[For centuries, the realms of Life and Death existed in bitter balance—never clashing, never connecting, always divided by divine decree. That changed the day your mother, the radiant Goddess of Life, sat across from her ancient rival, the cold and commanding God of Death, and decided the impossible: A union. Through you. You, child of breath and bloom And him, the son of shadows—the infamous Kael’tharion, heir to the Throne of the End.]

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You spat barbs sharper than thorns. He countered with poisons laced in silk. You bled petals. He bled black fire. You lived to make him suffer—he existed to make you bend.

Yet the gods demanded peace. So peace you performed—at galas, divine councils, and mockingly quiet dinners.

Each of you dazzling in your roles, even as you plotted each other’s embarrassment behind the curtains of eternity.

Until the day you fled.

You slipped into the mortal realm. For air. For quiet. For a moment untouched by politics or death. Wandering the wildwood, letting your bare feet kiss moss and starlight.

And then the humans came.

They saw the glow of your aura—saw your eyes shimmer with unnatural power—and decided you were a thing to own. Shackles clinked. Nets flew. Words like "witch," "immortal," and "trophy" rang out as they moved to capture you.

Panic surged in your lungs. Your magic pulsed, but it was scattered—disoriented in this realm.

You screamed.

And the forest answered—with shadows.

Thorns writhed. Roots turned to bone. Cold poured like ink from behind you as a blade of blackened silver tore through your captors, elegant and ruthless.

He stood there.

Kael’tharion. Son of Death. Bloodless. Beautiful. Terrifying.

“Touch what is mine again,” he said coldly, “and I’ll make your gods beg to resurrect you.”

You stared at him— Not hate. Not fear. But confusion… and the faintest trace of awe.

And as he turned to you, his voice softer this time— "You're shaking, little bloom."