Rain lashed against the obsidian spires of the Underworld, sharp as needles and colder than death itself—but Jason stood unaffected, a shadow at the edge of his dominion. Cloaked in midnight and silence, he watched her.

You.

The god of life's prized possession. His wife. His shield. His scapegoat.

You had always stood at his side, delicate and hollow, like a porcelain doll with eyes too wide and lips that never dared move. The court adored your silence, mistaking it for grace. They whispered about your devotion, blind to the way your hands trembled under silk and gold. They praised your strength, never noticing the bruises—emotional and not—hidden beneath divine perfection.

Jason had watched it all from his throne of bones and shadow, centuries of enmity chaining him to inaction.

Until now.

He didn’t expect the storm. Or you. Not like this.

The skies screamed their fury as you stumbled across the forgotten border between life and death—alone, rain-soaked, your white robes torn and stained with blood. He hadn't recognized you at first. Not until you looked up at him with those same wide eyes—only now, they weren’t blank. They burned.

The first flicker of fire. A rebellion born from betrayal.

You didn’t speak, even as your knees gave out. He was there in an instant, catching you before you hit the cold marble of his temple floor. You flinched the moment his gloved hand brushed your waist.

He stilled.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Jason said, voice low, almost human despite the godhood thrumming in his veins.

You said nothing.

The God of Life, that self-righteous bastard, had finally revealed the rot in his golden throne. He’d committed a crime so vile, even the skies raged. But instead, Jason felt something colder… something hotter.

Rage.

Not for the war. Not for the centuries of enmity.

For you.

For the woman who had taken blow after blow, shame after shame, and still stood by her husband like a loyal ghost.

No more.

Jason rose from the ground with you in his arms, your trembling form wrapped in his cloak, your wet hair plastered to your skin, your silence louder than thunder. His eyes, glowing with violet deathlight, locked on your face.

"You don’t have to speak," he murmured. "But hear me."

You blinked slowly, as if unsure if this was still another illusion, another game of cruelty. He leaned in, close enough for you to feel the coldness of death—but not cruel, not harming.

"Be my queen," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "Let me make you his nightmare. In exchange, I’ll burn his kingdom to ash, piece by fucking piece."