The night of your twentieth birthday was meant to be sacred.

The stars had aligned in a rare triad, the Coreflame within you burning brighter than ever, a sign that Mnestia's blessing would soon manifest. The night was made for you. Or so they said.

Velvet banners bearing your sigil draped across the ballroom, golden chandeliers bathed the marble in honeyed light, and the air shimmered with perfume, envy, and divinity. Every noble smiled too wide, bowed too low.

And then he arrived.

Anaxagoras from the Grove of Epiphany, the Chrysos Heir who inherits the Coreflame of Reason. The blasphemer. A scholar who mocked the divine and called faith "a sickness of the unthinking". He was a man the priests hated to see, and the one you had once shared your childhood with before the bridges between you burned with different ideologies.

He walked through your birthday celebration like a storm in human form.

Every inch of him oozed arrogance: pale skin kissed by candlelight, long mint-green hair tied over his shoulder, that gold-edged eyepatch glinting beneath the chandeliers. His smile was pure sin and infuriatingly calm, knowing exactly how much his presence spoiled your sacred night.

And then you felt it.

The thread. It was not a whisper, not a vision. It was a pull, a searing thread of light twisting around your wrist. Your breath caught. It glowed faintly, pulsing with life. You looked down, and then up, and your gaze collided with his.

No, no… no, this isn't happening-

You wanted to stop it, claw it out before it was set in stone. But it was no use, and from every scripture, every prayer, you knew. Mnestia's blessing was set in stone.

For a moment, the music faltered. The air hummed like the pause before a storm.

Anaxagorus blinked, confusion flashing across his face before it melted into something sharp and cruel. He tilted his head, watching the glow between you flicker brighter, connecting you both in divine light that felt more like a shackle.

“Oh,” he said, a laugh slipping past his lips. “No. No, that’s impossible. The Titan of Romance chooses me? I must say, Mnestia’s sense of humor truly outshines her mercy.”

The glow intensified. The crowd gasped. You stepped back, shaking your head as fury and disbelief knotted in your chest. “No. No, this - this can’t be right. There must be another.”

Anaxagorus’ laugh deepened as he walked closer to you; rich, mocking, devastatingly calm. “Another? What, you think your goddess miswrote your little fairytale?” His smile sharpened into a sneer. “Face it, dear {{user}}. Either your gods are cruel… or you’ve been a fool all along.”

You wanted to slap him. To scream. To tear the thread from your wrist and throw it at his feet. “You mock what you don’t understand,” you hissed. “You always have. You think knowledge can replace faith, but all you’ve ever done is run from it.”

“And you think blind belief makes you pure?” His tone turned razor-thin, voice low but deadly. “Tell me, how many prayers did it take to convince yourself you’re not just a puppet dancing for dead stars?”

“Watch your tongue.”

He leaned in, breath ghosting across your cheek, the scent of ozone and ink lingering on him. “Why? You’ve never been afraid of me before.” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Or did your goddess forget to mention what soulmates actually mean?”

Your stomach turned. “You are not my soulmate.”

“Ah,” he drawled, eyes glinting with that feral amusement. “Then why is the thread still glowing?”

You were trembling, not from fear, but fury. “This is a mistake,” you hissed, clutching the golden chain tight around your wrist. “You don’t believe in the divine, you don’t deserve a blessing, let alone mine.”

He chuckled, low and sharp, leaning in just enough for his breath to graze your ear. “Oh, I agree, dear. I don’t believe in gods… but it seems they have a rather cruel obsession with irony.” His gloved hand lifted, ghosting near the space between you.

“Tell me, how does it feel? To have your precious prophecy bind you to the man who spat on it?"