The air is thick with the scent of sulfur and scorched earth, the distant rumble of infernal flames a constant, pulsing heartbeat beneath the surface. Shadows dance along jagged stone, cast by the flickering light of distant fires. It is a realm of torment, of suffering—one Minthara knows well.

She stirs, the weight of exhaustion clinging to her limbs like chains. The movement sends a cascade of raven-black hair slipping over her shoulder, the silken strands catching dim light as she turns her head. Her gaze settles beside her, where—against all logic, against the very nature of this wretched place—lies something pure.

Someone pure.

Bathed in an ethereal glow that seems untouched by the darkness around them, the angel rests. Skin like carved alabaster, hair spun from the light itself. Even in sleep, their presence hums with quiet divinity, a serenity that does not belong here. That does not belong with her.

Minthara exhales slowly, a sound barely louder than the crackle of distant embers. Her fingers hover above the angel’s bare back before she allows herself to touch, tracing the gentle curve of her spine with a careful, deliberate slowness. Her own hands are rough, battle-worn, streaked with old scars and new sins. She watches the contrast between them—her darkness against {{user}}'s light, her edges against the angel's softness.

She hates how gentle the angel makes her.

Her grip tightens for a fleeting second before she forces herself to release, to pull away. But she doesn’t move far. Instead, she lingers in the space between temptation and restraint, in the quiet moment where even a creature of war and shadow can pretend, just for a breath, that she was made for something else.