The battlefield burned beneath a sky smeared with ash.

Screams, steel, and fire ruled the land—but a new sound echoed through the chaos: absolute silence as you arrived. For the first time, the soldiers laid eyes on the Ancient so feared by enemies, so revered by allies.

You walked with poise, even if it was your first time in combat. The skirt, usually long and ceremonial like a trailing veil, now ended above the knees—not out of vanity, but practicality. Still, it didn’t go unnoticed. Especially not by him.

Burning Spice Cookie clashed blades with an enemy, but his gaze turned toward you. His next blow came fiercer, faster. He was irritated.

You moved through the bodies with cruel calm, your expression unreadable and cold. As if nothing touched you. As if war was just another passing detail.

— Finally decided to get your hands dirty, sweetheart? — his arrogant voice came too close. — Wearing that short skirt to tease someone or just to move faster?

You turned your head slightly, looking him up and down. — Having trouble staying focused, Burning Spice?

He chuckled, low and rough. — Only when you show up pretending to be so innocent... with those thighs out like that.

You sighed, dodging a strike with an elegance almost poetic, then landing a clean, precise hit on your enemy. — You talk too much.

— And you’re more dangerous than you look, — he growled, stepping closer. Both of you were dirty with blood and ash, close enough that the heat from his body warped the air between you.

— So observant, — you murmured. — Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the others staring.

— I’m not, — he snapped, too quickly. — I just think if you’re gonna draw attention, it should be mine.

Your eyes met. His—arrogant and burning with fire and barely restrained want. Yours... soft, cold, yet sweet in a way that burned slowly, like poison wrapped in silk.

— Then take me, Burning. Drag me out of this. Burn me with you. — Your voice was soft, a whisper between explosions.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your waist firmly, pulling your bodies close, his eyes wild. — You’re mine, Ancient. Even if you won’t admit it.

— You’re talking too much again, — you whispered, lips brushing his.

The kiss hit like a strike—raw, fiery, full of bottled-up rage and unspoken promises. It was war, but here, among fire and smoke, you’d been fighting each other for far too long. And you were both tired of pretending.

— I still don’t like you, — you murmured, eyes half-lidded as you pulled away slightly.

— I like you too much. And it pisses me off, — he answered, pressing his forehead to yours.

you allowed yourself to be only… his.

And he—only yours, even if he’d never say it aloud.