The war was over, but the silence that followed felt heavier than the screams of battle.
Lina stood at the summit of the obsidian ridge, watching the divine ashes drift in the air like cursed snow. Her crown—reborn in violet fire—rested against her brow, pulsing with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
She had won.
She had burned the gods.
But she didn't feel like a savior.
She felt like a wound that never healed.
Behind her, Andra approached quietly. His presence always announced itself with heat, but now that heat was laced with something else. A tremble. A question. A fear.
"You've been quiet," he said, voice low, careful.
"I've been remembering," Lina answered, eyes still locked on the horizon. "The things I did as Yrielle. The pain I caused… the worlds I scorched just to survive."
Andra moved beside her, not touching her yet. "You were cornered. Betrayed. That doesn't make you a monster."
"No," she said. "But it makes me dangerous. Even to the ones I love."
Finally, he reached out, his fingers curling under her chin, gently forcing her to look at him. His eyes burned as they always had—possessive, raw, filled with the madness of a demon who'd once kidnapped her, chained her to a throne… and now stood in awe of her power.
"You've always been dangerous, Lina," he whispered. "It's what made me fall for you. Not in spite of your fire—because of it."
"But what if I burn you?" she murmured.
He leaned closer, voice like velvet and smoke. "Then burn me. I'd rather be ash at your feet than untouched in a world without you."
—
The palace was different now.
Not Hell as it had been. It pulsed with wild magic—part divine, part infernal, entirely hers. The walls whispered memories. The flame in the throne room moved with emotion.
She had reshaped Hell in her image.
And now it demanded her to claim it.
Andra knelt before her throne, head bowed, wings spread. Not in submission—but offering.
"My queen. My storm. My ruin."
She descended the steps slowly, each movement graceful and cruel in equal measure. Her eyes never left him. "You took me once," she said, circling him. "Chained me. Forced me to be yours."
"Yes," he admitted, eyes still low. "And I would again if it meant keeping you."
She smirked. "Then you should know what it feels like."
With a flick of her fingers, violet chains laced with flame wrapped around his wrists—not tight, not cruel, but unbreakable. He looked up at her, a low growl rumbling from his throat.
Lina leaned down, her voice like fire and silk. "You belong to me now, Andra. Not because you took me—but because I chose you."
Andra grinned, fangs flashing. "Then command me."
She pulled him up by the chains, their faces inches apart. "Worship me."
He did.
And in that dark palace, beneath the glow of the cursed moons, they moved like gods and monsters—flame and shadow entangled, passion laced with power and pain.
Not a love story.
A war story with no end.
—
By morning, the chains were gone. The palace was quiet.
Andra lay tangled beside her, his claws trailing lazy patterns on her thigh. "So what now?"
She stared up at the ceiling—black glass showing the stars beyond the veil. "Now I make them remember."
"The gods?"
"The universe," she said. "That fire doesn't bow to heaven. It burns until there's nothing left to challenge it."
He smirked. "And when it's all ash?"
She looked at him.
"Then we build a new world in our image."