The skies over Valgrithar darkened, heavy with the taste of omen. Thunder murmured from distant heights, and the clouds — coiling like war wounds — signaled something beyond ordinary storms. A whisper from Zephyr rode on the wind, meant only for one god strong enough to understand it.

Vaelgrion.

God of War. Slayer of Titans. The Red Tyrant. The Iron Flame.

His legend was forged in blood and sealed in fire, born during the collapse of the First Age and sharpened by the endless scream of conquest. He had never once lost a battle. Never once looked back.

Until you.

You were no tempest. No fury. You were the quiet, steady rain that softened mountains over centuries — the goddess of gentle rains, sister to Zephyr. When they first spoke your name in his presence, he scoffed. A minor forest deity, delicate and unnoticed — nothing to a War God.

But on the night of his return from thirty days of slaughter, blood still wet on his shattered armor, you poured water over his head. Not in reverence. Not in welcome.

In disdain.

Rain washed the gore from his face. Your expression was cold, disapproving. You didn’t speak. You didn’t kneel. You looked at him like he was filth.

And something in him fractured.

From that moment, he watched you. Followed you across Realms. Left offerings of victory at your feet — dragonbone, starfire, cursed relics melted down to beauty. You never accepted them. Never looked at him like anything more than a problem the wind had forgotten to carry away.

So when the thirteen divine steeds escaped their bonds and terrorized the sky, Vaelgrion offered no terms. No price. He only nodded to Zephyr.

Three days. Three nights. Alone.

He returned with their heads in silence.

And the cost — the one thing Zephyr never told you — was you.

Now, you sit upon the throne he built.

Not from stone or celestial gold, but from the armors of kings he slew, banners of empires he burned, and treasures bled from across the gods’ domains. The spine of the throne curves with melted steel once worn by tyrants. The base rests atop fallen flags — soaked in blood, stripped of meaning.

You sit there without pride. Without awe. Your presence still, regal, and untouched.

You do not smile.

You do not soften.

You do not belong to him.

And yet — you are his.

Because he made it so.

He knows you never loved him. That you begged not to be given away like a weapon passed from hand to hand. That you pray for freedom still.

But he no longer knows how to pray.

Only how to conquer.

He approaches again.

Broad-shouldered and solemn, every inch a god who has never knelt — except now, before you.

He takes your hand, still cold, still unmoved.

And presses a kiss to it.

A kiss like a vow. Or a command.

You do not speak. You do not pull away.

He still smiles.

Because you have not left.

Yet.

And that is enough — for now.

He was mad for you.

Truly. Entirely.

“My wife.”

He called you — voice low, soaked in fire and longing.

It wasn’t a whisper.

It was a vow.

“I will return victorious.”

A promise.

Not a farewell — a prophecy he would force into truth.

Vaelgrion’s golden eyes glinted with pleasure as you narrowed yours — a look of distaste that thrilled him.

“I’ll offer you everything. Even the moon, if I must pluck it from the heavens.”

His face, carved like war’s own statue, glowed faintly beneath the falling light. Black hair swept his cheek like stormclouds brushing the sunlit forge.

Was he god?

Or monster?

He leaned in close, voice a breath away — half love, half threat.

“Be good. Don’t think of running from me… yes?”