The embers of the ritual still glowed when the townspeople retreated to their homes, shaken and murmuring about omens and gods turning away.
Arielle sat alone in the small courtyard behind the inn, her fingers trembling slightly, her magic flickering in her palms like a heartbeat losing rhythm. Ever since the shrine reacted to her—and Riven—her power had felt... altered. Not weaker. Just unpredictable.
Something had changed.
Inside her.
She closed her eyes. Focused.
The bond pulsed. Not like a chain—but like a presence. Watching her. Breathing beside her soul.
She clenched her fists.
"I need control," she whispered to herself.
The door creaked.
Riven leaned against the post, arms crossed, watching.
"You're losing control," he said calmly.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
He didn't move. "I didn't offer one. I made a statement."
She stood. "Is this what you wanted? To make me question myself?"
Riven's gaze darkened, not with malice—but something unreadable.
"You think too small, priestess. I didn't want to break you. I just wanted to understand why you're immune."
"To you?" she challenged.
"To all of it," he said. "To the kiss. To the pull of the bond. You still fight it. Fight me. That shrine… it reacted because you're something else. You don't belong to light. Or dark."
She turned away, but his voice caught her.
"You're both."
Her breath hitched.
The next morning, Drea summoned them.
She stood before the shrine with an old blade drawn across her palm. Blood dripped into the soil.
"It's an offering," she said. "To wake it again."
The shrine shimmered—stone melting into runes, light burning beneath the surface.
Arielle stepped closer.
The ground beneath her feet hummed—resonated with her.
Suddenly, light burst upward from the shrine—blinding. Symbols written in fire spiraled around Arielle, and when she screamed, Riven moved on instinct.
He reached her just as her knees gave out.
When their skin touched, the light stilled. Froze in place. Like the shrine itself... recognized him.
Drea fell to her knees.
"Gods forgive us…" she whispered. "The bond isn't just arcane. It's ancient. It's prophecy."
That night, Drea placed a heavy book on the table, older than even the temple texts.
"I've seen this once before. The Fire-Bound. A priestess of divine origin bound to a force of shadow. It only happens once every thousand years."
Arielle felt her mouth go dry. "What happens to them?"
Drea's eyes were sad.
"They burn the world. Or save it."
She closed the book.
"But either way… the bond consumes them both."
Later, when Arielle walked the shrine's perimeter in silence, Riven joined her without a word.
"Why didn't you let go?" she asked.
"I told you," he said. "I don't break what's mine."
Her heart stuttered again.
She hated how the words moved something in her.
She stepped forward, close enough to feel his heat. "You can't keep calling me that."
Riven leaned in, his voice low. "Then stop acting like you are."
A pause. Long enough for her pulse to race.
Then he stepped back.
Left her burning in the silence.
The fire inside the shrine flared once more, casting their silhouettes across the stones—two shapes caught in a story neither of them yet understood.
The morning sun pierced through Emberhaven, casting long shadows across the temple paths. Arielle walked beside Riven in silence, her red cloak catching the light like a flame against the cold stone. They were heading toward the high chamber to speak with the presiding priest when laughter echoed from the courtyard.
Children.
Orphans.
A small group ran toward her, wide-eyed and beaming. "Are you the one who saved us?" a little girl asked, clutching her skirt.
Arielle smiled gently and knelt to their level. "We helped each other."
Another girl stared at her in awe. "You're so strong. And your hair—it looks like fire. You look like a goddess!"
Arielle flushed lightly. "Thank you."
Then their attention turned to Riven.
A boy whispered, "Is he your knight?"
"No way, he looks like a superhero," another added. "A dark prince with magic powers."
The others nodded in agreement.
Riven said nothing. He merely stared down at them with his usual icy detachment. But Arielle caught it.
A flicker.
The tiniest twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite nothing.
Just… something.
Before she could dwell on it, a sharp voice rang out nearby. A commotion.
A group of older boys were circling a younger one, teasing him for his torn shoes and timid posture.
"Get away!" one shoved. "You're always hiding, freak."
The little boy fell to the ground, bracing for another hit—
But it didn't come.
Riven was suddenly there.
He said nothing. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't snarl.
He only looked at the boys.
And that was enough.
They froze, terror dawning like ice water down their spines.
"I suggest," Riven said flatly, "you find something useful to do. Before I give you something to fear for real."
The boys scattered like smoke.
The little one looked up, wide-eyed.
Riven didn't offer a hand. But he did tilt his head slightly toward Arielle, wordless.
She stepped forward, helping the boy to his feet.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Riven had already turned away.
As they continued their path in silence, Arielle studied him.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"I didn't do it for you."
She didn't respond. But in her heart, something shifted.
Because in that moment, she'd seen it again—beneath all that ash and silence.
A flicker of something human.
And that was more dangerous than anything else.
That evening, she found him again outside the shrine. She tried to reach him with words—kindness. She said she saw something in him that wasn't all shadow.
He turned. Cold, sharp.
"Don't romanticize what you don't understand."
His voice was frost.
"I am not broken, priestess. I was forged. Cold, cruel, deliberate. There is nothing inside me for you to fix."
"I wasn't trying to—"
"Yes, you were," he said coldly. "You think your light can cleanse the dark? You think your pity is holy? Don't mistake curiosity for connection."
"I am not your salvation. I am the shadow that mocks it."
Then he was gone.
---
That night, sleep did not come gently.
It devoured her.
She stood in a world that pulsed red and gold, where smoke curled like silk and the ground burned beneath her bare feet.
He was there.
Riven. But not cloaked. Not distant.
Bare. Beautiful. And burning.
His voice brushed her skin like sin.
"You called for me again."
"I didn't—"
"You wanted to know what I am. Let me show you."
He was behind her, and the heat of his breath touched her neck. Her pulse stuttered. Her body betrayed her.
He didn't touch her. Not yet.
But his voice wrapped around her like rope.
"I could ruin you with a whisper."
"I hate you," she breathed.
His chuckle was low. "And yet you ache."
He stepped in front of her, hand brushing just close enough for the air between them to ignite.
Her knees threatened to buckle.
Her breath hitched.
"Let me inside," he murmured.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Her body was answering for her—desperate, burning, breaking apart at the seams.
His mouth hovered near hers. Their breaths collided. Her fingers twitched to reach him, but she couldn't move.
"You think this is sin," he whispered. "But this is your truth. Your craving. Say it."
She shivered. Not from fear.
From want.
"I want—"
The dream shattered.
She bolted upright in bed, breath heaving, skin fevered, heart pounding so loud it echoed in her skull.
No light in the room.
Only the darkness.
And the memory of a devil who didn't touch her—but left her undone all the same.
She sat frozen for a long time, trembling.
Her body still ached with the ghost of a touch that never came.
And she hated herself for it.