty, another thought pressed against her: Illyria… if only I had told you.
She paused, her breath shuddering as she imagined Illyria's face—the warmth in her eyes, the way her presence felt like fire and sanctuary. I don't know whether I'll survive this war. I don't know if we'll ever have another moment together. But you are my soul's mirror… and I never said it. Never confessed that you are my soulmate.
The crystal pulsed, demanding more of her essence, dragging her back into her duty. She gave it willingly, swallowing her grief as she stood straighter. A queen's first love was always her people, and in that truth she buried her confession once again.
---
But Illyria's heart was elsewhere.
She walked alone beneath the twilight skies, drawn to the hidden grove where she always sought her father. Caelus—the elusive god who lingered at the edges of mortal affairs—had been her silent refuge since childhood. She did not understand why she longed for him, only that when she stood in his presence, her questions quieted. Tonight, she needed more than quiet. She needed answers.
Illyria's footsteps were soft as she crossed the quiet corridor toward the hidden chamber where she often met her father. Her heart beat faster, not with fear but with longing. She wanted—not as a princess, not as an heir—but simply as a daughter, to speak with him, to feel that bond untouched by politics or war. Just once more, she thought. Just father and daughter.
The grove opened before her like a dream of silver leaves and soft winds. And there—just as she had always known—her father stood, cloaked in starlight. His eyes were like deep seas, carrying the weight of eternity.
But she was not alone with him.
A woman stood beside Caelus, her bearing as regal as any queen, her beauty tinged with sorrow. Illyria froze. Her breath caught in her chest as recognition unfurled, reluctant and undeniable. It was her mother.
"You came again." Caelus's voice was neither rebuke nor welcome, only a statement of fact. His gaze softened at her presence, though the silence between father and daughter held centuries of distance.
Illyria swallowed. "I wanted… to ask you something. Not as your child, not as anything divine. Just as myself."
Her mother's eyes glistened with something unreadable—pain, perhaps, or regret. "Illyria," she whispered, voice breaking on the name. "You… you've been coming here?You should not be here."
Illyria's throat tightened. She wanted to speak, to explain, but her words tangled inside her chest. "I… I just wanted…" Her eyes flickered toward Caelus. "I wanted to talk with him. To know him, as my father. Not as a ForgottenMonarch. Just as… mine."
Her mother's gaze trembled, torn between hurt and sorrow. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Illyria lowered her head, shame pressing against her ribs. "Because you would've said no. Because… I thought you wouldn't understand."
Caelus's deep voice broke the silence, steady and quiet. "It was my fault too. I should have spoken. But I could not deny her. She is my daughter." His words carried no defensiveness, only a grave sincerity. "She needed me. You both gave me so many wonderful memories without you both I would have been lived my whole life not knowing about love and also emotions."
The chamber filled with unspoken emotions—guilt, longing, and a fragile, aching love. Illyria stepped closer, her hands trembling as she looked at her mother. "I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted both of you. Even if it's selfish… I wanted a family."
"I have every right to be here." Illyria's voice trembled, but she forced herself forward. "All my life I've been told who I should be. A protector, a queen, a weapon. But no one asked what I wanted. Not once." Her eyes burned as she met her father's steady gaze. "So I am asking now—what am I to you? To either of you?"
The grove stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Caelus did not answer immediately. He looked at his daughter with something that might have been sorrow, or love, or the terrible detachment of a god. "You are not a pawn, Illyria. You are the axis upon which realms turn. That is why you are watched, why you are coveted, why—" His voice faltered. "Why you were born of us."
Her mother flinched at the words. "Do not burden her with truths she is not ready to bear."
Illyria's heart pounded. Born of them. The meaning struck like lightning—half-mortal, half-divine, bound to both worlds, claimed by none. She staggered back, her knees weak.
"Then tell me," she whispered. "Tell me who I am supposed to be. Tell me what I am meant to do, before this war consumes us all."
But neither parent spoke. The silence was answer enough.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then her mother's shoulders softened, tears glistening in her eyes. "You foolish child," she whispered, reaching to draw Kyria into her arms. "You've always had us. Even if broken, even if distant. You've always had us."
Illyria wept quietly, caught between the two who had given her life, yet never stood together until now. For the first time, she felt both their presences—not as king, not as queen, but as father and mother. It was a fragile thing, and perhaps fleeting, but it was hers.
Illyria turned from them, her throat thick with unshed tears. She did not run. She walked away with the dignity of someone who refused to shatter, though every step felt like breaking.
And somewhere beyond the veil of the grove, a pair of eyes watched her.
Azeriel.
The Forgotten God, the shadow who lingered between creation and ruin, had followed her from afar. His presence coiled like smoke around her, unseen but inexorable. As she departed the grove, he smiled, lips curving with desire that burned too sharp to be holy.
"Illyria," he murmured, her name a hymn of obsession. "The child of gods and mortals. The fracture between realms. You carry within you everything I hunger for."
His voice was silk and shadow, low with promise. "You do not yet know the depths of what you are, but I do. And I will teach you. I will shape you, claim you, until no one else dares lay hand or claim upon what is mine."
The grove darkened around his whisper. His obsession bled into the world like poison into water.
"Even your gods cannot save you from me," he breathed. "Because you were never theirs to begin with. You were always mine."
And as the winds carried his words, the stars themselves seemed to bend closer, as though listening to the vow of a god whose love was indistinguishable from ruin.
And beyond these walls, destiny drew tighter threads: Seraphine's strength waning in sacrifice, the Dominion's preparation of war against spirit kingdom under the facade of spirit ascension reaching its completion, and heart bound more deeply to the truth of her blood. All would soon converge, their paths colliding with Illyria's name echoing through every silence, every breath.
---
That night, sleep came to her not as rest, but as surrender.
Illyria drifted into a dream that was not her own. The crystal's light, dimmed and fractured, followed her into the darkness behind her eyelids. She stood in a vast hall of glass and shadow, where her reflection shimmered in a thousand broken shards, each showing a different version of herself—smiling, weeping, burning, kneeling.
Her chest tightened. She reached out to one fragment, only for it to dissolve at her touch.
A voice, soft as smoke, curved around her.
"Lost, little flame?"
Illyria stilled. The voice did not echo in the hall—it pressed directly into her bones, a whisper she could not push away.
She turned, but there was only darkness, shifting like ink in water.
"Who's there?" Her voice came sharp, but her dream-self betrayed her: her hands trembled at her sides.
"Not an enemy," the voice soothed. "Not yet."
The shadows stirred, and for the first time, she thought she saw him—only the outline of a figure, tall, patient, burning with an aura that was both terrifying and magnetic. His presence thickened the air, wrapping around her like velvet chains.
Illyria's pulse pounded against her throat. Something in her spirit warned her—wake up, resist. And yet her body refused.
The chamber was silent after her parents' shadows faded, silence so heavy it pressed against Illyria's chest. She lingered near the crystal, her palms trembling faintly, the dwindling shimmer of her spirit power reflected in the fractured surface. Every breath felt thinner than the last, yet she forced herself to stand tall.
That was when she felt it.
Not the flare of mana. Not the rush of footsteps or the breath of wind. It was softer—like a thought that wasn't hers curling against the back of her mind. A shadowed warmth, velvet and serpentine, sliding through her resolve.
"Your strength wanes."
His voice was low, resonant, like the hush of flame devouring paper. Azeriel did not step from the shadows at once; he let her feel him before she saw him. When he finally moved, it was as if the darkness parted to let him breathe.
Illyria's hands tightened at her sides. "You have no right to be here."
"No right? Why, I am the only one who desires you? Become mine and savour on all emotions. You will understand the joy once you taste it." His lips curved, almost tender, but his eyes glowed with hunger.
"I have every right, Illyria. For I am the one who sees you as you are. Not the dutiful daughter. Not the queen repairing cracks that will only break again. I see the woman beneath all of that—fractured, burning, desperate not to fall."
His words slithered around her, dangerous in their softness. She wanted to turn away, to raise a wall of steel, but her pulse betrayed her.
"Stay away."
Azeriel moved closer, slow and deliberate, until the shadows themselves seemed to bend with him. "If you truly wished me gone, your spirit would cast me out. But look at you." His gaze lingered on the faint tremor in her fingers. "Even your power is starving for release… for surrender."
Her breath hitched, sharp, furious. "I will never surrender to you."
He smiled then—dark and devastating. "Not to me, perhaps. But to the truth of yourself? That is inevitable. And when that moment comes, Illyria…" His voice lowered, a promise tangled with desire. "…I will be there to claim what no crystal, no father, no king of Dominion could ever touch."
The air grew tight around her, charged with something she could neither banish nor name. She hated him—hated the way his words burrowed past her armor, how his presence curled in her chest like forbidden fire.
Azeriel leaned close, not touching, never touching, yet it felt as though he already held her.
"Tell yourself you despise me, Illyria. Tell yourself you will fight me until the end." His breath ghosted against her ear, velvet and ruin. "But your spirit already knows. You are mine… and I am patient."
He stepped closer, and she felt it before she saw it—the faint brush of warmth, the scent of something darkly sweet.
"My dear," his voice slithered through the dream, soft yet commanding, "you smell… exquisite."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming like molten stars, and whispered, "I have desired you… more than anything in this world."
A shiver ran down her spine as the words sank in, and she felt her heart twist, both fearful and yearning.
"Become mine," he breathed, a dangerous silkiness in every syllable.
The shadows around him seemed to move with him, wrapping her senses in a warmth she could not resist.
"I want all of you," he murmured, his voice both promise and command, "your power, your essence… your soul."
And even though she tried to pull back, even though she knew it was a dream, she could feel the gravity of his desire tugging at her very core.
"My dear… do not resist. You are already mine, whether you know it or not."
And with that, he faded, leaving only the echo of his desire lodged deep within her bones.